The summer after I turned 18, before I went to college, my parents decided that it would be better if I got a job, instead of spending the summer "loafing" (their version) and "hanging out" (my version). When I proved less than enthusiastic in my pursuit of this goal, my parents managed to find a job for me—in the business office of my father's law practice. And, while I thought I'd hate it (I never had any intention of going into law, or business), it turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life. That had nothing to do with the work; in fact, there wasn't much for me to do, except file and make copies. But I sure learned a lot from my fellow employees.
They were all really nice to me; not that they had much of an alternative—I'm quite sure that my father didn't ask them what they thought of the idea, and then put it to a vote among the staff; that just wasn't his style. Still, they accepted me with good grace. There were four of them in the business office: Jean, the receptionist; Arlene and Sally, the secretaries; and Deborah (not Debbie!), the office manager. They were of various ages (being young and utterly self-absorbed, I had no ability to distinguish the ages of anyone above 30), with Sally being the youngest (early 20s) and Jean the oldest (my inner child still sees her as 80, but in truth she couldn't have been more than 50 or so). They were a fast-talking, wisecracking bunch; jokes flew around the room constantly, and a lot of the humor was decidedly on the salty side. For a gangly 18-year-old, who had never been on a date, or spent any time in the company of women—apart from his mother and grandmothers—it was an education.
I immediately developed a crush on Sally. She was the closest to my own age and, although even then I knew that she wasn't really pretty, she had an ease, and a grace, and a sense of her own sexuality that, even though I could not have articulated it then, impressed me with the sense that she was a woman in the ways that the girls I knew were still only trying to be. She was married—as were all of the women, except for Deborah, who was divorced—and, even if she hadn't been, I'm sure I would never have seriously entertained the hope that she would ever do anything more than smile at me (which she did, readily enough). Still, in my fantasies, I imagined her begging me to fuck her, which I would then do, over and over and over again. The others came in for bit parts, too, on occasion: Arlene, who had the biggest breasts, and a pair of thick, black plastic framed glasses that made her perfect for the role of what I would only later—when I discovered video porn—realize was the naughty librarian (no matter how hard I fucked her, she never took the glasses off); Jean, I suppose, for a bit of variety, although I never had much interest in her; and Deborah, almost as rarely. Not because she wasn't sexy—she was: she had the best ass and legs of the group, and knew how to dress to show off everything to the best advantage—but because her air of authority made her seem off-limits, and a bit intimidating. She was the only one in my fantasies who, when I fucked her, stayed in control.
Although I would have vigorously denied it at the time, I was enjoying my working summer vacation. I was learning that women were not the mysterious, decorative creatures my limited contact with the species had led me to believe that they were. I learned that women could be capable and hard working; that they could be at least as willing as men to talk about sex, and even more willing to have a sense of humor about it; and that, even if they weren't above enjoying the occasional joke at my expense, they were not, as my school experiences had taught me, conspiring to take turns alternately humiliating and ignoring me.
One morning, about a month after I started, Deborah approached me and suggested that we go to lunch together, because she had something she wanted to discuss with me. This wasn't especially unusual; going out to lunch was routine at the office, and people usually went out in groups of two or three (it was necessary, of course, to leave at least one person to answer the phone). The prospect of a tête-à-tête with Deborah was simultaneously worrisome (I knew I hadn't seriously fucked up, but there was always the possibility that I was in for some criticism) and exciting (I was having lunch with an attractive woman, just like the man I knew I had it in me to be). At noon, we walked out together into the July sunshine, to her car (I rode to work with my Dad). Inside it was steaming, but, more than anything, I was struck by the smell: pure Deborah, a mixture of her perfume, with a faintly musky odor that I unconsciously recognized as sexy. She drove, confidently and efficiently, to a Mexican restaurant across town. Inside, it was dark and cool, and almost empty; we were led to a booth in the back, and left alone to look over the menus.
After we ordered, and the waitress had disappeared, Deborah got down to business. "You've got a crush on Sally," she said, "and that's natural, I suppose, and, ordinarily, harmless. But it's beginning to disrupt the atmosphere in the office, and that makes it my problem."
