Double note: If you don’t want to read a boring recitation of the background to the story, click here.
As 2010 faded, I was drifting. Work was busy and I was in a stable relationship but, though I wouldn’t describe my life as boring, I was bored. Not to sound ridiculous or over-dramatic, but writing is my intellectual outlet. It’s something, maybe the only thing, in which my skill is still supremely imperfect. So I enjoy it more than anything else.
But, as the aforementioned relationship involved a major player in the story I’m writing right now, though I yearned desperately to, I couldn’t start writing the story. I have a defect that prevents me from writing honestly about my past if I’m not permanently removed from it. Billed Hourly and I reunited six or seven times while I was writing her story, which caused a variety of unfortunate tonal shifts throughout.
And I tried a hundred times to write different, not-nearly-as-good stories from my past but I kept getting stuck on the fact that any other story was just second-tier filler compared to the current story. I simply wasn’t inspired to write them. So I gave up on writing anything.
That is, until I was out to lunch with one of my old SubtleDig running mates, J, during the middle of the first week of December. J was going on and on about how I should send a résumé over to the managing partner at his quality-of-life firm, where he makes half of what I make. “I rarely get to the office before nine,” he said, “and I’ve yet to be in the office after seven.”
“I’m bored J,” I replied indignant.
“You think I’m having a good fucking time?” he snapped with a smirk and wink. He’s always winking, though I doubt he realizes he does it.
“I need a hobby – something distracting. I think I’m going to start playing again.”
“Piano?”
I nodded. “I was hit on more playing the piano than anything else I’ve ever done.”
“More than when you parked that leased BMW in front of the community college?”
I laughed and proclaimed, “Even when that shit’s leased, them hoes want to get in.”
“I know you didn’t just quote Drake?”
J’s firm had some sort of dispute that involved Drake. J was at the deposition. He was not left with a favorable impression of the rapper.
“Paraphrased,” I shrugged.
In a stern, overly-serious tone, J then said, “I thought you were better than that.”
Acrimonious, I kept going, “I’m just hoping I never have to fit in.”
Sporting a confused look, J asked, “Still Drake?”
“It’s like the very next line in the song.”
“That’s not as bad.”
“I know,” I nodded.
“But we both know you’re not going to go out to bars in the burbs and start playing the piano again. You’d end up cheating on her… You’re not there yet.”
“I guess I’m that easy to predict?”
“Man, predicting you is as easy as sliding off a greasy log backwards.”
There are certain words, such as “easy” that cause J to automatically belch out some ridiculous southern saying. He believes it adds to his charm but it always comes out unbelievably forced.
“You must impress a lot of clients talking like that.”
“You know where I used that? Fifth circuit oral argument. Swear to fucking god.”
“And I bet those hillbillies ate it up.”
J smiled. “We won.”
I took a bite of my sandwich and listened to J ramble about the decision in his case.
In a spot of silence, I interjected, “But I need something to keep myself in check. Something that will beat me down a bit. Maybe I’ll start playing golf again.”
“We could do something on the net if you want. I’ve been thinking up a project. We get five or six recent english or fine arts grads, rent a big house somewhere cheap, let them live there rent free in exchange for a cut of anything they write while living there. Basically, content farm fiction in a collaborative environment. Throw the results on Kindle and a site. I’ve priced it out, probably $700 a month from each of us.”
I sighed deeply and shook my head. J had been sitting on the idea for a bit and was obviously pretty excited about it. “You’re looking at a lot of work finding the right people. Think about how many hours that go into finding the cast of the Real World – and that turns to shit half the time. A blog about the goings on in the house could certainly be popular. Not something I want to do though. That’s a huge commitment.”
With a frown, J responded, “I know.”
“I guess it would be a good idea if one of us was out of work or something.”
“If only.” J paused and scratched his chin. “What about some sort of prank? Create a fake news story or something, you know? Troll a forum and try to get them to believe that we’ve discovery something scandalous about something?”
“Too trivial. I don’t know.”
I gave up on the issue for the moment and we continued lunch. Eventually, we started talking about the professor who used my writings extensively in his psychology class and how I forced J to meet the professor while pretending to be the writer of Life at 160. It ended very poorly.
But discussing the event stirred up a lot of misplaced pride. Those terrible, early post were pretty neat and, of course, they led me down a path that likely saved me from jumping off the top of Chase Tower, though I suppose such a statement may be premature.
So in short order, despite being in a pretty significant slump, I was bragging about my abilities. “It’s that my stories are interesting. I don’t go for the quick and cheap payoff, and maybe I punish the reader slightly, but I think it’s for the better,” I insisted. “It’s not for everyone but, given the contrast of vulgarity and my overwriting, there is something worthwhile there. I’m not saying that there is a classiness to it or anything, but I’ve been told that there is a feeling of discovery when reading my stuff.”
“You know, this is my fault,” J stated cryptically. “I brought it up. I knew you would go full on insufferable in less than a minute. Your stuff’s interesting and sometimes fun. But you’re fucking detached from reality when you go off calling your writing unique. You’re just telling a story about yourself.”
“Horseshit. Absolute horseshit. You don’t even believe what you’re saying – you’re just saying it to piss me off. Originality as a concept is so perverted today. Other people have written memoirs that include sex, but that doesn’t make my shit necessarily derivative.”
“Fucking wait. Calm down. I’m not making such an accusation.”
“You said it wasn’t unique.”
“Fine, retracted.”
“There are literally a million people online trying to write. Not just blog, but write. And I promise you that I’m more popular than 95% of them. And that’s because overwritten vulgarity is fucking interesting. People find it and like it.”
“But nobody wants to share it.”
“Bullshit.”
The conversation devolved accordingly. I began arguing that people share my work for two reasons: 1) because they’ve discovered something extremely interesting, or 2) because they hate it and want others to hate it with them. J disagreed and pointed to the lacks of hits I received from facebook or twitter as evidence that nobody wants to share my work. “It’s very difficult for someone to tell their friends that they like what you write – and nobody shares something they hate,” he argued.
Shortly thereafter, J said, “prove it,” to one of my comments. After further discussion, we decided that I should write something and post it on a random forum and see if it attracted any buzz. Rather than go back to work, we both went back to the loft where I typed up a quick, uninspired story. Though the actual event from which the story finds its roots occurred in undergrad, I took a few liberties to modernize it. I also made a conscious effort to write it as though I was 25, which primarily consisted of sprinkling in occasional arrogant stupidity.
After I was done, J read it and asked how much of it was true.
“Probably 80%, maybe slightly less,” I answered, “I did actually sleep with one of my old bosses after a conference and use a promotional item in a violative manner. I also emailed the story to my ex begging her to come back.”
“Did she?”
“Did she what?”
“Come back.”
“Eventually,” I said with a smile.
In my haste to get the story written, we hadn’t formalized the terms of the wager, or really even discussed whether or not this was to be a real wager.
“You’ve read the story,” I began, “you think it could go viral? Reddit and the like?”
J thought for a second. “I don’t think, that if you post it on a random forum, that it will get much attention.”
“What if I couch it as a ‘look what was just forwarded to me’ post?”
Instantly, nearly talking over my last words, J replied, “I still don’t think it’ll get far.”
Upping the ante, taunted, “I’ll do a grand on it.”
“On this going viral? How do we even define that?”
I shrugged. “Blog coverage, reddit, google links. Shit like that.”
“100k total views?”
I shook my head. “Impossible to track.”
“How about,” he suggested, “given that the target is obviously lawyers, we say that it has gone viral if it gets picked up on Above the Law? Without, of course, you submitting it to Lat yourself. Just post it on a forum, see if it winds up on Above the Law.”
“Book it,” I said presumptively.
It took some convincing but I got J to agree on a grand. I had a former Life at 160 writer post the story on xoxohth. A week or so later, it popped up on Above the Law as “A Racy Email About An Associate’s One-Night Stand With A Married Female Partner”. The story headline was later modified to include “(but fake?)”.
I’ve pasted the original of the story below. It’s not particularly good, but, as I made $1000 from the piece, it is unfortunately my most lucrative story yet. And like I said above, the underlying event actually happened but I took quite a few liberties setting the scene.
==========
Gavel Fucker
Amy,
Sorry I couldn’t talk longer, big meeting at work today, here’s what happened last night:
A few months ago, my firm passed out a list of holiday recruiting events. Attached to the list was a sign-up form. Though they did not say it explicitly, every associate was expected to sign-up and attend at least one of the events. Generally detesting these type of events, and on the assumption that no law student would ever show up to a holiday party on a Wednesday during the middle of exams, I signed up for last night’s “holiday mixer”.
Yesterday, in the mid-afternoon, a tubby, bland associate came by my office and asked if I was going to carpool with the rest of the firm’s event attendees. I declined, claiming that I had a “very important memo” that I needed to finish before I could leave for the event. Not five minutes later, Sara, my most recent obsession, a pale, disarming, and exceedingly thin associate, swooped into my office and said, “What’s this I hear about you not wanting to ride with me to the mixer.” Obviously, I immediately changed my mind on the carpool idea.
Sara’s new, unfortunately blue 335i served as the lead vehicle in the carpool caravan. I sat next to her in the front, while two other associates sat in the rear. We were followed by two other cars, each filled with four additional attorneys from the firm. During the drive over, I very nearly ruined my fledgling relationship with Sara when, in response to a question about why none of the support staff was attending the mixer, I said, “Because nobody cares about the staff.” Fortunately, I righted the ship a bit by continuing, “At least, not law students.”
Once we arrived at the hotel where the event was to be held, a middle-aged female partner name Diane, picture a slightly worn Monica from Friends, asked me to carry a box filled with the lame firm swag we were supposed to give at the event. Though I smiled and answered affirmatively, I was mildly upset at being impressed with such a duty.
I carried the box into the hotel ballroom and sat it on the front table near the door. The ballroom was surprisingly empty, only a few cocktail tables littered the open floor, which was straddled by two bars. Before anyone could ask me to assist in any other way, I walked to the nearest bar, where the bartender was still setting up. I ordered a bourbon on the rocks with a twist, which led to a five minute debate as to whether with a twist means lime or lemon juice. Obviously, lemon juice is the answer, though I did say that lime juice was a perfectly acceptable substitute in bourbon. Eventually he squeezed a little bit of both into the drink. I tipped him five dollars and told him I would take care of him at the end of the night if he prevented me from seeing the bottom of my glass. He nodded.
Sara found me shortly thereafter and asked if I wanted to work the swag table with her during the first thirty minutes of the event. Obviously, I was torn between my obsession with the girl and my steadfast desire to avoid as much work as possible during the event. As my dick nearly always wins such a struggle, I chose to sit next to Sara and dole out the swag and name-tags.
A few drinks and an hour later, the event started and Sara and I began our term at the swag table. Though I had expected barely a law student to attend, I would guess that more than one hundred law students entered during that first half hour. It would seem that I underestimated the desperation of today’s modern law student – and while I won’t wholesale dismiss or disparage these attendees, as I find the new bottom line approach far more appealing than the “perk talk” of yore, it would be an extreme stretch to say than any of the law students were notable in any way.
Fortunately, that didn’t prevent Sara and I from enjoying our time together. Though I made up the majority of the things I told her about myself, I’m relatively confident that it was my authentic personality that Sara found captivating – not the fraudulent stories. Nevertheless, despite my seemingly successful wooing, once our time was up, Sara left me to enter the fray of law students. It seems that her desire to spend time with me was outweighed by her desire to be seen by the partners as an associate who takes recruiting seriously. Obviously, this made her less attractive to me.
Still, the rejection, and it was a rejection, stung. I tried with great vigor to quench the sting with drink, but that only seemed to push me towards belligerence, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Law students are so used to being treated like cretinous subhumans by the people that look up to – their professors, etc – that they really took a liking to me once I unleashed my sarcastic view on the legal profession. In fact, until I thought better of it, I nearly went home with a magnificently chested, though moderately chubby, first year law student.
But so went the event. After the third hour, my bartender closed up shop and the room emptied. Sara had already left with most of the other attorneys. As I gave the bartender twenty dollars, which I feel was fair, Diane tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that she was the last of the carpool drivers. “If you want a free ride back to the office, it’s going to be with me,” she said.
Given the lack of remaining alcohol, I followed Diane out of the hotel to her car, which was already loaded with two other associates and all of the leftover swag. I sat in the empty front passenger seat and Diane drove us back to our office building. As soon as the car came to a stop, each of the passengers, myself included, opened their respective door and began to climb out. My attempted escape though, was thwarted by Diane, who placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m not letting you drive home like that.” Thoroughly embarrassed, I turned and nodded, hoping to avoid making an issue out of the situation. The other two associates said their goodbyes and exited the car.
As we drove to my apartment, which is only a few minutes away from the office, I didn’t say anything, which shouldn’t suggest that the drive was awkward, it wasn’t. I probably should not have been driving in my condition, and other than the embarrassment of having that aired in-front of the other associates, I didn’t hold Diane’s insistence against her. I truthfully believed she was just being protective of a firm asset.
At least, I believed that until she parked in my apartment’s garage and she offered to walk me up to my apartment. It was then that I received my first hint that her intentions in driving me home might have been substantially more nefarious. Equally nefarious though, were my intentions in accepting her offer to escort me to my door.
Once at my door, I asked Diane if she would like to come in and have a drink. We spent the next thirty minutes in my kitchen, initially discussing a trial she has coming up in January but eventually working our way onto her failing marriage. She was very careful to limit the scope of our conversation to why she didn’t like her marriage, only tangentially mentioning her husband. Actually, her demeanor in general was very careful, direct and unquestionably type A, which I suppose should be expected from any female partner at a large firm.
She finished the diatribe on her marriage with, “So I think it would be good for you and I to sleep together tonight.”
I immediately laughed and said, in only a slightly sarcastic tone, “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“It’s not. I’ve been working it out for a few hours. Neither of us would risk our career by talking about this with anyone else.”
Slightly threatened, I deflected, “Things could get pretty awkward with us in the office.” I hated myself more with every word.
But Diane shook her head. “No more awkward than they would be now that I’ve propositioned you.”
I thought about it for a moment, shrugged and said, “Alright.”
Within minutes, we were making out on my couch, the same couch that you stained last year, in only our underwear. Interestingly enough, though she was extremely aggressive in removing my clothing, once I began to reach my hand under her panties, which were surprisingly risqué, she pulled her body away. When I tried to brush the event off and continue kissing her, she pulled even further away.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out.
“No . . . I’m sorry,” she replied, “What, what were you going to do?”
“Touch you?” I replied in my textbook wavering manner.
“Oh. One second,” she said as she wiggled out from under me and jumped off the couch.
She ran into the kitchen and came back within moments carrying her extremely large purse. She sat the purse on an end table and reached her hand inside. As the hand probed the contents of the purse, both jingles and jangles filled the room, which was quite patently an extreme turnoff. After what felt like days, her hand stopped moving and a proud, devious smile flashed across her face. From the depths of the purse, Diane removed one of the cheesy, plastic gavels, fully emblazoned with our firm logo, that we were giving away at the mixer. She tossed it to me and laughed.
My confusion was apparent.
Once back on the couch, again lying under me, Diane pointed to the gavel and said, “Touch me with that.”
Certainly not comfortable with the situation, but equally uncomfortable with displaying my uneasiness, I began kissing her and running the gavel up and down her right leg. This continued for some time. Whenever the gavel reached her crotch, Diane moaned. Eventually, without any real break in our kiss, we were able to remove the remainder of our clothing.
Now, this is probably a bad time to take a break from the story, but I assure you it’s momentary. Whether it’s rooted in insecurity or chivalry, I feel I must address Diane’s looks. Though she is undoubtedly the oldest person I have slept with, she may be the most beautiful, which is absolutely not meant to be an insult to you. Objectively, you are more beautiful, but the raw confidence with which Diane behaved caused me to see her through a special shade of rose. Even now, only a day later, I cannot remember exactly how she looked, though I can’t help but remember her as being beautiful.
But still, once naked, I wasn’t sure how to proceed. It seemed presumptuous to attempt to initiate oral sex for my benefit and, given how she reacted when I tried to touch her, licking her seemed out of the question. Once again, my confusion must have been apparent because, at some point, Diane pointed back to the gavel and said, “Use that.”
“Where?” I asked, not because I didn’t know, but because I needed confirmation.
“In me.”
I examined the gavel and assumed she meant she wanted the shaft and not the head. Accordingly, I rotated it in my hand, so that I was gripping the head of the gavel, and moved it close to her crotch. In anticipation, she arced her back and moaned. I then slowly moved the gavel inside of her and proceeded to fuck her with it. After a few minutes, presumably after she came, she grabbed the gavel, tossed it towards my fireplace, and worked herself on top of me. We then had sex that, while great, is not worth noting in detail in this letter.
Post-coitus, we returned to the kitchen and had another drink, after which we went to sleep in my bed. She left a few hours later. When I awoke, I could not find the gavel. I had to take a cab to work. I did not see Diane today.
I’m sure now, you are asking yourself, why would your ex-fiance write you this type of email? The answer to that question is assuredly exactly what you are thinking. I’m not over you. I still love you. I want this story to make you sick with envy. I want you back. Please call me.
The Above the Law Bet / Gavel Fucker
Double note: If you don’t want to read a boring recitation of the background to the story, click here.
As 2010 faded, I was drifting. Work was busy and I was in a stable relationship but, though I wouldn’t describe my life as boring, I was bored. Not to sound ridiculous or over-dramatic, but writing is my intellectual outlet. It’s something, maybe the only thing, in which my skill is still supremely imperfect. So I enjoy it more than anything else.
But, as the aforementioned relationship involved a major player in the story I’m writing right now, though I yearned desperately to, I couldn’t start writing the story. I have a defect that prevents me from writing honestly about my past if I’m not permanently removed from it. Billed Hourly and I reunited six or seven times while I was writing her story, which caused a variety of unfortunate tonal shifts throughout.
And I tried a hundred times to write different, not-nearly-as-good stories from my past but I kept getting stuck on the fact that any other story was just second-tier filler compared to the current story. I simply wasn’t inspired to write them. So I gave up on writing anything.
That is, until I was out to lunch with one of my old SubtleDig running mates, J, during the middle of the first week of December. J was going on and on about how I should send a résumé over to the managing partner at his quality-of-life firm, where he makes half of what I make. “I rarely get to the office before nine,” he said, “and I’ve yet to be in the office after seven.”
“I’m bored J,” I replied indignant.
“You think I’m having a good fucking time?” he snapped with a smirk and wink. He’s always winking, though I doubt he realizes he does it.
“I need a hobby – something distracting. I think I’m going to start playing again.”
“Piano?”
I nodded. “I was hit on more playing the piano than anything else I’ve ever done.”
“More than when you parked that leased BMW in front of the community college?”
I laughed and proclaimed, “Even when that shit’s leased, them hoes want to get in.”
“I know you didn’t just quote Drake?”
J’s firm had some sort of dispute that involved Drake. J was at the deposition. He was not left with a favorable impression of the rapper.
“Paraphrased,” I shrugged.
In a stern, overly-serious tone, J then said, “I thought you were better than that.”
Acrimonious, I kept going, “I’m just hoping I never have to fit in.”
Sporting a confused look, J asked, “Still Drake?”
“It’s like the very next line in the song.”
“That’s not as bad.”
“I know,” I nodded.
“But we both know you’re not going to go out to bars in the burbs and start playing the piano again. You’d end up cheating on her… You’re not there yet.”
“I guess I’m that easy to predict?”
“Man, predicting you is as easy as sliding off a greasy log backwards.”
There are certain words, such as “easy” that cause J to automatically belch out some ridiculous southern saying. He believes it adds to his charm but it always comes out unbelievably forced.
“You must impress a lot of clients talking like that.”
“You know where I used that? Fifth circuit oral argument. Swear to fucking god.”
“And I bet those hillbillies ate it up.”
J smiled. “We won.”
I took a bite of my sandwich and listened to J ramble about the decision in his case.
In a spot of silence, I interjected, “But I need something to keep myself in check. Something that will beat me down a bit. Maybe I’ll start playing golf again.”
“We could do something on the net if you want. I’ve been thinking up a project. We get five or six recent english or fine arts grads, rent a big house somewhere cheap, let them live there rent free in exchange for a cut of anything they write while living there. Basically, content farm fiction in a collaborative environment. Throw the results on Kindle and a site. I’ve priced it out, probably $700 a month from each of us.”
I sighed deeply and shook my head. J had been sitting on the idea for a bit and was obviously pretty excited about it. “You’re looking at a lot of work finding the right people. Think about how many hours that go into finding the cast of the Real World – and that turns to shit half the time. A blog about the goings on in the house could certainly be popular. Not something I want to do though. That’s a huge commitment.”
With a frown, J responded, “I know.”
“I guess it would be a good idea if one of us was out of work or something.”
“If only.” J paused and scratched his chin. “What about some sort of prank? Create a fake news story or something, you know? Troll a forum and try to get them to believe that we’ve discovery something scandalous about something?”
“Too trivial. I don’t know.”
I gave up on the issue for the moment and we continued lunch. Eventually, we started talking about the professor who used my writings extensively in his psychology class and how I forced J to meet the professor while pretending to be the writer of Life at 160. It ended very poorly.
But discussing the event stirred up a lot of misplaced pride. Those terrible, early post were pretty neat and, of course, they led me down a path that likely saved me from jumping off the top of Chase Tower, though I suppose such a statement may be premature.
So in short order, despite being in a pretty significant slump, I was bragging about my abilities. “It’s that my stories are interesting. I don’t go for the quick and cheap payoff, and maybe I punish the reader slightly, but I think it’s for the better,” I insisted. “It’s not for everyone but, given the contrast of vulgarity and my overwriting, there is something worthwhile there. I’m not saying that there is a classiness to it or anything, but I’ve been told that there is a feeling of discovery when reading my stuff.”
“You know, this is my fault,” J stated cryptically. “I brought it up. I knew you would go full on insufferable in less than a minute. Your stuff’s interesting and sometimes fun. But you’re fucking detached from reality when you go off calling your writing unique. You’re just telling a story about yourself.”
“Horseshit. Absolute horseshit. You don’t even believe what you’re saying – you’re just saying it to piss me off. Originality as a concept is so perverted today. Other people have written memoirs that include sex, but that doesn’t make my shit necessarily derivative.”
“Fucking wait. Calm down. I’m not making such an accusation.”
“You said it wasn’t unique.”
“Fine, retracted.”
“There are literally a million people online trying to write. Not just blog, but write. And I promise you that I’m more popular than 95% of them. And that’s because overwritten vulgarity is fucking interesting. People find it and like it.”
“But nobody wants to share it.”
“Bullshit.”
The conversation devolved accordingly. I began arguing that people share my work for two reasons: 1) because they’ve discovered something extremely interesting, or 2) because they hate it and want others to hate it with them. J disagreed and pointed to the lacks of hits I received from facebook or twitter as evidence that nobody wants to share my work. “It’s very difficult for someone to tell their friends that they like what you write – and nobody shares something they hate,” he argued.
Shortly thereafter, J said, “prove it,” to one of my comments. After further discussion, we decided that I should write something and post it on a random forum and see if it attracted any buzz. Rather than go back to work, we both went back to the loft where I typed up a quick, uninspired story. Though the actual event from which the story finds its roots occurred in undergrad, I took a few liberties to modernize it. I also made a conscious effort to write it as though I was 25, which primarily consisted of sprinkling in occasional arrogant stupidity.
After I was done, J read it and asked how much of it was true.
“Probably 80%, maybe slightly less,” I answered, “I did actually sleep with one of my old bosses after a conference and use a promotional item in a violative manner. I also emailed the story to my ex begging her to come back.”
“Did she?”
“Did she what?”
“Come back.”
“Eventually,” I said with a smile.
In my haste to get the story written, we hadn’t formalized the terms of the wager, or really even discussed whether or not this was to be a real wager.
“You’ve read the story,” I began, “you think it could go viral? Reddit and the like?”
J thought for a second. “I don’t think, that if you post it on a random forum, that it will get much attention.”
“What if I couch it as a ‘look what was just forwarded to me’ post?”
Instantly, nearly talking over my last words, J replied, “I still don’t think it’ll get far.”
Upping the ante, taunted, “I’ll do a grand on it.”
“On this going viral? How do we even define that?”
I shrugged. “Blog coverage, reddit, google links. Shit like that.”
“100k total views?”
I shook my head. “Impossible to track.”
“How about,” he suggested, “given that the target is obviously lawyers, we say that it has gone viral if it gets picked up on Above the Law? Without, of course, you submitting it to Lat yourself. Just post it on a forum, see if it winds up on Above the Law.”
“Book it,” I said presumptively.
It took some convincing but I got J to agree on a grand. I had a former Life at 160 writer post the story on xoxohth. A week or so later, it popped up on Above the Law as “A Racy Email About An Associate’s One-Night Stand With A Married Female Partner”. The story headline was later modified to include “(but fake?)”.
I’ve pasted the original of the story below. It’s not particularly good, but, as I made $1000 from the piece, it is unfortunately my most lucrative story yet. And like I said above, the underlying event actually happened but I took quite a few liberties setting the scene.
==========
Gavel Fucker
Amy,
Sorry I couldn’t talk longer, big meeting at work today, here’s what happened last night:
A few months ago, my firm passed out a list of holiday recruiting events. Attached to the list was a sign-up form. Though they did not say it explicitly, every associate was expected to sign-up and attend at least one of the events. Generally detesting these type of events, and on the assumption that no law student would ever show up to a holiday party on a Wednesday during the middle of exams, I signed up for last night’s “holiday mixer”.
Yesterday, in the mid-afternoon, a tubby, bland associate came by my office and asked if I was going to carpool with the rest of the firm’s event attendees. I declined, claiming that I had a “very important memo” that I needed to finish before I could leave for the event. Not five minutes later, Sara, my most recent obsession, a pale, disarming, and exceedingly thin associate, swooped into my office and said, “What’s this I hear about you not wanting to ride with me to the mixer.” Obviously, I immediately changed my mind on the carpool idea.
Sara’s new, unfortunately blue 335i served as the lead vehicle in the carpool caravan. I sat next to her in the front, while two other associates sat in the rear. We were followed by two other cars, each filled with four additional attorneys from the firm. During the drive over, I very nearly ruined my fledgling relationship with Sara when, in response to a question about why none of the support staff was attending the mixer, I said, “Because nobody cares about the staff.” Fortunately, I righted the ship a bit by continuing, “At least, not law students.”
Once we arrived at the hotel where the event was to be held, a middle-aged female partner name Diane, picture a slightly worn Monica from Friends, asked me to carry a box filled with the lame firm swag we were supposed to give at the event. Though I smiled and answered affirmatively, I was mildly upset at being impressed with such a duty.
I carried the box into the hotel ballroom and sat it on the front table near the door. The ballroom was surprisingly empty, only a few cocktail tables littered the open floor, which was straddled by two bars. Before anyone could ask me to assist in any other way, I walked to the nearest bar, where the bartender was still setting up. I ordered a bourbon on the rocks with a twist, which led to a five minute debate as to whether with a twist means lime or lemon juice. Obviously, lemon juice is the answer, though I did say that lime juice was a perfectly acceptable substitute in bourbon. Eventually he squeezed a little bit of both into the drink. I tipped him five dollars and told him I would take care of him at the end of the night if he prevented me from seeing the bottom of my glass. He nodded.
Sara found me shortly thereafter and asked if I wanted to work the swag table with her during the first thirty minutes of the event. Obviously, I was torn between my obsession with the girl and my steadfast desire to avoid as much work as possible during the event. As my dick nearly always wins such a struggle, I chose to sit next to Sara and dole out the swag and name-tags.
A few drinks and an hour later, the event started and Sara and I began our term at the swag table. Though I had expected barely a law student to attend, I would guess that more than one hundred law students entered during that first half hour. It would seem that I underestimated the desperation of today’s modern law student – and while I won’t wholesale dismiss or disparage these attendees, as I find the new bottom line approach far more appealing than the “perk talk” of yore, it would be an extreme stretch to say than any of the law students were notable in any way.
Fortunately, that didn’t prevent Sara and I from enjoying our time together. Though I made up the majority of the things I told her about myself, I’m relatively confident that it was my authentic personality that Sara found captivating – not the fraudulent stories. Nevertheless, despite my seemingly successful wooing, once our time was up, Sara left me to enter the fray of law students. It seems that her desire to spend time with me was outweighed by her desire to be seen by the partners as an associate who takes recruiting seriously. Obviously, this made her less attractive to me.
Still, the rejection, and it was a rejection, stung. I tried with great vigor to quench the sting with drink, but that only seemed to push me towards belligerence, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Law students are so used to being treated like cretinous subhumans by the people that look up to – their professors, etc – that they really took a liking to me once I unleashed my sarcastic view on the legal profession. In fact, until I thought better of it, I nearly went home with a magnificently chested, though moderately chubby, first year law student.
But so went the event. After the third hour, my bartender closed up shop and the room emptied. Sara had already left with most of the other attorneys. As I gave the bartender twenty dollars, which I feel was fair, Diane tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that she was the last of the carpool drivers. “If you want a free ride back to the office, it’s going to be with me,” she said.
Given the lack of remaining alcohol, I followed Diane out of the hotel to her car, which was already loaded with two other associates and all of the leftover swag. I sat in the empty front passenger seat and Diane drove us back to our office building. As soon as the car came to a stop, each of the passengers, myself included, opened their respective door and began to climb out. My attempted escape though, was thwarted by Diane, who placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m not letting you drive home like that.” Thoroughly embarrassed, I turned and nodded, hoping to avoid making an issue out of the situation. The other two associates said their goodbyes and exited the car.
As we drove to my apartment, which is only a few minutes away from the office, I didn’t say anything, which shouldn’t suggest that the drive was awkward, it wasn’t. I probably should not have been driving in my condition, and other than the embarrassment of having that aired in-front of the other associates, I didn’t hold Diane’s insistence against her. I truthfully believed she was just being protective of a firm asset.
At least, I believed that until she parked in my apartment’s garage and she offered to walk me up to my apartment. It was then that I received my first hint that her intentions in driving me home might have been substantially more nefarious. Equally nefarious though, were my intentions in accepting her offer to escort me to my door.
Once at my door, I asked Diane if she would like to come in and have a drink. We spent the next thirty minutes in my kitchen, initially discussing a trial she has coming up in January but eventually working our way onto her failing marriage. She was very careful to limit the scope of our conversation to why she didn’t like her marriage, only tangentially mentioning her husband. Actually, her demeanor in general was very careful, direct and unquestionably type A, which I suppose should be expected from any female partner at a large firm.
She finished the diatribe on her marriage with, “So I think it would be good for you and I to sleep together tonight.”
I immediately laughed and said, in only a slightly sarcastic tone, “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“It’s not. I’ve been working it out for a few hours. Neither of us would risk our career by talking about this with anyone else.”
Slightly threatened, I deflected, “Things could get pretty awkward with us in the office.” I hated myself more with every word.
But Diane shook her head. “No more awkward than they would be now that I’ve propositioned you.”
I thought about it for a moment, shrugged and said, “Alright.”
Within minutes, we were making out on my couch, the same couch that you stained last year, in only our underwear. Interestingly enough, though she was extremely aggressive in removing my clothing, once I began to reach my hand under her panties, which were surprisingly risqué, she pulled her body away. When I tried to brush the event off and continue kissing her, she pulled even further away.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out.
“No . . . I’m sorry,” she replied, “What, what were you going to do?”
“Touch you?” I replied in my textbook wavering manner.
“Oh. One second,” she said as she wiggled out from under me and jumped off the couch.
She ran into the kitchen and came back within moments carrying her extremely large purse. She sat the purse on an end table and reached her hand inside. As the hand probed the contents of the purse, both jingles and jangles filled the room, which was quite patently an extreme turnoff. After what felt like days, her hand stopped moving and a proud, devious smile flashed across her face. From the depths of the purse, Diane removed one of the cheesy, plastic gavels, fully emblazoned with our firm logo, that we were giving away at the mixer. She tossed it to me and laughed.
My confusion was apparent.
Once back on the couch, again lying under me, Diane pointed to the gavel and said, “Touch me with that.”
Certainly not comfortable with the situation, but equally uncomfortable with displaying my uneasiness, I began kissing her and running the gavel up and down her right leg. This continued for some time. Whenever the gavel reached her crotch, Diane moaned. Eventually, without any real break in our kiss, we were able to remove the remainder of our clothing.
Now, this is probably a bad time to take a break from the story, but I assure you it’s momentary. Whether it’s rooted in insecurity or chivalry, I feel I must address Diane’s looks. Though she is undoubtedly the oldest person I have slept with, she may be the most beautiful, which is absolutely not meant to be an insult to you. Objectively, you are more beautiful, but the raw confidence with which Diane behaved caused me to see her through a special shade of rose. Even now, only a day later, I cannot remember exactly how she looked, though I can’t help but remember her as being beautiful.
But still, once naked, I wasn’t sure how to proceed. It seemed presumptuous to attempt to initiate oral sex for my benefit and, given how she reacted when I tried to touch her, licking her seemed out of the question. Once again, my confusion must have been apparent because, at some point, Diane pointed back to the gavel and said, “Use that.”
“Where?” I asked, not because I didn’t know, but because I needed confirmation.
“In me.”
I examined the gavel and assumed she meant she wanted the shaft and not the head. Accordingly, I rotated it in my hand, so that I was gripping the head of the gavel, and moved it close to her crotch. In anticipation, she arced her back and moaned. I then slowly moved the gavel inside of her and proceeded to fuck her with it. After a few minutes, presumably after she came, she grabbed the gavel, tossed it towards my fireplace, and worked herself on top of me. We then had sex that, while great, is not worth noting in detail in this letter.
Post-coitus, we returned to the kitchen and had another drink, after which we went to sleep in my bed. She left a few hours later. When I awoke, I could not find the gavel. I had to take a cab to work. I did not see Diane today.
I’m sure now, you are asking yourself, why would your ex-fiance write you this type of email? The answer to that question is assuredly exactly what you are thinking. I’m not over you. I still love you. I want this story to make you sick with envy. I want you back. Please call me.
Still yours,