Do I get a medal at the end of the Game?

(in case you were wondering, it IS a quote - Reality bites, Winona Ryder's line, kinda sorta)

The following conversation took place this morning, as I was massaging my boss' wife. Just before discussing the practice of inserting pieces of ginger root into the anus, bursting pleasure guaranteed (it's like Dentyne fire for ass), with my boss. No, I'm not an intern at Fleshbot, alas. And massage and discussion occurred at different times. And I don't have sex with my boss either although I happen to discuss it, for various reasons (preparing his interview with Hugh Hefner, commenting on the humongous hickey on my neck, courtesy of .amp).

M (Me). BW (Boss' wife).

BW (after 2 minutes of shoulder rubbing) - WOW, you're really amazingly good at this!
M (always the modest) - Thank you, thank you.
BW - No, seriously, it's fantastic! So, wait a minute ... your men get THIS?
M (trying hard not to crack up at the thought of what else my men get before, during and after massages) - Well, yeah (sigh)
BW - WOW. You spoil them.
M - Uh, you think?
BW - Yeah. I mean, too much, too soon. It's like with dogs in training, you know? You can't stuff them with treats when you just started teaching them not to piss on your 2K$ Persian rug.
M - Well, I guess. Of course, that would explain a lot of things.
BW - Such as?
M - My love life, for the past say TEN years?
BW - Share with the class.
M - Well, I'm always the best fuck they've ever had (I guess I was already transitioning to my following convo with boss here). The most arresting smile they've ever seen. The most beautiful face they've ever set their eyes on. The best cuisine they've ever tasted. The most supportive friend. The most elegant woman. The smartest brain.
BW - Ok?
M - Then how come I'm alone?
BW - Well, it's always you leaving them right?
M - Not the ones I really want. Those, for one reason or the other, slip through my fingers.
BW - Well, there you have it my friend.
M - Too much too soon?
BW - Too much too soon.
M - Yeah, I guess you're right. Sometimes I feel like I'm a a car-dealer trying to sell a used La Sabre. Actually, I feel like I'm the used car, trying too hard to sell itself.
BW (turning around, actually tearing up) - Aw... don't say so or you're gonna make me cry! If YOU are insicure, then there's no hope for the rest of us.
M - So, I mean, so WHAT? Like, I'm too perfect or something? Do I get a medal at the end of this game?

Because ladies, you know, it IS a crying game. Sans Forrest Whitaker.

Ok, off to discuss gingerized anuses now. See ya.