Stepping into the cavernous lobby of Johnson and Wood, Lena knew she was in the right place even before she clocked the handsome sign. It was the peroxide-blonde receptionist perched atop a sleek black stool at the crescent reception desk. Opulent was the word that popped into her mind. If Lena had been a rich, middle-aged man, her cock would have twitched in her pants, she was sure.
The blonde looked up and delivered an expensive smile. "Good afternoon."
"Hello," Lena said in that awful apologetic whisper she slipped into when she was nervous. "I have an appointment with Mr. Owens."
"Lena," confirmed the blonde. "Have a seat."
Waiting to be called back she rehearsed in her head, but her perfect, prepared answers that less than 24 hours ago during her panel interview for the government internship came flowing out of her mouth without so much as a stutter now eluded her. The harder she dug, the less she recalled. Of course she would nail the interview for the job she didn't want. Fuck.
My greatest strength is my strong interpersonal--She was distracted by loud crinkling, the receptionist opening a bag. She watched her pop a candy into her mouth. Bimbo, she thought. Her whole look was calculated to look best on her knees looking up. "Optimize me for cum," she'd probably told the plastic surgeon. Too much botox, overkill on the lip fillers, and Lena was willing to bet that the swell beneath her thin cashmere sweater wasn't god-given either. If the receptionist thing didn't work out she could play Barbi's Mom in the inevitable live-action Barbi movie. Lena could picture her gifting Barbi botox for her 18th birthday to "seal in the freshness, dear" or helping Barbi navigate the labyrinth of womanhood with sage advice like, "Sweetie, if you don't give up the butt, Ken will move on to your friends--if he hasn't already."
The blonde looked up, catching Lena staring. Holding eye-contact she slowly uncrossed and recrossed her her legs, flashing Lena her shaved pussy. Even as it was happening Lena doubted herself. Maybe she's just wearing beige panties?
"Mint?" she said sweetly, holding up the package. Lena blushed and shook her head, embarrassed, as if her who just showed off her vagina in a professional context.
Lena spent the next forty minutes trying to run through her answers but mostly she just fretted about her increasingly damp underarms, willing the sweat back into her pores, cursing the liars that made her aluminum-free antiperspirant, praying she didn't soak through her grey blazer.
"Lena," the receptionist said finally, and when Lena looked up the blonde uncrossed her legs, smiling that perfect pearly white smile. Definitely a vagina. "He's ready for you," she said as she recrossed her legs.
The big man didn't get up when Lena entered his corner office. He didn't smile or bother making his face warm either.
"Hi I'm Lena," she said, extending her hand, hating herself for the too-high octave and the waver in her voice. Her hand disappeared in his, his warm dry mitt an unwelcome foil for her clammy little hand. He had the firm, practiced handshake you'd expect of a man in the corner office.
He motioned to the chair set in front of his desk. "Whiskey?" he said, already unscrewing the cap.
She tittered. "No, seriously?"
He poured himself a generous double and set down the bottle in front of the empty second tumbler glass. "Listen, Lindsay, we're both busy people, so I'm not going to waste your time asking about your five-year plan or a time when you demonstrated poise under pressure or whatever the fuck. No fake interview bullshit, you understand?"
"It's Lena--but yeah, sure, I get it."
"I'll learn your name when you start making me money." He took a gulp of his drink, leering over the top of his glass, taking in her tastefully made-up oval face, her naturally full lips, her swanlike neck, lingering on her oversized, god-given bust. She pretended she didn't notice, forcing a friendly smile as he ogled. "That you're sitting in front of me means you're qualified for this job--but are you a culture fit? That's what we need to decide. That's all this is--pass, fail.
"I'm sure you've heard stories about us. Most of them are bullshit, but it is true that we're... nontraditional. We work hard, and we play hard, often at the same time. And yes, JW is a demanding place to work because with the compensation we offer, we feel entitled to more than just forty hours; as long as you're collecting a paycheque, we own your whole life--body and soul." He paused and then in a lighter tone said, "It's certainly not for everyone. If you want a job that just a job, feel free to leave. You won't hurt our feelings. Shit, there's probably a dozen more qualified candidates who want this job more than you." As he spoke he poured a second glass, nearly filling it, and pushed it across the desk. "You understand?"
"Of course. Um... Yeah, I, uh, appreciate your candor." She hated herself for her clumsy mouth, feeling certain she saw ripples of disapproval under his neutral countenance. She saw herself through his eyes: sweating, stammering, awkwardly refusing his hospitality--not a culture fit. Probably the real test was her ability to handle powerful, domineering older men. And she was failing. Fuck, she couldn't afford to let him throw her.
In that moment she saw her future bifurcating. In one future she gets the government job, setting her up for a comfortable, unremarkable career as a civil servant. It was so concrete, so plausible. But in the other future, the one that was currently slipping through her fingers, she's a corporate baller, rich as fuck within a decade, maybe even a partner with an office of her own making interviewees sweat. It wasn't crazy; at the networking event she had a long, easy conversation with Candice, Johnson and Wood's newest female partner, and she was thirty at most. Now that was a future worth fighting for.
He didn't want fake interview bullshit? Fine. She would shed her shiny interview armor, slather on grease and return to the ring ready to kill with her bare fucking hands if that's what it took. Looking him in the eyes, she reached for her glass. Bringing it to her lips she had to beat back a grimace--those poisonous fumes right under nose. She tilted her glass, gulping it all down in one horrible swallow. Victorious, she slammed down her glass--but her body betrayed her: she grimaced and wrinkled her nose. Seeing him smirk, she said, "Yeah I'm not fucking Don Draper; normally I enjoy a mixed drink--or at least some ice."
"You don't drink whiskey with ice, at least not this quality."
"I suppose I'm nontraditional."
He smiled and raised his glass. Refilling her drink he said, "What's the least professional thing you did in a professional setting."
"Oh my god--honestly? OK, so I used to work at--I probably shouldn't say. A chain steakhouse. Everyone did cocaine all the time--and sometimes I would too. Oh my god, I shouldn't have said that." Her hand clapped to her mouth.
He waved away her concern. "Last year for Christmas the juniors got Candice a coffee mug that says, 'No coke-ee no no work-ee.'" He leaned back with drink-in-hand, giving her glass a meaningful look; she took another drink. Mollified, he continued. "A lot of fucking in kitchens. I paid my way through college bussing at Carters."
"I love that place!"
"You shouldn't--it's a shithole staffed with fuckups serving mediocre food. Fun place to work though. Everyone was on drugs and fucking each other. You know, that was the only job I've ever been fired from. The owner forgot something, paperwork or something, but when he came back what he found on his desk instead was the GM--who also happened to be his wife--with me and buddy Chet on either end of her."
Gross, she thought. She couldn't imagine degrading herself by letting two subordinates stick their dicks in her, especially not one named Chet. "That sucks. Bad luck, I guess."
"And every night before that we had good luck," he said, smiling wistfully. He took a drink, waiting until she followed suit again before continuing. "A steakhouse, eh. Were you a waitress?"
"Host."
"Tight black dress?"
"It's the law."
He chuckled. "It certainly oughta be. Shit, I think we should make it the dress-code here. It makes men feel rich--among other things. Gotta watch out for stains though. I remember one time at Carters this fat old bitch lost her shit at one of the waitresses Alexa--dumb but fun, you know the type--because, well I guess her and Tom and Jay and D'Angelo had just finished up a quick fuck in the supply closet, and when she pulled down her dress she inadvertently scooped up a huge wad of cum onto the back of her dress. And when she brought out the food to the fat bitch's table, she bent over in such a way that her cummy back was right in the old bat's face--close enough to smell the scent of "foul masculine bleach', apparently."
"Wow..." She knew he wanted more of a reaction from her. He'd trotted out another sex story on the heels of the whole boss-wife fuckscapade; it was clear he expected tit for tat. But with the alcohol already fraying the edges of her mind, all she could think of after hearing his story was Ben, her old scumbag boyfriend. Ben and his proclivities. He always wanted to cum on her face--fine--but without fail he also wanted to take a picture after. And not with his phone either. "Don't touch it, don't move!" he'd bark as he scampered away to dig out his DSLR, deflating boner flopping stupidly. Minutes she had to wait there on her knees, smelling his cum drying on her face. Fucking gross. She was on the fat old bitch's side--foul masculine bleach.
"Wow," he echoed in a soft falsetto, mocking her, yes, but also prodding: your turn, bitch.
"I'm just surprised the server didn't notice is all," she said, buying time while she struggled to think of a better anecdote than her thrice-a-week humiliation.
"It was end of the night; she was wasted."
