My open fly is ushering in the end times.

I may have gained many things since starting my new temp job as an administrative assistant in the equities division of an international bank - great pay, lots of hours (even more great pay), a look into the frighteningly intense little world of finance, the pleasure of being a number of people's bitch, and bountiful opportunities to pair cardigans with skinny ties - but I have lost the ability to zip up my pants. (And this is not naughty, lecherous braggadocio.)

Four times I have left the bathroom with my zipper undone, and I have had just as many close calls. Once I was barely past the men's room door when I discovered I was playing peekaboo. Another time I had walked back to my desk and was heading to the elevator when I looked down to see if my shirt was lying flat and realized the barn door was swung open wide. And twice I've made it completely out the building, eight stories below, carelessly allowing my cows to wander, oh wander away. I've walked up and down a busy side street hunting for a car service, dragging two rolling suitcases with my unzipped zip. I've even taken this extroverted fly as far as the cafeteria/gourmet grocer across the street where I browsed the aisles for 15 or so minutes waiting for my pizza to finish baking - perusing the selection of hand-popped popcorn drizzled in rich caramel and dark, decadent chocolate, cocoa-dusted, milk chocolate-enveloped, organically-grown coffee beans, and tart, unpretentious bonbons in le plus parfait tins. I'm sure I lost the whole herd that day.

What the hell is going on? I was raised well. I'm not an exhibitionist. I always wash my hands (which is way more than I can say for most of you laughable, clueless manboys). I'm afraid I might get quite the reputation for myself. "That's the guy who's always flying low. What a dumbass." Or "There's the creepy kid who can never remember to zip up his fly. At least he's cute." Or "What is his problem? I bet he wouldn't be a good father - so careless. It's a shame because he's so pretty...even though his new short haircut isn't that flattering. Kinda looks like a ball. Maybe he's going to get it worked on again this Friday." I bet that's what they're muttering at their desks to their omnipresent 3+ computer monitors as I walk by.

At least I can take comfort in the knowledge that this whole time my penis has not been on display. It has been safely, decorously tucked away beneath layers of undergarments, chastity belts, and S&M gear. But, if I keep this up, who knows what will happen? how much in the end will be shamefully flaunted? how many lucrative promotions I will subsequently receive?