Pervert, Esq.: Part Two

[Click here for Part One of "Pervert, Esq."]

He gets back into the bed, leans over me, pushes a stray strand of hair away from my eyes and smiles. “So, I have something I wanted to tell you all night.”  He’s grinning and I cannot believe I’m actually going to start a relationship with a partner—the Hot Partner.

“Over in that closet over there…”  He’s smiling and starts kissing my neck.  I’m giggling along with him.  I can barely hear him.  Something about a closet.  This is a dream.  It’s about time; I deserve this, I do.

“…I have…”  This is heaven.  Seriously.  Maybe we’ll even go get breakfast tomorrow.  Is it awkward if we show up to work at the same—

“…a strap-on.”

Pardon?

Did you say…a strap-on?  As in a harness?  With a rubber dildo attached?  That I’m supposed to throw on and use to— Oh my God.  Wait.  No no no this isn’t happening.

Ian grins, cocks an eyebrow at me and nods toward the nightstand, where a bottle of coconut-flavored lube has conveniently been placed.  My mouth is literally paralyzed.  I mean, how do you respond to that?  “Um, thanks for the information, and if you want to be rammed in the ass with a 12-inch apparatus, have at it, but why the hell are you sitting here with me?”

Wait, oh Jesus Christ, is that why you’re sitting here with me?  Because I look like someone you’d want to ram you in the ass, i.e. a guy?  Oh God, am I that repulsive?  I’ve always thought I come off as girly, but do I actually give off some kind of bullish erstwhile Matthew Broderick vibe? I want to vomit.  I am the biggest pathetic gullible loser on the planet. Who apparently looks like a gay guy.

I say something along the lines of “mm-hmm,” and roll out from under him, giggling like a moron and saying that I have to run home and change before heading back to the office.  He smiles, pats me on the back, and says he’ll see me later.

The day passes without any Ian contact. Finally, around 9 p.m., I get a three-word email from him to stop by his office.  I’ve been bracing myself for this all day.  I’m trying to be a consummate professional in light of recent events, but how can I possibly take anything he says seriously? When I think of him, all I can see is him bent over a chaise lounge while Matthew Broderick in a me-mask lubes up and thrusts away with a ginormous pink strap-on. I sit down in his office and I can tell he’s a little nervous—he won’t even acknowledge me.  Just then, Dave, the senior associate on the deal, comes in.  Ian looks up.

“Thanks for stopping by, guys.”  Ian nods in my direction.  “You did a decent turn on marking up the reps and warranties, kiddo, but you’re missing the bigger picture issues.”  Hold it.  What?

“Dave, hold her hand a little. Nothing comes to me unless you’ve seen it first,” he says, finally turning to look me in the eye. I think I see a flicker of a smirk. “Think you can handle it this time?”

Ohhhh.  Oh, I can handle it.  What I’m having a tough time handling right now is the unbelievable urge I have to lunge across the desk and stab you in the face with the heel of my shoe—after, of course, I find a truck full of acid to scrub from my brain the image of you begging me to pound you in the ass with a foot-long strap-on rubber dildo last night, you STONE-FACED, NEEDLE-DICKED PERVERT.  Sure, I can handle it. WHAT ELSE YA GOT, ROCKET MAN?

What came out instead was something closer to “Sure.”

So. Just when I thought life as a BigLaw associate couldn’t get any more humiliating or ridiculous —surprise!—it can.  Now, not only can I look forward to having some condescending partner prick bark orders at me in the middle of the night, but now, now they’re coming from someone who’s not only seen me naked, but also has fantasized about me ramming him in the ass with a pink prosthetic cock and god only knows what else.

And you know what, part of me wonders if I should have just bore down, strapped on the thing and went to town on old Ian.  Maybe then I’d be sipping rosé champagne now instead of sitting bleary eyed in the middle of the night in my rat-hole office.  I mean, hell, it’s not like it’s such a big deal anyway, right?  After all, if I’ve learned anything in the past couple of days, it’s that like it or not, when you work in BigLaw, sooner or later you wind up taking it in the ass.

Some, I suppose, rather more literally than others.