A Story I Shouldn't Have Written

"She’s like a colt," he thought. Standing across the room, he watched her shake her long, brown hair. She was surrounded by men, a manhattan in one hand and a fist in the other. She was pretending to be a prize fighter, delivering the knockout punch. They loved her bravado and it was clear she enjoyed the attention.

He sipped his martini. He pinched himself so that his swelling erection would be less noticeable. "She’s brash. A young, female lawyer who’s out to prove she has balls just like the men."

She saw him watching her. "The stupid, fat fuck," she thought. "He just shovels those hors d’oeuvres into his gaping maw like some sort of retard. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started drooling." She was used to getting attention. "Look at me, I’ve got three of the most powerful trial lawyers in the city laughing at my jokes."

“Oooh. Better get out the taser! Kelli’s in the house,” she heard one of them say. They loved it. She wasn’t afraid to be a bitch and they ate it up.

‘Oh, come on, Mark. You know I can kick your ass,” she threatened.

All the posturing, the brawling. It was more than just an act. It was a tribal ritual. An admission price. Sure, there were senior women lawyers in the firm, but they were tokens. They had succeeded by adopting the motherly role. She had seen them working late nights and had witnessed the sacrifices they made. But they never had access to the real power. They never participated in the raunchy, brutish conversations that happened behind closed doors. Those women were teaching younger lawyers how to be good little attorneys while the real decisions were getting made by the men.

She saw him coming toward her, pushing his way into the circle, his martini slopping over the rim of the glass.

“Hey, Kelli, great party! The firm really goes all out for Christmas!” he said.

“Yeah, Dave. You’re lucky we let you come.” He was oblivious.

“They have Stoli, which is great, because I only drink martinis with Stoli vodka.”

Everyone was abandoning her. She was trapped alone by this Homer Simpson look-alike yammering on about vodka. Not even a very good vodka.

“How’s life? You got any interesting cases?

“Oh you know. An asbestos class action here, a lead poisoning case there. How are you? How’s your little harem?” She noticed him wince. He was a special breed. One of those men who was never really in a position to conquer the king, so he established his own little fiefdom. He surrounded himself with pert young women, hiring them just out of college. He gave them titles like “specialist” and “manager” to fool the firm into thinking he had brought them there to do work rather than what was obvious—he just wanted to swing his dick around.

“My harem? Oh.” He gave a knowing little laugh. “You mean my staff. They’re good girls. Working hard.”

He saw her looking past him impatiently. Her drink was still half full. He knew she was groping for an excuse to abandon him for the bar, so he lept. “Oh yeah. My harem. They’ll do just about anything for me.”

“Oh really? They’ll do your laundry for you?”

“Actually, one time Stacie did bring my shirts to the dry cleaners and picked them up for me.”

She could see that his shirt had rings of sweat beneath his armpits. She had to get him to go away. “Wow, Dave…how about your coffee?”

“Grande Americano. Everyday.

“Well, well, well. Sounds like they do just about everything but bend over.”

He giggled nervously at her remark. "A six-foot giant who giggles like a little girl," she thought. “Dave, you can’t be suggesting that you’re getting it on with them.”

He couldn’t believe it. She was flirting with him. "A little sly banter, some sexual innuendo...." He could see the lace of her bra from his height. She wore the same power suits as the other female attorneys, but buttoned her dress shirts low. He had heard some of the male attorneys talk about the way she dressed. They would laugh about taking a break from billing for a peep show in Kelli’s office.

She drained her manhattan. “Well, Dave,” she drawled, “I’ll tell you what. You prove that you got one of them to sleep with you, and I’ll sleep with you myself.”

His fat paws clung to his martini glass. She wanted to rip it from him and smash it over his head.

“How can I prove it?” he choked.

“Like they do in the movies, you big stud. You gotta bring me some panties.”

She backed away from him slowly and made her way to the bar. She sat down next to a and ordered another drink. “Two cherries this time,” she said loudly, and looked over her shoulder at him.

And though he was now standing by himself in the middle of the room, he couldn’t move. He saw the girls on his staff sitting in the corner of the room. They had each brought a date to the party—some young kid with a hot car and a low paying job. They were all shit-faced. Silly little girls. He hated to seem them go off with those punks, drunk and helpless. "I’m like a father to them," he thought.

He had the outdated notion that they’d be off to neck somewhere in the back of a car. Things would maybe go a bit too far. What kind of panties did they wear? Could he pay one of their dates to bring him a pair?

The next day was excruciating for him. People were clearing out early for the holidays. His girls rolled in late, bragging about who had the bigger hangover.

He saw her in the lobby several times, always with clients. She didn’t look at him. He had brought a pair of his wife’s underwear with him that morning. They were in his pocket, and he fingered them as he watched her. She would have to make good on her promise. He fantasized walking into her office, closing the door, and dangling them in front of her face. Would they do it right there? Would she insist on a hotel room?

He walked by her office once every hour. Every time the door was closed. At the end of the day, he shoved the underwear in an interoffice envelope and placed it in the mail.

When she opened the envelope the next day, she pulled out the underwear. It was gray and stretched thin, the elastic sagging. A post-it note was enclosed. It read, “Your place or mine?” and had a smiley face drawn in the corner.

He was called into the managing partner’s office that afternoon. The envelope sat between them on the desk. “Since you’ve been harassing not only attorneys but your employees as well, you’ve are no longer welcome at this firm,” the managing partner said. “You should know she’s considering some sort of legal action. You should think about retaining a lawyer.”

The underwear were just visible from where he was sitting. They were stuffed at the bottom of the envelope. He was hoping he could get them back. Would his wife notice they were gone?

“Besides, Dave, what were you thinking? Don’t you know that Kelli and I are together? I’m divorcing my wife. Kelli and I have been living together for months.”

He could barely breathe.