This is a standalone story, but... if you'd like to see a sequel, I'm open to suggestions!
xoxo
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Even though I had landed the internship at Goldman Sachs, there was no way I was going to be able to afford rent in Manhattan. My usually high-performing self was at a loss. Carla, one of the rich East Coast girls I had befriended since declaring Econ as my major, listened pithily to my problem then declared that she had a solution.
"My uncle is Jack Solomon, you've heard of him right? He owns a ton of apartments in New York. He would definitely want to help out someone like you," she tells me during our lecture. Holding up her phone, she loudly snapped a selfie of the two of us.
"Carla, Lucy... please," our professor admonishes from the dais below.
"Sorry professor... Won't happen again," Carla calls back. How does she gets away with being such a chaotic person? Being a gorgeous and a tease probably helps.
"He wanted to see what you look like," she explains.
"Your uncle? Why?"
"I dunno. Probably so the doorman can recognize you."
Doorman? I've never lived anywhere with a doorman before. Is that something they do?
"What kind of Airbnbs are these anyway?"
"Hold on... he's getting back to me... Oh, he says you can actually stay at his penthouse, which is convenient because it's right next to the Goldman building. I think he's usually in and out so it's all yours for the summer," Carla says with fanfare.
Incredulous, I thank her profusely, not believing how quickly my dilemma, one which I'd been agonizing for weeks by myself, was waved away by money, by having the right connections. Connections. That was a lesson I was still learning since plunging into this world of finance, hedge funds, and investment banking.
"Miss Ling? We've been expecting you," the impossibly beautiful blonde woman at the palatial front desk mews. It's week later and I'm arriving at Carla's uncle's building on West Street in downtown Manhattan. Greeting me is a row of ladies who seem to match the lavish marble interior of the lobby where wealthy men and women stride forth. Each of the hostesses exude confidence and beauty tinged with something underneath that makes the bustling atmosphere even more dynamic (... a subtle submissiveness? And perhaps, the glow of youthful fertility?)
"... And right over there is the lounge... right below there is the whiskey bar... the gym is that way..." I'm barely keeping up, taking it all in. "Here are your set of keys to Mr. Solomon's suite. Would you like some assistance with your luggage?" She smiles expectantly.
"No need. I've got it," I give a lopsided smile and soon enough I'm being jettisoned upward through the brass walnut elevator and to my new home for the summer.
How could I ever repay Mr. Solomon's generosity? As nice as this all is, there's no doubt I'll be at the office mostly and never enjoy the abundance of amenities here. Still, I should do something nice, like bake some cookies or something.
I'm thinking about all the errands I need to run when slowly and quite unexpectedly, my mind drifts back to the gorgeous, servile, taut, impeccably groomed women behind the front desk. Is that the standard for feminine beauty here? That blonde hostess... after hours... I bet if one of these wealthy men asked her, she'd bend right over, unzip that tight skirt, be more than happy to... Lucy, what the hell are you doing.
This is the flustered state I'm in when I enter Jack Solomon's penthouse and am sufficiently taken aback by the decor. The floor plan is entirely open. A huge, modern space. Impossibly high ceilings. That's all par for the course. What's startling is the decor. In one corner, an expansive shelf displays katanas, Chinese calligraphy, scrolls of art and text... In another, there's some sort of indoor zen garden with authentic-seeming furniture, maybe imported from Japan? Against that is a catwalk of sorts, lined with mannequins adorned with all sort of intricate Asiatic garb. There are kimonos and other light silky robes and dresses. On the walls, gigantic portraits of what look like geishas framed in sensual poses... To say this man has an interest in Asian aesthetics would be... a huge understatement.
"Carla you idiot," I say under my breath. There's no way this would bode well for me. My kind, well-connected benefactor now, in my mind, morphs into a strange, menacing older man.
My room is decorated in the same Asian-obsessed style and as the weeks go by, me alone in this monument, I begin to see that while some things have a Disneyland-like garishness about them, other pieces, take the jades and ceramics for instance, have the air of a collector's hand.
I have no time really to ponder this. The internship kills me. An attractive, 20 year old petite Asian girl walking into that building of bullish male aggression is akin to throwing fresh, tender meat to the piranhas. Older men unabashedly undressed me with their eyes, tearing away the stockings covering my smooth, fit legs, searing into my bleached white blouse that concealed my perky tits, disrobing my satin black skirt that stretched cloyingly over my ass (surprisingly sizable for my slight frame).
I begin to dress and prim myself more like these New York women. I'd never been one to dress provocatively but I buy a tight black cocktail dress for an upcoming company party. I don't usually wear makeup but I go to the nearby salon where they completely make me over, teaching me how to accentuate my features.
"Lucy? My my, I barely recognize you." I'm at the sultry, dimly-lit underground whiskey bar that's attached to Mr. Solomon's building where a stout man approached me. I recognize him to be one of my manager's colleagues.
"Oh, Mr. Davidson, hello there," I put on a pleasant smile and brush some hair from my eyes. My hair is in a loose bun save for two silky black strands that frame my face.
"Why do you look so different?" He slurs. He's clearly had a lot of whiskey.
"Oh maybe it's the makeup..." I also had my cocktail dress on. I had come down from my room for a bitters and soda after an especially hellish day.
"Soda, at a whiskey bar? No no no that won't do. Let me get you something better."
"That's so kind but I'm actually not 21 yet," I say softly.
"Oh, is that so?" He eyes me filthily. I usually rely on my inexperience and naivety to deter men from coming on to me, but something about his demeanor makes me feel like he won't easily leave me alone.
He asks me about how work's been so I start describing this particularly exhausting week.
"Jefferson's an asswipe," he scoffs, "you know, Ms. Ling, if someone with your particular set of skills wanted to transition to my side of the office, I can certainly make that happen."
"Really Mr. Davidson?" It would be a significant set up for a student intern.
