Prelude to a Kiss

I may not be a doctor, but I can spot a good epidemic when I see one. No, I’m not talking swine flu. Or Mad Cow. I’m talking about a bug that’s more contagious, more debilitating. A bug that seems to be tearing through scores of Big Law associates faster than you can say “stealth layoffs.” As much as I’ve tried to find one, there’s just no immunization you can get to ward this one off-and it looks like my fellow Big Law drones haven’t found one, either. The plague in question? Young female associates getting themselves embroiled in ridiculous sexual situations with vile, insane partners. And as far I can tell, a cure is still a long way off.

If you’ve spent any time clicking through the annals of humiliation catalogued on this site, you’ve probably noticed that I’m no stranger to this particular epidemic. The latest episode, though, focuses on my friend, Kirsten, a Big Law mid-level employment litigator trapped in the body of a hot stripper. You may remember Kirsten from her recent and unfortunate dip into married territory-as a visitor, not a local, alas. After that inevitably disastrous affair wrapped itself up, Kirsten did what any heart-bruised, if not quite heart-broken, Big Law associate would do: She planted herself at the office 24-7 and figured, hey, if I can’t get laid, I might as well get hours.

And she did. As luck would have it, she also got the attention of a new lateral employment partner to her firm, Martin. Now, let’s paint a quick picture here: When I say Kirsten is hot, I don’t mean lawyer-hot; I mean fantasy-league, blonde bombshell, silicone-enhanced hot-hot. Martin, on the other hand, could pass for Ben Stiller’s pudgy older cousin-on a good day. Still, when he began stopping by Kirsten’s office every night to chat, some combo of charm, partnership units and daddy issues sparked a crush in her. More than anything, though, after dating a string of unemployed aspiring man-whores, she cherished the attention. And when she found out that Martin had recently been handed divorce papers by his starter wife, she was smitten.

After a couple of weeks, the office pop-ins turned into weekly after-work cocktails. This was more than just flirtation, she told me; this was a real connection. They would have long, soulful talks about everything from firm politics to past relationships to the devastation of rejection. The only problem, though, she said, was that Martin was a supervising partner in her small department, and she felt he was holding back on making a move because he was, well, her boss…and an employment litigator. But when he asked if she wanted to accompany him to a black-tie fundraising event that the firm was co-sponsoring, she knew that they’d reached a turning point. This was his way of testing the waters, of stepping out with her in a formal, open setting. This was big.

To say that Kirsten was obsessed with this fundraiser date would be a travesty of understatement. She bought a new, just-slutty-enough-for-work strapless cocktail dress and took the afternoon off to get ready. When she walked into the venue-a former meatpacking factory that had been converted into a swank hotel-she was looking good, feeling good and ready to take their relationship to the next level. Or at least make out a little.

When she got to the firm’s table, Martin was already there and stood up right away to give her a hello kiss on the cheek. She was glowing. Within minutes, Martin’s leg was brushing up against hers and then, as if fate was reading her mind, a waitress wearing a borderline-hooker satin micro-miniskirt suit appeared at their table with two drinks-a scotch rocks for Martin and a dirty martini for Kirsten. She was giddy. After so many years of losers who barely remembered her name, much less her favorite cocktail, this was finally a real man, a man with class, a man with-

“Babe, they didn’t have Johnnie Blue, sorry. This is Black, I think. Sorry. “

Babe?

Suddenly, the hooker waitress sat down at the empty chair next to Martin and took a sip of the martini-Kirsten’s martini. He looked at Kirsten without making eye contact.  She felt his leg pull away. “Kirsten, this…this is my girlfriend, Carina.”

Kirsten sat there, frozen. Hooker waitress started fondling Martin’s neck.

“And Carina, this is one of our up-and-coming superstars, Kirsten.”

The woman extended her hand to Kirsten across Martin’s chest. “Hey, I’m Carina. I love your necklace.”

“Th- thanks.” Kirsten looked down at the silver charm necklace she’d bought just for tonight. Her head was spinning. This had to be some sort of joke.

No such luck. Over the next half-hour, Kirsten learned that Carina, a forty-something former “dancer” with breast implants so big they made Kirsten’s look like mosquito bites, worked in the accounting department at Martin’s former firm. They had started dating-wouldn’t you know it?-right after Martin’s wife left him earlier this year.

The more the night dragged on, the more Kirsten wondered how she’d managed to let this happen. She was a pro at dating douchebags and over the years had developed an unwitting expertise in spotting the red flags early on when a guy was playing around-with her or on her. But this one had totally blindsided her. What was he trying to prove? Was this some sort of partner-associate power play? He’s an employment litigator for the love of God-could he really be this insane? The worst part, though: She was still attracted to him. But when, after a few rounds of drinks, she felt Martin’s hand gingerly take hold of her knee-and felt a wave of desire with a repulsion chaser rush through her body-she realized she had to get out of there.

She excused herself to the bathroom. She wasn’t going to be humiliated by this vile idiot and his inflatable satin-covered creature-or at least, she wasn’t going to let him see that she was. She’d go splash some water on her face, beg off, go home and drown herself in Ambien. At least she could leave this horror show with her dignity intact. That, of course, was before she found herself half-naked in the middle of the lobby, licking blood off her boss’s neck.

There’s something I’ve learned from years of romantic and sexual humiliation: At the exact moment you think you’ve reached your absolute limit, you can be sure that another brutal dose is about three minutes away. Kirsten, I’d imagine, would probably now agree. Because as soon as she came out of the bathroom, who was standing there but dear old Martin. She couldn’t tell if he’d come to explain himself or to finish the Knee Mauling Olympics he’d started under the table. Either way, she didn’t want to prolong this black-tie circus, so she ignored him and started toward the lobby. Martin jogged after her and finally caught up just as she was passing the entrance to the hotel’s trendy, crowded lobby bar.

Suddenly, though, Kirsten was cut off by a small flock of clacking drunk lawyers spilling out of the bar. One bumped into her so hard that she stumbled in her stilettos, and Martin apparently thought that this would be the prime time to grab her arm. Now, Kirsten says she’s not sure whether Martin was trying to steady her or spin her around toward him, but either way, she jerked herself away and spun back around in a full 360-a tricky move when you’re not drunk, livid, embarrassed and wearing four-inch Jimmy Choos, and a recipe for disaster when you are.

Before she knew what was happening, she lost her footing and fell toward Martin, reaching out to him to steady herself while tried to grab her. Mercifully, she didn’t actually land on her ass. Less mercifully, Martin wasn’t able to steady her in time and she wound up crashing up against him, her open mouth jammed momentarily into his neck. Stunned and lips locked in place against Martin’s neck like some sort of mentally disturbed blowfish, she suddenly tasted something hot and salty in her mouth and realized that Martin was bleeding; her teeth had crashed into his neck when she fell into him and must’ve nicked his skin.

Kirsten later admitted that she didn’t know whether it was shock, confusion, or desire, but instead of just pulling away like any sane person would have done at this point, she pressed her lips further into Martin’s neck, kissing him and yes, gently licking up the blood. Now, one would think that the mental image of yourself French kissing your sleazebag boss’s bloody neck would be enough to send you into an asylum-or at least a new practice group-for good, but Kirsten could only wish that it had ended there. Because when she finally snapped out of the blood-kiss, she pulled back and saw Martin’s stunned eyes immediately fly down from her mouth to her chest. And then she felt the breeze. Because, yes, friends, yes: Not only was she standing there with a mouth wet from kissing Martin’s bloody neck, but also one of her fake boobs had popped out of her strapless dress in the scuffle and was bobbing around in full view, staring him down. In the middle of a hotel lobby. Full of lawyers.

For reasons that I still don’t fully comprehend, Kirsten didn’t actually spontaneously explode into a million pieces from sheer mortification at that exact moment. She did, however, manage to pull up her top, wipe off her mouth and get the hell out of the building. And like the pro that she is, she went to work the next day and didn’t say a peep to Martin about anything that had happened that night. Within barely two months, she lateralled to another firm. She claims it had nothing to do with Martin; she wasn’t getting work in her department and went to a firm with a stronger employment practice-one, presumably, headed up by partners who don’t make it a practice to test the boundaries of employment law claims with their female associates. She never heard from Martin again.

So, on behalf of Big Law associates everywhere, thanks, Kirsten, for giving me the greenlight to share your story. The upside: It’s good to know that I’m not the only lady lawyer out there getting myself mixed up in ridiculous sexual situations with my Big Law superiors. The downside: I’m not the only lady lawyer out there getting myself mixed up in ridiculous sexual situations with my Big Law superiors. And who knows, a cure might indeed be right around the corner. In the meanwhile, though, the next time you find yourself looking forward to a late-night chat with your new partner BFF, just think of Kirsten-and think twice. At the very least, stay the hell away from strapless dresses.

An excerpt of this essay is also being published today on everyone’s favorite legal tabloid, Above the Law.  Make sure to check it out here!