The Interview

"Stepping into an interview room, you never know what's going to happen."

Clap -- my car door slammed shut. The early morning California sun was gleaming over the campus parking lot. It had always amazed me how students these days could afford brand new luxury cars and big hulking SUVs. The elevator was on the very far end of the parking lot.

Beep -- the seeing impaired friendly elevator door opened for the career center. "I'm with Nanohard," I told the bulky career counsellor. She pointed me down the hallway past the fake palm trees that were supposed to elicit a calming feeling and the nervous students in suits. The suits were big and bulky to make them look powerful. Yet, their young bodies were skinny and looked helpless in those suits. Like in a Sci-Fi movie, I could feel the air shiver and distort from all the pent up nervousness around me. It gets even me a little shaky.

Swoosh -- Roger placed the folder with my interview candidates on the desk in front of him. He smiled softly. His tie was striped. The knot was sharply tied and pushed hard against his Adam's apple. Deep down the hallway, he lorded over the makeshift check-in desk. On a map, he circled the very last room, cleithrophobically far away from the building exit.

Squeak -- I leaned back in my swivel chair. It looked and felt cheap. The candidate chair was deliberately cheaper and uncomfortable. There was not even upholstery on it. The back rest was deliberately low to make it nearly useless for leaning back. So, the candidate would have to sit upright. The chair was purposefully lower than a standard chair. The entire room was tiny. The desk in between us created a modicum of emotional distance, because our knees would almost be touching.

Clack -- the door swung open and hit hard into the desk. Roger said, "You are a go in five." He held up five fingers and waited for my nod. With him gone, I was back alone in the small room. My eyes meandered around. The window was behind me to blind the candidate with light. It only opened one perfunctory inch to prevent suicide jumpers. A motivational poster said, "When your best isn't good enough." A runner was on it with his face buried in his hands and his body slumped over in despair. I stretched out my arms, feeling both sides of the room with my hands.

Click -- the door opened gently. A pause built anticipation for what the candidate would look like. A young woman entered in a solid black suit and baby blue shirt underneath it. The fabric was much too large for her slender body. She was wearing skinny high heels, which were covered by her too long pants. Only the sharp foot tip and skinny heal peered out. If she were barefoot, she'd be standing on her pant hem.

Flop-dop-pop -- my ballpoint pen pressed grooves of blue ink into the pad of paper. I underlined "Jean." I noted the time in the margin to start a timeline "8:06." A big circle went around the number 1 followed by "Manhattan traversal problem." She pushed her resume on crisp white paper across the desk. I asked the perfunctory small talk, "how was your morning?" She smiled silently and very kept together.

Ffff -- I inhaled deeply to cut into the interview, "let's get started on the technical questions, because that's what you are getting credit for. Feel free to illustrate your thinking on this piece of paper. I'll collect it at the end. Are you familiar with the Manhattan traversal problem?" Jean was silent. Her eyes looked like tiny black buttons with a sliver of blue around them. That's why I liked interviewing on campus, because there is a rawness to it. Interviewing industry candidates is always very serious.

Ding -- the hard material of her heels hit her metal chair leg, as she nervously shuffled. She drew the rectangular grid of Manhattan on the pad. She mumbled something about x- and y-axis. I hadn't even asked my question yet. I had no idea what she was trying to do. I cleared my throat to get her attention. "Let's say there is a garbage truck that has to visit x locations..."

Squid -- my eyelids made a quiet sound as I squeezed my eyes to poke the look of disbelief out of my face. It's not professional to make faces at the interview candidates. Jean had started drawing the statue of liberty in a mindless kind of way of being stuck on a hard problem. This was an interview for an engineering position, not fine art. "What are you doing? I haven't even explained the particular problem yet."

Sniff -- I involuntarily smelled the air. She must have been sweating hard. A wall of moist air hit my face. The tiny room was quickly smelled with the scent of her arm pits and body. My secret pleasure was taking in that scent. My manhood's circulation increased. It didn't harden. It rather simply inflated itself to a well sized flaccid shape.

Oh -- she exclaimed and sat back staring at me. Her mouth was gaping open. There was a dark black hole with thin, youthful lips around it. The skin on those lips was as smooth as only a young twenty two year old near college graduation could have. There was no lip stick on it -- pure innocence. "Yeah, it's hard to solve a problem, when you don't even know yet which it is," I said with a smile trying to buddy up to get us on a good start.

Tock-tock -- I noted 8:11 on the pad to restart the timing. "There is a truck driver that has to visit x stops. Each stop is described by an X and Y coordinate. You have to write an algorithm on the paper that describes the optimal route. You can use the C++ programming language." She nodded obediently like a puppy.

Squeak -- the chair moaned as I leaned forward to see her upside down writing. "Okay, that's the Python programming language. I'd like you to start over with C++." Her eyes turned glassy. This is when I took her in as a person for the first time. She looked like a regular kid from the suburbs out and away from her parents, trying to start her own life, a little lost in the big wide world.

Plob -- the top button of her baby blue shirt was undone. It made a tiny sound. Yet, the room was absolutely silent. We had locked eyes. I was trying to figure her out to get the interview on track. She was staring at me like a caught and distraught deer. She put her suit jacket on the floor. I thought it a little odd, because she could have put it on the backrest of her chair. However, I still thought, she was making herself comfortable from being overheated.

Plob, plob, plob -- one shirt button after the next popped open. Increasingly, my thinking went from her casually making herself comfortable to something being wrong. I had experienced a candidate ones coming in with shorts and a t-shirt, while rolling into the room on a skateboard. Her dexterous fingers arrived at her pants. I could see a black bra in between the slightly ajar shirt. She definitely didn't wear a t-shirt underneath it.

Ba-bam -- my heart was pounding with alarm. I had been caught in a sexual harassment predicament early in my career. I had learned the hard way that even small human interactions could be used to be smashed with the big hammer of sexual harassment, zero tolerance policies, and the like. I had learned in many hours of sensitivity training that followed later that even such slight things as a woman not saying anything could be construed as legally being put on notice.

Knock -- her pant button had been stretched by the tension and opened with a little explosion. My voice was shivering with panic, "why don't we close those buttons back up." My words didn't affect her at all. She didn't pause. She didn't look up. She was in her own bubble. My jaw was shaking from the adrenalin pumping inside of me without me even saying anything.

Crack -- her knee hit the desk sharply, when she got up to pull her pants down. For Christ's Sake, those thighs, where so pale, slender, and smooth, like a wet dream. A warm feeling of lust enveloped me. My mind screamed, "Don't give into it." She stood in the only space not occupied by me, the desk, or the chair, right in front of the door. Even if I were trying to get open the door, I'd have to touch her body, which could be horribly construed at a disciplinary meeting. Also, the words of the interview training echoed in my head, "Never, ever leave the candidate alone in the room. Call 911 or whatever you need to, but never leave them alone in the room."

Beep-beep-beep -- I was dialing our company security line. She had small black panties, nothing fancy -- just a real person with her regular panties. With her bare legs and open shirt, she looked like a girlfriend that had been overnight at my house and snuggled into my shirt that was way oversized for her. The intimacy of the feeling that it sent to me was confusing. The shirt dropped to the floor.

"Hello" -- the phone crackled with the voice of the security operator. I identified myself, location, and situation. While I talked my hands were glued on her nubile body. She was skinny. The bra popped forward with the back being undone. The whole thing dropped to the floor. She had small B sized breasts. However, they were so young that they stood up firmly -- perfectly round mounds with rosy nipples. The panties dropped down to the floor. She was shaven. Because of the anatomical position of the vagina, I couldn't see much. There was a triangle formed by the top of her thighs and bottom end of her belly.

Silence -- utter silence. I stared at her young, flawless, girl-next-door body. She looked like flesh - exposed, lifeless, and pale. She stopped moving. She stood with her arms at her sights. Her blue eyes looked at me. The security operator was waiting for me to talk. The image burned itself into my mind. The air went out of my lungs for a second. Then, the heaviness of her body scent, particularly the sourness of her armpits hit me again. Now, I could feel the musk of my erection mixed into the room. I could smell the pheromone scent that my penis head tended to exude when hard.

"911" -- the security operator repeated, "do you need assistance from 911?" "I'm not in any danger. We should try to handle this as discrete as possible for her benefit. Maybe, she can dress up before you send anyone in." She stood there motionless. She didn't say anything. Yet her eyes eagerly followed whatever I was doing with the phone or talking. She was stuck in silence.

Pop -- I released the tension in my neck with a sharp head movement. "I can see how interviewing is really scary. And the thought of leaving college without a job can be intimidating." Like a police interrogator, I'd move through different rationales for her actions. When I'd hit the nerve, there'd be some reaction. This one wasn't it. "For some cultures, getting a Western job is the only way to leave restrictive family traditions like working at a family store or even arranged marriage." She sobbed involuntarily. Though, she was a white girl. It was random to even get onto that thread.

Chirp -- I put the phone on speaker. "Look, I don't like putting security on speaker. I'd rather just talk this out with you without pulling other people and making it official. However, it's for my safety. Laws in America are very strict. If I offered you a hug and you said 'yes,' it could still be construed as coercion from me, because I hold the decision about your job offer. I'm a human being too. When I see someone else cry, I want to give them a hug. However, I can't. You are safe, completely safe. I'm not offended. You didn't do anything illegal."

Sob, sob, sob -- hearing hug unleashed a torrent of sobs in the girl. Her belly was so slender. Her belly button didn't protrude past the imaginary line between her hip bones. The belly shivered with her sobs. Despite her sobs, she still stood upright with her arms at her side to expose, really surrender, her body to me like on a platter.

Knock -- Roger knocked softly against the door outside, "I'm out here with a blanket. Let me know when I should come in." Being audible to the security operator and Roger, I got the Adrenaline shakes in my jaw more under control. With a friendly tone, I said, "In my life, I've experienced times, when I fell behind and further behind. In the end, I was in a deep hole, that I felt helpless to get out of." That hit a nerve. Her shoulders slumped forward. She bent a little. Her body left the rigid soldier position.

Clack -- my watch hit the desk, when I rolled my arm open to show her my palm. "Look I can't touch you legally. However, if you want to imagine, you can imagine my hand holding your hand. And this is completely up to you, because it's all in your head. Nobody ever knows if you didn't hold my hand in your imagination. There is no possible coercion." That moment the first tear had rolled to the bottom of her cheeks, dropped off, and landed on her boob -- a wet spot on that mammary. I was so turned on.

Sniff -- She sniffed to clear her nose of snot. "It feels good to be actually naked. I feel so naked all the time. People all the time look into me. You can see so deeply into me to what I know. It feels so horrible that everyone can see into you. Teachers know exactly what's in my head. All the exams lay me so open. And the clothes doesn't help. And now you can really see me. All the fake lie of being hidden, of having privacy inside my thoughts is gone."

Sigh -- I couldn't help but let out a deep breath of ease. She had cracked. She had opened up. "Yeah, I can see how everyone around you is more experienced. Everywhere you turn, every move you make, they have already done that. So, it's easy to see what you are up to. It kind of makes you like an open book." She nodded vehemently. Her tears had stopped. We were now in a talking mode.

Tap, tap -- I heard shoes shuffling outside. "I'll share something from me. When I was younger, I felt like people that talked to me firmly, angrily left an impression on my body. Even though, they had never touched me, I could still feel their fingers on the skin of my upper arms hours later, as if they had grabbed me harshly and shaken me. It will get better." She shifted her body stance to sit on the left hip. Being tired of standing was a good sign. She was coming out of it.

Swiff -- the fabric of my pants rubbed against each other. I had to adjust my pants inconspicuously by shifting my seat. The erection was full on raging. My head was challenged by the dichotomy of a crying girl. Yet she was naked. Both send conflicting signals. My pistol was only listening to the signals of her silky skin and all the instinctive triggers her curves triggered. Deepest of all, I was taken back to all the times that I had cried lonely in my apartment after a long and devastating day at work. She took me to that intimate place and connected with me there. It was that deeply emotional place beyond the reach of reason and proper behavior, where one was purely human.

"I" -- she stammered, "I can give you a hug without you getting into trouble." I was stunned for a moment. Then, she moved forward. The tiny room made it only two steps, two seconds, and her naked butt sat down on my lap. She leaned her bare chest against mine. She wrapped her arms around my neck. She pulled her legs up to her chest. She was sitting on my lap sideways. Her feet rested on one thigh. Her two butt cheeks dug into the other. I could feel how small her body was compared to mine. She hugged me with all her soul. Not only could I feel her body, I could feel her whole being hold onto me.

"Go" -- yelled the security operator on the phone, "she has moved away from the door." Roger stormed in, holding a big gray wool blanket in front of him. A chubby black social-worker-type woman followed him. It all took a split second. Jean had felt the nine inch erection with the thick diameter pressing against her butt cheek. She looked at my face exasperatedly. Her eyes were merely five inches from my face. I felt like falling into a blue glacier lake looking into her eyes. Nobody but us two realized that her shock was about my erection. Everyone else thought it was about them storming in.

Slam -- the social worker woman put a clear plastic bag on the desk. "Put her close in here and leave it at the front desk," she bellowed at me. She was led out of the room huddled in the big gray blanket. I never saw her face again. I only watched her bare soles walk over the short office carpet out the door. I was left behind alone with the plastic bag and her clothes scattered on the floor.

Squeak -- the chair squeaked a last time as I got up. I grabbed her jacket, folded it. Her baby blue shirt had dark sweat stains under the arm pit. Checking the door for a moment, I took in a sniff. It smelled delicious of youth, so clear and delicately feminine, like raspberries. The cleanup process came down to her black bra, the big circular shapes. Funny how they let a guy take care of this. They must have been in a hurry. I folded the circles together and added them to the clear plastic bag. I was deliberately slow to draw out the enjoyment without being caught.

Flumpf -- I straightened out the contents of the clear plastic bag. Her panties were the last thing. I couldn't help getting another dose of arousal handling them. I tried to make a serious face in case anybody came in. Complaints of having to handle her underwear were on my lips in case anybody came in. You always have to get up front of getting caught.

Eek -- was my first response touching the black. They were soaking wet. I smelled my fingers with her juices dripping on it. It was definitely the pussy scent. Strange, there is a depth to us that we don't explore by looking at the logical rational of a situation. I remembered photos of men with erections in front of firing squads in World War II. I remembered my psychology class that noted that in some people the brain EEG for anger and arousal was almost identical. That explains the connection between relationship fights and makeup sex. We humans are a lot more surprising then straight lines of funeral = grief and baby = joy.

Click -- I turned off the engine again. I had left her clothes at the reception desk. Yet, I couldn't drive of yet. I sat there in the car with my fingers in front of my nose. I gently inhaled her scent, exhaled, to take her back in. Her scent started fading. And that was the last of it. I never heard what had happened to her. The human resources director gave me a printout of a certificate for heroic behavior. There was no money attached. The paper ended in the trash after he left.