The wet spot on the front of my neatly pressed slacks had nearly disappeared by the time I entered our Midtown office building, but I had yet to pull my brain back from the brink. Every woman I passed, whether young or old, skinny or voluptuous, short or tall, invited a new facet for me to fixate on: lips pursed around a straw; the sway of hips in a summer dress; lidded eyes glancing up towards me from under a curtain of bangs. In short, I was dangerously horny, and I had but one hope of relief: my lunch break.
One of the perks of my job was my office, and while it was painfully small, and had only one window that looked out on another office building, its door closed and occasionally even locked. If I could just make it to noon, I could rub one out and be back on the job with no one the wiser.
I sped through the office, offering pleasantries to colleagues I passed as I tried not to notice the plump red lips of our receptionist, Jasmine, or how Anne's heels accentuated the long muscles running up her calves. Stay on target, I told myself, and before long, I collapsed in the chair behind my desk, fired up my desktop, and exhaled. I could do this.
A short knock on my open door preceded Julie's arrival for our morning meeting. She didn't wait for an answer before sitting down in the chair directly opposite mine. I nodded towards her, not looking up from my inbox.
Julie was the one woman I wasn't worried about distracting me on staff--well, one of two; my boss, Lillian, was exceptionally fit for her age, but she was also a borderline tyrant, and I didn't think I could conceive of her sexually even if someone held a gun to my head.
Julie, on the other hand, was my age, tall and trim, and relentlessly pleasant and professional. We'd gelled from the start, and I'd shepherded her through the worst of Lillian's entry process, which was designed to weed out people who couldn't think for themselves, as well as those who couldn't meet her exacting standards. At this point, Julie and I had earned Lillian's respect, and in the process, forged a relationship that fell squarely between work colleagues and work friends. After her first week, I don't think I'd had a single sexual thought about her. The same couldn't be said for our direct reports, the telemarketers.
You'd think telemarketers would be dull and boring, but the reality was that they were among the most ambitious and creative people I knew. Most had at least one other side hustle, ranging from acting to art to law school. This led to a certain flexibility of thought that could be highly distracting, especially when conversations turned personal. I knew exactly where my ethical line resided--no having sex with my direct reports--but that boundary seemed to be much blurrier on their end.
I finished checking my email just as Lillian entered, chunky bracelets clanging as she sat next to Julie, crossed her legs, and raised her eyebrows at me. Right: it was my meeting. I straightened up, pulled out my notes, and began.
The next three hours were as challenging as expected, as I fended off a series of conversational diversions that on another day I might have entertained.
"Ernest, did I tell you about my latest piercing?"
"Ernest, please tell me you, at least, don't care about body count."
"Ernest, is it weird that he told me my mom was hot, or am I being too sensitive?"
"One date, Ernest, and I swear I'll stop asking."
This last was said just as it turned noon, and was delivered with a hand on my knee.
Anne, she of the long legs and short mini-skirts, had pulled a chair to my side of the desk, and was looking at me with wide blue eyes.
"Anne, you work for me," I said.
"You're barely my boss," she said. "I report to Dan."
"Who reports to me," I said. "Which makes it even worse."
