I have been watching Pamela Feinstein for a long time.
Pam's a brilliant programmer, and while it violates conventional wisdom she supplements this skill with real, actual documentation. It's kinda unheard of where I work. I was told her boss asked her to provide fewer docs so that she could improve her output in sheer number of lines of code (which is already higher than her peers), and that she laughed at him. In a layoff-rich environment like ours, that takes some confidence and knowledge of one's self-worth. She's a real piece of work.
She also has a pair of legs that don't quit, to which my inner fifteen year-old has responded by nicknaming her "Pam Feinstems".
Internally, of course. I wouldn't dream of making her uncomfortable in a work context. I'd love to pretend that it's because I respect her (I do) or that I'm afraid the Human Resources fascists will axe me if complaints arise that I'm harassing her (I'm not), but the true reason I keep things very professional with Ms. Feinstems is the same reason men have had for being gentlemen for centuries: I would dearly like to get inside her panties, and being polite and warm trumps being a crude jerk. At least the gentlemen would like to think so.
I'm a recently-divorced man with an eye for a cute face and a decent figure, though I insist those are accompanied by a serious intellect. I've tried dating dumb girls and it's never worked out. As a result, my attraction to Pamela predates the troubles in my marriage which culminated in the (completely unrelated) split-up, and I had—wisely, at the time—set her up with James, an acquaintance of mine, to eliminate my own temptation. Now that I am free... well, let's just say I think that she can do better. I'm no saint, as you will discern, and James isn't all that
close
an acquaintance.
Most of my business is in Silicon Valley, but much of my team's engineering staff is in Portland, Oregon. As a result, when meetings arise, they are typically up north where it's considerably less expensive to house and feed everyone. Our yearly technical conference is coming up and I am looking forward to some down time from the normal daily grind.
Pam, a member of one of our partner organizations, will be delivering a paper as well. Alas, her boyfriend will not be there, as he isn't presenting and is in another department which will not attend. This brings sympathetic tears to my eyes for him. He's a really nice guy, but I intend to be fucking his girlfriend while she is away at the nerdfest.
There's always a party or two in the evenings. The
really
socially-inept engineers hang out at the official events on the company dime; the rest of us discuss the same nerdy topics, but in local Irish pubs or nightclubs.
I need to ensure that Feinstems accompanies us to the latter.
I won't invite her, but I will make sure someone else does... "Hey, go invite Pam!"
"Yeah! She's cool!"
So off to the restaurant/bar we go, where the beer flows (for most of us; I drink kamikazes because that's just how I roll).
"Hey, who the hell invited you, Pam?" I administer the good natured ribbing while trying not to salivate. She's wearing a bright blue dress which hugs her figure without being inappropriate for the workplace. There is a slit in the back which provides an extra couple inches of eye-candy for this leg man. I find the subtlety of professional-but-sexy women's clothing arousing.
She sits down across from me. I am known to be sympathetic, nice, and damned funny. For an enginerd, anyway. When I decided to leave my last the job, virtually no one said, "We'll miss your technical expertise." No, it was, "Damn, it won't be any fun around here anymore."
There is alcohol...
check
. There's a mini-skirted used-to-be-socially-outcast and the residual body self-esteem issues that come from being really smart but only recently cute. Something I can empathize with, yet am willing to use to my advantage. So...
check
.
And after several more drinks, there's ankle touch-age under the table...
Checkmate... Er... I mean, "check"
. I'm sure it's accidental, but I neither call attention to it nor attempt to move my leg away. She does... but a couple of minutes later, she replaces it. She's warm.
People trickle out, there are only a handful left—the hard-core drinkers and the soft-core drinkers who probably still shouldn't drive. I have given up on 'kazes hours ago and have been downing water, so I'm not one of the latter group. Others have followed suit, but not Pamela. As the work-crowd thins, someone suggests going for coffee, triggering laughs around the table.
The joke is, of course, that there is a strip joint known as "Stars", and the locals have for years gone there and claimed to the uninitiated be going to "Starrrrbucks" late at night when the regular bars close. So, when one guy says to another on a trip to Portland, "We're going out for coffee..." everyone knows what that means.
Pam is no idiot. She's well aware of the euphemism, so when I admit I'll be headed out for something caffeinated, she laughs along with the rest. Eager to show how laid back she is, she replies, "I'm game!"
Okay,
now
it's a checkmate.
I laugh at her and feign disbelief. "Really? I wouldn't have ever pictured you as the type." Dare the chick to prove she's not a prude.
"Hey, I'll try anything once."
Words that will come back to haunt you, my dear.
"Yeah, that's what Britney Spears said. You see how she's fared." I down the rest of my water and stand to go pay the check. "Well, I'm definitely going for coffee. Anyone else that wants to go with me, we'll meet at Stars. Know where that is?"
Some mumbled responses, and I give half-assed directions. Them arriving there is
not
my priority. It's counter-productive, in fact, which is why I'm headed to Dolphins, instead. See, Pam's coming with me, in my rental car.
"Dolphins?" she says, reading the sign as we pull into the parking lot. "You told those guys to meet you at Stars."
"Nuh uh."
"Yuh huh."
"Did I?" I pause as if thinking about it. Really I'm looking at the way her skirt hits her creamy white upper thighs in the shine of the streetlamps and wondering if they'd be as smooth under my tongue as they look. "Shit. I think you're right. That's like completely in the opposite direction. Fuck!"
"Dumbass." She's laughing at me. But not laughing
best
—that will be me, soon enough.
"Yeah, well... Screw it. I'm not driving all the way over there at this point. They can have fun without me. Dolphins is better anyway. You want me to take you back to the hotel? The others aren't coming, and you don't have to prove anything to me about how dirty a girl you are."
"Huh."
"Because I already know."
She hits me on the shoulder. "Oh, yeah, how is that?"
"James tells me."
"You lie."
"Yeah, I do." James is a fucking mouse and wouldn't tell fuck-stories if you held a gun to his head. "James is a nice guy and wouldn't say that about you if you held a gun to his head." Self-censorship is the key to illicit nookie. I think that's written down somewhere. If not, it should be. "He sure as hell wouldn't drag you here."
"No, it's cool." That's the liquor talking.
"You sure?"
"Nah, we're already here." I silently urge the liquor to keep up the good work.
Laughter. "Okay, but if you get up on stage, I am NOT responsible."
We get out of the car and walk to the front of the establishment. I drop a ten on the door guy after our IDs are checked, and she tries to as well but, "Ladies are free tonight, ma'am."
"Don't worry, she's no lady," I reply, earning another shoulder slap. "Ow! What'd I say?" We enter elbow-to-elbow and try to adjust our eyes to the dimness.
It's loud, as all such places are loud. Whether the music is booty hip-hop or Jimmy Buffett, the sound guy's attempt to improve his audiologist brother's business is unrelenting.
The place is small—a box, really. A squared-off C-shaped stage, two poles, and a smattering of tables, with a darker, more curtained-off area for more private dances. The waitresses are cute but not over the top. The talent is slender, surgically-enhanced, and shaking ass in a way which someone must have told them was sexy. I've seen it before.
Pam hasn't, though. She's trying to maintain a casual vibe, but widened eyes don't lie. She really is not a dirty girl. She's just learning.
I grab a seat at a table close enough to see the stage but not close enough to make Pam flee like a bunny. A waitress, "Morgan", approaches, and I accept what I know is an exorbitant cost to order two vodka shots and a bowl of fries. It will be worth it.
Pam sits down, eyes glued to the stage, but she shakes it off and looks at my smirk. "What?"
"Nothing. Is it all you expected?"
"It's... weird."
"Yeah. Yeah, it really kinda is."
"And men pay for this?"
"Some men. And some women, too." I gesture toward a group of mixed gender right up at the stage, where a sleazy-looking redhead is urgently waving a handful of singles in the direction of one of the less sleazy-looking dancers.
"Huh."
I'm silent, letting her soak it all in. The stage show is over momentarily, and Pam looks around at the rest of the place while the DJ drones on about which grade-B porn stars will be here next month, 'so be sure not to miss it!'
"Aside from that," she indicates the stage, "it just looks like a normal bar."
"But without any character or class."
"Without that, yes."
Our drinks arrive. Or hers, anyway. I'm driving. I hand her one of the shots as the music starts up again. Apparently, "Giselle" is on her way out, now.
I will admit Giselle is attractive, and I spare her some of my attention. Brunette, long legs, nice figure which is close enough to nature's statistical reality to possibly be natural, and a pretty face. The Lucite heels are silly, but the fishnets are nice to look at and the bra...
whoops!
Well, never mind the bra, anymore.
Pam notices me noticing and knocks back her shot. "Is that your favorite?"
"Huh?"
"I said, 'Is that your favorite?'" she repeats, her eyes watering from the alcohol.
"What? No. How can I tell my favorite? I've only seen three!"
"You're just staring at that one more than the last two."
"She's a brunette. Brunettes are fucking hot."
"Why thank you."
"Don't mention it. She has nice legs, too."
"Why thank you."
"I didn't say you did."
