Steve's new job

Monday, October 2, 2006, 10:30
Steve's (new) office

It all seems like such a waste of time.

I know, I have to know where the bathrooms are, as well as the lunch room, supply closet, and emergency exit. But I have a highly complex job to learn, and customers who signed contracts and are waiting patiently (or impatiently) to go live are now my responsibility. Any work time spent on voice mail configuration and benefit enrollments should be kept to a minimum.

Phil and Tom are going to work for me, installing the software after the customers buy it. Installation sounds easy, doesn't it? If you or I go to Staples and buy Quickbooks, we can pop in a CD, install it, and be balancing our checkbook within an hour. Corporate software has gotten out of hand, though. Especially ours.

Customers like it, but from time to time they demand modifications. In the interest of making them happy, and keeping their business, we comply. Our program now has more options than a Big 12 football game.

Every message the user sees can be edited. Every screen can be customized. Imagine buying a car and having to pick three pages' worth of colors and styles. "Honey, what do you think about this one for the gear shifter?"

There are so many possible configurations that no one can test them all, and so, occasionally, bugs are found. Our three-man development team knows the urgency of those, so they bounce crazily back and forth between fixing what's already been installed, and programming new features for the next release.

I take a good look around the office. Every white board is filled with reminders; stacks of papers and books litter every desk; phones ring as if we were hosting the Jerry Lewis telethon.

The installation team and the programmers have not had a supervisor for months. That means they have probably been careening from project to project, working for whichever customer screamed the loudest that day.

First, the office needs to be flawlessly clean--or at least a hell of a lot cleaner than it is now. If there's anything I hate, it's being unable to address a problem because someone can't figure out which pile the paperwork is in.

Next, we will have to define procedures to help us decide what project gets done when, and by whom. Changing gears mid-project wastes time, and leads to confusion. Breaking bad work habits is not a fun thing; these guys may hate me when this is over.

And of course, the employees are going to have to learn to trust me as a manager. They don't know about my previous job, and don't care. They need to know that I'm not going to run them all into the ground with work, and/or fire them.

"Can't make the 1:00," Phil says, trotting past me in the hallway. No way he's blowing off our first department meeting.

"Phil, we need you to be--"

He disappears into his office and closes the door.

"He always does that," says Bernadette, our administrative assistant. "Get used to it."

"Tell him to see me when he comes out of there."

"You don't wanna go there..." she says.

"Let me worry about that."

**********

11:45am

"You wanted to see me, Steve? I'm very busy--"

"Phil, the meeting today," I say. Not a direct question; I just want to see how he handles himself. Will he address the problem head on?

"Too much going on, Steve. Too many installations. Everybody wants a 1/1 go-live--"

"Too busy doing work to talk about how we're going to do the work?"

He sighs. "I know you want to help..."

"There's a kid, Eric, who lives down the street from me," I begin. "He's in college. The lady next door asked him to rake the leaves on her mother's lawn. She offered him $100 for it, too."

"Okay..." he says, leering at me with dark, inquisitive eyes. He has no idea where I'm going with this.

"The kid really needed the $100, so he took the job. He got the address from his neighbor, ran over immediately and started working. He wanted to get it all done in one day, so he was really busting his butt.

"His phone kept ringing, but he didn't answer it. He didn't even look at who was calling. He was extremely busy working, see? So whomever it was was going to have to wait until he was done."

"Uh-oh," says Phil.

"Turns out it was his neighbor calling. She had given Eric the wrong address. The kid was raking the wrong lawn!"

"Oh no!"

"By then four or five hours had passed. Poor kid did all that work for nothing."

"Wow," he says.

"We haven't had any leadership in this group for a long time," I say. "There are going to be some growing pains while we get out of the ruts that we're all in. But we will get out of them, I promise you."

"Okay."

"As much as it's going to hurt all of us, we're going to have to stop working and talk sometimes. Yes, that will put us farther behind. But in the long run, we'll work smarter and faster."

"So I guess I'll see you at 1:00," he says with a frown.

I'm here one day, and I've already got a problem employee.

"Keep in touch"

Wednesday, September 6, 2006, 1:30pm
Steve's office

Dom agrees that the biggest hurdle between him and my job is his personal life. He has to reassure Dan that he's calmed down, but he can't be too obvious about it; otherwise it will look like he is merely saying what Dan wants to hear.

"When we talk to Dan, I'll handle it," Dom says.

At first, I thought Dan was agreeing to the phone interview as a courtesy, and that he had no intention of considering Dom for the job. But to my surprise, he pulled in three heavy hitters, including the CFO and the VP of HR, for the call.

On the call, I speak as little as possible, letting Dom take the lead, just as he would if he were in charge. Naturally, he answers every question effortlessly, having been with this company for years, and having worked closely with me on every major project I've been involved with. It's going as well as I could have expected.

"Dom," Dan says, "You do realize why Steve is leaving this job, don't you?"

"Yes."

"And you do realize that this is an extremely labor-intensive job, and will be for the foreseeable future?"

"Yes, I do."

"You might not have much of a... personal life. I need to hear how you feel about that."

This is it--the key question of the interview. If he answers this correctly, I think he'll get an offer. They'd be crazy not to offer it to Dom: There'd be no recruiter to pay for, no lengthy hiring process, no long "onboarding" period for him to get acclimated.

"Actually, I have a girlfriend now. We see each other a lot, but we don't go out much. I spend most nights at home lately."

Of course, he's full of shit. Dom doesn't have a girlfriend, at least not that he's told me about, and though he's usually on time for work, he does have the occasional 10:00am raccoon-eyed roll-in.

The line goes dead silent. This is a startling revelation for anyone familiar with Dom; it's like Diddy announcing plans to sell off his bling-bling and join the Hare Krishnas.

"A girlfriend?" Fran, the CFO, manages, finally.

"Yeah!"

"She's not an employee, is she?" Dan says, to uproarious laughter. Guess Lila wasn't as much of a secret as I thought she was.

"No, she's a physical therapist," Dom says. He had a lie ready. The man is one hell of a bullshitter.

The conversation runs long, which to me is a good sign: Why would they bother if they weren't serious about him?

Yes, I want this for Dom. Despite a rocky beginning, we work well together. He's the most qualified person I know for the position, and he's done his time with the company, even moved clear across the country for what was technically not a promotion.

"We'll try to make a decision by the end of the week," Dan says. Another good sign. If they were considering outside candidates, the process would take a lot longer than three days. I think he's got it.

"Physical therapist?" I say, after we hang up, and we laugh hysterically.

**********

Friday, September 8, 2006
Steve's office

Dan Johnson is here, which is yet another good sign. He wouldn't come all this way to turn Dom down.

"Steve, I have some bad news for you," Dan says. Dom and I exchange white-faced looks.

"W-what's that?"

"You just lost your parking spot. Dom, congratulations. You're the new district manager!"

Friday, September 29, 2006
Steve's office

My desk is empty; my phone is silent. All I hear is the steady whisper of air from the heat vent in the ceiling. The vent is directly over my head; I always meant to have it moved, but never got around to it. There are a lot of things like that.

With all the silence, I have time to think, about how it used to be, back when I liked, no loved, my job, when I sometimes spent 12 or 14 hours at my desk, getting up only to use the bathroom, when I worked weekends straight through and woke up from a dead sleep to add to my to-do list. I didn't resent the work then; I thrived on it. It reminded me that I had a purpose. That purpose is Dom's now.

Did I make a mistake? Did I commit "career suicide", as Dan called it? Was I wasting my talent?

Now that the pressure is off, I wonder if I could have made it, if I could have somehow dealt with the stress until things calmed down again. But in the end, I take a deep breath, and all I feel is relief.

"It was nice working with you," my coworkers say, awkwardly running their fingers over my doorhandle. It was "We'll miss you, Steve," and "Thanks for helping me," and "be sure to keep in touch."

But I won't keep in touch, and neither will they. They will get preoccupied with other things, and grow closer with the new boss, and my time here will fade to a distant memory. Dom will do my job, and if he leaves, someone else will take over, and the world won't come to an end. Employees will come, and they will go, like a subway train that never has the exact same group of people on it twice. I made friends here, but most were friendships of convenience; once physically separated, we'll forget each other. That's not a bad thing; just the way it is.

But I'll miss my job.

This is the company where I grew into a true professional, where I learned what a 10-K and an IPO was. I learned budgets, forecasting, and G/L accounting. From now on, I'll be able to say, "Having worked for a Fortune 500 company, I..."

"Steve?" Bonnie says. "I just want you to know it's been a pleasure working with you. You always took care of me. I appreciate that. I want to--" she pauses, looking down at the floor. "I wish you the best of luck." She hands me a small, gift-wrapped box--two tins of rasperry Altoids and a box of Chai tea, my favorites. Funny how silly things like that make me want to cry.

"Are you taking off early?" Lila says, standing in my doorway. It's around 3:30.

"Hey!" I exclaim, leaping from my chair to hug her. "I was wondering if you were going to stop by."

"We're gonna keep in touch, right?" she says, casting her huge eyes up at me. How can I say no to that?

"Definitely. Let's really stay in touch," I say. "Everyone says it, but let's really do it."

"You better," she says. "Call me this weekend, maybe we'll go on a double date."

"Okay."

"I'm really happy here. Thanks for getting me my job back, Steve."

I want to say something profound, something that you would read in a book or see in a movie. I want to dazzle her, or amaze her, or make her cry. But I can't think of anything.

"You totally earned it. You're a great employee, and you have a great future here."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"Are you gonna be okay at your new job? I mean, will you like it?"

"Yeah, definitely!"

4:45pm

"Dom, I won't see you Monday," I say. I'm standing in his doorway, watching as he shuffles three pages of reports and clutches the phone between his shoulder and ear, and it occurs to me that this is exactly how I always looked to him.

"I, wait, Bruce, can you hold on just a second?" he says into the phone, smiling up at me.

"It's okay, Dom, you don't have to," I laugh.

"You sure? I wanted to walk out with you."

"I know the way."

"Well, listen, I--"

"It was a lot of fun," I say. "Just... keep in touch. Okay?"

"I will."

No, he probably won't. And neither will I.

Lemons and lemonade

"I think you should call a lawyer. You should fucking sue him!"

"Tim--"

"You should call the newspaper! You should call channel five news!"

"Good idea, Tim. Let's broadcast to the world that I fucked a high-school student who was half my age. Oh yeah, and she worked for me, too!"

"You were dating!"

"I'm gonna look like a total pervert, Tim. I won't win that one."

"So you're gonna do nothing? He's blackmailing you! He's wrong! You have to fight him!"

"Tim, right or wrong doesn't matter in this case. As soon as it gets out that I was in a relationship with a girl under 18, I'll be radioactive. "

"But it was legal," she reasons.

"People are still going to think I am a perv. Whatever reputation I have left will be gone at that point."

"What did Lila say?"

"Didn't tell her."

"What?"

"You heard me."

I'm not telling Lila unless I absolutely have to. If she knew, she'd probably get pissed off and quit, and that would be a mistake. Management really likes her, and the only reason she would get fired would be for revenge--against me.

I'm glad I didn't let myself get more pissed off at Dan--the quieter I am, the more he will wonder what I know that he doesn't. But what am I going to do?

I actually go so far as to search online for an attorney before I stop myself. Do I really want to go this route? Do I really want to stand up in front of a judge and make a claim against Dan Johnson, a millionaire CEO with a spotless reputation, a claim that he is almost certainly going to deny?

Besides, even if Dan admits it, Lila won't suddenly become innocent. She still broke the rules, and she is still subject to termination. Perhaps the lawyers could arrange some kind of compromise, given Dan's ham-fisted attempt at extortion, but that would be a best-case scenario. The worst-case scenario is that Lila still gets fired, no one believes my side of the story, and my face is plastered on nursery school bulletin boards across the state.

I'm being hasty. Calling an attorney is giving up, and it's too early for that. I've known Dan for years; we've worked through complex problems together. He respects me professionally. Maybe if I prepare a solution and present it to him, he'll accept. I'll write up a business case, like I would for any other issue.

Thursday, August 31, 2006
Corporate headquarters
Dan's office

"What good news have you got for me, Steve?"

"What if you could fill my position with someone equally talented, and without having to hire an attorney to do it?"

"Attorney?"

"You knew about my relationship with Lila two years ago, and did nothing. Sounds to me like that's a pretty egregious violation of company policy."

He looks at me.

"Of course, you could say you knew nothing about it. But you'd probably have to lie under oath, and Ross would too. There would be all sorts of uncomfortable questions from lawyers and newspeople--"

"I understand, Steve."

"Your story might not pass the smell test. I give my resignation, and then you conveniently find out about my affair from two years ago? Let's face it, CEO's are not exactly the most trustworthy people in the world right now."

"No one wants a battle, Steve. None of us have the time or the energy."

"So let's find a solution."

"Fine. You know, Steve, something you said really bothered me. You said you had lost respect for me, and that you didn't think I cared about that. But I do care very much."

"With due respect, Dan, you're a Fortune 500 CEO. Your job is not to care about people. Your job is to hit revenue targets. "

"True, but that doesn't mean I don't get attached to people along the way. It doesn't mean I don't admire you and the way you make it your business to succeed."

"If you admire me, and respect me, I need you to trust my judgment and let me go, Dan."

Silence.

"I will never understand your decision as long as I live, but you know my objections, so I won't repeat them."

"Fair enough."

"What is your solution, Steve?"

"Promote Dom."

"No."

Dan has a problem with Dom. He had a chance to promote him two years ago, and he chose me instead, even though Dom had more experience. After I gave my notice, Dan had yet another chance to promote Dom, and he did not.

Dom is a natural leader, hard-working and thorough, and is more than capable of doing my job. Dan must have something personal against him; if I had to guess, i'd say it was Dom's ongoing quest to shove his dick into every warm vagina in the time zone.

"He can do the job."

"If I wanted Dom to do the job, I would have hired him."

"Why don't you want him?"

"I think he lacks dedication."

"Ridiculous. He can do the job. I've got no reason to lie. Will you at least interview him?"

"Of course."

"I will get you two more candidates as well, so you'll have three to interview," I say.

"And if I don't like any of the three?"

"I'll stay on as a consultant to help you find a replacement, even after I start my new job."

Doing two jobs might seem tough, but it would be temporary, and the workload will seem like a picnic compared to this.

"I suppose we'll have to pay for your consulting services?"

"I work cheap; I don't work free," I answer.

He sits quietly. "So what do you think?" I ask.

"You've made up your mind; what else is there to say?" he shrugs.

"So, Dan, about our phone call the other day--"

"Forget it, Steve."

I wish I could.

About that happy ending...

Tuesday, August 22, 2006, 5:45pm
Steve and Tim's house

"That's incredible," Tim shrieks. "You did it! You did it!"

"I can't believe it," I say.

"So, when do you start?"

"I told him I might need a month. He was okay with that. I haven't formally accepted yet."

"Why?"

"I had to talk to you first."

"Thank you, honey. Now take it!"

"Don't you have any questions?"

"Are you going to be travelling a lot? I don't want you getting stressed out."

"I might have to go to Thailand once every spring or summer. They'll pay for you to come with me, but only once a year."

"So if you go more than once a year and I want to come, we'd have to pay?"

"Yep. But I want you to."

Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Steve's office

This phone call is going to be fun. I've never spiked a football, but I bet it feels a lot like this.

"Steve, what have you learned today?"

"Actually, this phone call is about teaching you something, Dan."

"Hm?"

"I've decided to resign. I'd like my last day to be Friday, September 15."

Silence.

"Steve, I thought we had gotten past this."

"And now you see that we haven't. Right? This is the right move for me, for my health and sanity."

"Steve, it's career suicide. Career suicide, Steve!"

Big shots like Dan love to repeat themselves. They think they are so brilliant that, if they say something and it does not have the intended effect, they simply say it again, as if the only possible problem is that we didn't hear.

I knew he was going to regurgitate the "career suicide" bit, and I have an answer ready--actually, it's more like a story. And telling a story is exactly what Dan Johnson would do in my situation.

Shit! Am I turning into this guy?

"Did I ever tell you about Craig, my next-door neighbor?" I ask.

"I beg your pardon?"

"He lives next door to me. He's an avid jogger. Every morning, he jogs up a hill on a street adjacent to ours. There's heavy tree cover on either side of the road, no sidewalk. It's a narrow road, poor visibility, very unsafe. No way he should be jogging there."

"What's the point, Steve?"

"I asked him why he jogs there. He says it's the steepest incline in the area. He loves the workout he gets jogging up that hill, and he hates treadmills. His resting heart rate is in the 40's. He brags about it! And you know what I told him?"

"What?"

"I said, in the morgue, everyone has a heart rate of zero."

He chuckles.

"It doesn't matter how great the workout is; the cost is too high. He's risking his life jogging up that road. One day, he's going to get hit by a truck and die."

"Cost-benefit," he says softly.

"Yes. The cost outweighs the benefit. It doesn't matter what this job has to offer me. There are too many consequences for staying here."

Could I be convincing him this easily?

He breathes deeply. That means a speech is coming. Shit.

"That's a wonderful story, Steve. Your point is well thought out. But this is not a matter of life or death. You're not playing in traffic; you're leaving a lucrative job with a promising future at a Fortune 500 company. The sky is the limit for you, Steve."

"Dan--"

"Steve, other men do your job. Lesser men. Men who are less talented, who have less energy."

Ah, I see. So I'm a lazy slug!

"What are you saying, exactly, Dan?"

"I'm saying try harder."

"I'm done, Dan."

"Try. Harder."

"September 15, Dan. That's the date. I would advise you to have a replacement ready."

"Steve--"

Click.

Friday, August 25, 2006, 6:55PM
Steve and Tim's house

Dan calling, my phone says.

It's not unusual for Dan to call me after hours, but I have a bad feeling nonetheless. We haven't spoken since I hung up on him Wednesday, and I have been expecting a lecture.

"Good evening, Steven."

This is not the after-hours Dan Johnson, who makes bad jokes and asks what I've learned today. This is Dan Johnson, businessman, who makes million-dollar decisions while sitting on the toilet.

"Hello, Dan." I don't ask how he is doing, or what I can do for him. I ask nothing, so he has no segue into what he wants to talk about. I have no intention of making this easy.

"Steve, I need to talk to you." It's the voice he uses in the boardroom, and with customers. Whatever he has to say, it's not good.

"I have a few minutes," I say.

"Steve, I hate to say this to you, because you know how I feel about you. But, sometimes past mistakes can come back to haunt you when you least expect it."

As opposed to those future mistakes that come back to haunt me?

"What mistakes?"

He takes a breath. "Steve, I trust you are well aware of our fraternization policy."

Yes, I violated the policy, with Lila. I probably violated the policy 150 times. And I confessed as much to Dan himself, two years ago, back when I was a rubber-kneed, babytalking, lovesick doofus, and could not have cared less if I was fired or not, as long as I could lay down next to Lila at night and be blissfully intoxicated by her green apple-scented shampoo. After I confessed, the whole thing went away. There were no consequences. I knew it was too easy.

But why is he bringing this up now? Does he want to fire me? Why bother? I'm quitting!

Maybe he wants to destroy my career by letting this information slip out. But, as I've already admitted, my career might be over already, and I'm not sure that spreading this kind of story about me would be worth the risk.

Maybe it's a bargaining chip, I think.

"What are you getting at, Dan?" I bark, discarding any sense of decorum I was pretending to have.

"Dating a subordinate is a serious offense. It exposes the entire company, Steve, all of us. Our livelihood, our--"

"I get the point," I say. I'm in no mood for an academy-award winning speech.

"The point is," he says, "that dating a subordinate is expressly forbidden by company policy. And if we were to ever find out that it happened, it would be grounds for immediate termination. For both parties."

That son of a bitch. If I insist on quitting, he's going to conveniently find out about my relationship with Lila from two years ago, and fire us both. I am leaving anyway, but Lila has no plans to quit. She's been doing a great job for us, and has a bright future. Dan knows I won't want her termination on my head.

"So this is what you're being reduced to, Dan? Blackmail? You're going to blackmail me into working for you?"

"She's a good employee, Steve. It would be a damn shame if we had to fire her. And it would be a shame to lose you, too. The company won't be the same without you. Your employees need you, and the company needs you. Just promise me you'll think about it."

"Yeah, I'll think about it. And maybe I'll stay, and maybe I won't. But either way, I've lost all respect for you as a human being. As far as I am concerned, you don't exist to me anymore. I'm sure you don't care about that, but I need you to know it anyway. I used to look up to you, and now..."

"You're angry now, Steve. Take some time to cool off. Go for a long drive and think it over. Someday you will thank me."

"I doubt it."

"Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty, I'm free at last!"

Being the resourceful fellow that I am, as soon as I made the decision to leave my company, I told everyone I knew that I was looking, and asked if there was anyone they knew of who I could speak to. Their responses fell into three major categories:

1. "You're the big hotshot: Why are you asking me?"
2. "I don't know of any job openings in that area."
3. "Why don't you look in the newspaper / go to monster.com / call a recruiter?"

Notice that none of these answer my question, which was simply if I could have a few contact names. Frustrating? You bet. But, rather than alienate them by reminding them how stupid they are, I merely repeated the question, slower, until I got an answer--which was usually, "Nope, don't know anyone."

Conventional wisdom says that you don't look for jobs in the newspaper, or online, because everyone is looking there. You must network, the experts say, and find jobs that are not listed on websites, so as to reduce your competition. Sure, it makes some sense, but nonetheless, I posted my resume on Monster, and Careerbuilder, and received daily email updates on new jobs. Then I spent every free moment calling contacts, reading job descriptions, and waiting.

Monday, August 14, 2006

I see an interesting job on Monster, and before applying, I tweak my online resume to highlight my relevant experience. In so doing, I changed a few keywords. Over the next three days, something amazing happened.

Recruiters called me. A lot of recruiters. The keywords I had added apparently were exactly what some of them were searching for, and by the end of the week, I had four interviews lined up. It was like guessing a password that opened a vault.

I had to explain repeatedly why I was leaving such a high-level position, and why I was willing to go elsewhere for less money, if necessary. I explained that my personal life was important, that the amount of work was oppressive and that it didn't figure to improve anytime soon. I got my share of skeptical looks after this explanation, as if I had actually gotten caught screwing the boss's wife.

I was phone-screened and interviewed. I found myself telling the same few "work stories" repeatedly, when asked about my abilities as a manager. I like talking to people, and I sure didn't mind the ego boost of reliving what I have accomplished.

If I was reading their faces right, most of the interviewers were very impressed with me, but one by one, they turned me down. "We went with another candidate." "Your experience doesn't quite fit our company." "This job would not be challenging enough for you." "It doesn't pay enough."

That last one really bothered me. I was truly willing to take a pay cut, if it meant I would have my life back. But you can't just walk up to an employer and say, "I'm desperate. Give me whatever you want!"

"I'm getting a job anyway," Tim said. "If the offer seems reasonable, take it. We'll get by." She's more or less dumped her catering business and is trying to find a job as a chef at a restaurant. Funny thing about that: No one will hire a woman chef. Sure, these same guys who won't hire a woman probably go home and eat their wives' cooking every night, but they somehow still think women are incompetent to cook for a living. But that's another story.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Looking for a job can be full-time work in itself. Along with the job I already have, I won't be able to keep up this pace forever. When I'm too exhausted to keep looking, then what?

Today I have a meeting with a disgruntled client. They are so frustrated that they asked for Dan Johnson himself to come out and meet with them, but Dan called and convinced them that I could respond to all of their concerns, and that he would follow up with me personally afterwards. Dan has a gift: He can blow you off and somehow still make you feel special.

Dom takes a seat at the boardroom table across from me, and two of our colleagues sit at opposite corners, fidgeting noticeably.

Dom and I have been through this too many times before to be nervous. I find that, if I know someone is going to let loose on me, it's never that bad, because I'm ready for it. It's when I get ambushed that it goes poorly.

You might as well never be nervous for something like this. The worst that could happen is that you don't know an answer. So just be ready for that! Figure out what you're going to say if you honestly don't know something--but try and avoid answers like "I have no earthly idea." People are very understanding, as long as you don't look like a moron.

I like to question people to death when they are badgering me. Keep clarifying, and restating, and taking notes until they lose motivation. They can't stay at maximum pissing rate for long.

Bert, our client's CEO, strides briskly into the boardroom, slamming a heavy pile of books on the table. Several people jump in their seats, startled.

"Steve, right?" He says, looking at me.

"Yes sir," I say, rising and offering my hand.

"That's okay," he says, waving me off. "Just so you all know, I don't sit for meetings. I don't sit for anything. There's no chair in my office," he pauses, scanning the room to see if we believe him.

"You don't have a chair--" Dom begins.

"I injured my back skiing 20 years ago. It hurt to sit down, so I worked standing up. I've been doing it ever since. I use a cordless headset for my phone, and my computer is on a podium. A business magazine came in here and did a story on me," he adds proudly.

"My girlfriend would appreciate that," I say. "She owns a catering business, and she never gets to sit--"

"She doesn't get to sit," Bert says, straightening his cuffs. "Interesting. Not to cut you off, but my time is very valuable, and we need to cover a few things today. With me, you get it straight, and I want you to know that our account is in jeopardy. Are you willing to work to retain our business?"

"Yes," Dom and I say.

"Three hundred fifty-six thousand, two hundred twelve dollars and thirty-eight cents," Bert says, writing the number on a dry-erase board behind him, in six-inch-high digits. "That's what we spent on premiums with you last year. Did you do three hundred fifty-six thousand, two hundred twelve dollars and thirty-eight cents worth of work?" he asks, and all eyes turn to me. So much for spreading my team out.

"I have your policies in front of me," I say, slowly, opening my folder. It's strictly for effect; I've memorized the numbers. "Do me a favor; write a number underneath that one."

He uncaps the marker and looks at me.

"Twenty-eight million," I say.

He writes the number.

"Now write thirty-five thousand." He does.

"We insure this building, your company's vehicles, we insure you against employee dishonesty and theft, we even insure you as an executive, Bert, in case you go skiing again."

The group explodes in laughter, but I get the impression that it's as much about me diffusing the tension as it is about being funny.

"I'm using rough figures, but you see the point. As an insurance company, it's our job to protect you against unfortunate contingencies. Your company is a good risk, so we cover you. For that three hundred fifty thousand, we assume twenty-eight million dollars in risk. Twenty-eight million," I repeat, and it's scary how much I sound like Dan Johnson.

"The thirty-five thousand figure represents the portion of your payments that are used to cover our expenses. It's about ten percent; very low for this industry, but you're a long-standing customer and we don't believe in huge fee increases. It's my job to use that thirty-five thousand to pay my employees, to cover time and materials, underwriting, and any other overhead. Did we do thirty-five thousand dollars' worth of work last year? I guarantee it. I wouldn't be surprised if it was fifty thousand worth of work--but that's my problem, not yours."

The room falls silent. Whatever vitriol he had whipped up among his team is gone. Now, we can have a civil discussion.

The rest of the meeting was uneventful. We ran down the client's list of issues and assigned most of them to our customer service manager. We scheduled a thirty-day follow-up call, at which point all issues should be resolved.

After the meeting, I gather my papers and walk toward the door. "I need to speak to you privately," Bert says, placing a hand on my elbow.

"Is your resume on Monster?" he asks, as we retreat to a side hallway. "I believe I saw it there."

"Yes."

"Are you looking?"

I'd better be careful here. Dan knows I am looking, but if it gets back to him that I admitted that to a customer...

"I would be willing to consider a move if the right opportunity came along," I say, diplomatically.

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna call your boss," he laughs.

He withdraws his BlackBerry. "Are you free next Tuesday at three?"


Tuesday, August 22, 2006, 3:00PM
Bert's office

"I need you to coordinate our implementations," Bert says, squeezing the sides of his lectern and rocking it idly from side to side. "You'll supervise a small development team in Asia, as well as a couple of implementation consultants here."

The company is not exactly in the insurance business, but they make software that many insurance companies use. The job calls for thorough industry knowledge, as well as technical savvy and management ability. It's an unusual skill set, and Bert has been trying to fill the position for months.

"I probably can't pay you what you're getting now," he says, and waits for my reply.

We talk salary. We're not as far apart as he thinks we are. Evidently, my company wasn't paying me shit.

He makes me an offer on the spot. It's $4,000 less than I make today.

"Increase it by $5,000, and I'll say yes right now," I say. Wouldn't it be something if I ended up getting an increase in salary out of this?

"Twenty-five hundred is the best I can do."

"Deal." We shake hands.

And that, my friends, is how I got out of a shitty job for the low low price of $1,500 a year.

I guess Chuck E. Cheese is out of the question at this point?

Sunday, August 6, 2006, 7:14am
Steve and Tim's house

It's an amazing dream.

Tim's long hair falls on my thighs like autumn leaves. She takes my cock between her lips with aching slowness, careful to shield her teeth, so that all I can feel is the soft insides of her mouth. She caresses me expertly with her tongue, and presses her fingers gently against my balls. The orgasm rises in me; my abdominal muscles tense and shudder. My God, is a dream going to make me cum?

"...like that baby?" she whispers, as she pulls my cock from its cozy warm spot and the full weight of her body lands on me.

My eyes open. This is how I wake up most days, with Tim on top of me, or, if I am lucky, with my boxers off and my dick already awake, showered, dressed, and halfway down the road to hard-onville.

Our bodies bump together and I feel her nakedness; I like that I don't have to wait for her to get undressed. Not 10 seconds later I am inside her, my hands clutching her naked ass, pulling myself more deeply inside her.

"Happy birthday, honey," she smiles when we are done, tying her bathrobe closed, and instantly I know that I will remember this for a long time: Not the sex, but her smile and the soft sincerity of her voice. God help me, this is actually beginning to resemble a healthy relationship.

I never realized how important weekends were for me, mental health-wise. When work was only "crazy", as opposed to "an endless parade of ballistic mayhem", I could kick back on Saturdays and Sundays, sleep until 9:00 without feeling guilty, and return to work on Monday ready to conquer whatever obstacles hindered my productivity. Now, I don't need an alarm clock anymore; I can't stay in bed past six, no matter what my calendar says.

"Why did you give your notice to Dan if you didn't have another job lined up?" Tim asks as I sit down at the kitchen table.

She's been talking to her mother. I heard the phone ring while I was in the shower, and it must have been her calling. That question had Diana written all over it, with its thinly disguised insinuation. It sounded like something Diana would say; I could close my eyes and see her saying it.

Tim and I have had this argument before. Her mother snaps into action any time she perceives a loss of control over Tim's life, planting poisonous seeds in her brain, as a reminder that Diana, not I, ruled Tim's every thought and deed long before I entered the picture.

I am never comfortable about having my competency questioned, least of all in my own house, by my girlfriend. She wouldn't lecture Tom Brady about football, nor Donald Trump about real estate; why doubt me, when I have achieved so much, so quickly? It's disrespectful of everything I have accomplished.

Normally I would rein in my temper, try to understand Tim's side of things, and calmly explain my point of view. But I have too much work on my mind to allow for anything but a 30-second conversation. And Tim should know better anyway.

"Do you do everything for your mother, Tim? Do you clean her toilets, and wipe the oatmeal off her chin?"

"What?" she sneers.

"Your mother called you, and put that little nugget in your head, and you came right back and threw it in my face."

"No she didn't."

"Who was on the phone just now?"

Nothing.

"Thought so. Do you trust me at all, Tim? Do you think I'm a complete idiot?"

"All I was saying--"

"You know how stressed out I've been. I can't sleep, my heart races all day long, I feel like I'm gonna drop dead any minute. I can't do this anymore, so I gave my notice. You know that!" I spit. The yelling only serves to coalesce my concerns, to encapsulate my anger into a single fiery pill that burns my innards like a Habanero pepper.

"I know!"

"So why the fuck are you asking me that question? Are you a fucking idiot, or do you just lack the guts to stand up to your asshole mother?"

"Don't you ever talk about my mother that way!"

"That's right, defend her, Tim, because you can't stand up to her."

"She just--I just, was asking you a question! If you didn't want to answer you didn't have to!"

"You shouldn't be asking. By asking you're doubting me. You're making me sound like an idiot who doesn't know enough to find a job before he quits!"

"I'm not doubting you!"

"No, your mother is, and you're just following orders."

"Stop saying that!"

"Stop doing it."

"Fuck you, Steve," she shreiks, flinging a spoon at me. She misses my head by inches, and the spoon clangs noisily against the far wall.

The noise startles us into silence for a moment. We stare at each other.

"Can we please talk about this calmly?" she asks.

"No, we can't talk about it at all. I don't need your mother's advice, and even if I did, I didn't ask for it. It's rude to interfere."

"It was just a question," she insists, lowering her voice as if to reduce the impact of her words.

"Bullshit, Tim. What if I walked up to my brother and asked him, 'Are you still a child molester?' Would he get angry? I would assume so. You can imply a lot with questions."

"I have a right to know the answer. And I have a right not to be screamed at for asking," she says, her eyes locked solidly on me. "You hate my mother so much that you can't even talk to me anymore."

"You have a right to know," I say. "You do. She doesn't, and this question came straight out of her mouth."

"Why do you hate her so much?" she asks, her voice rising.

"Because she interferes with our lives, and she doubts me, and she makes you doubt me."

"Well, I don't know if I can be with someone who thinks my mother is so horrible."

"I guess that elminates 90% of the world's population, then."

"I'm serious."

"Fine, get out then."

She looks at me.

"Oh, and thanks for treating me so nicely on my birthday."

A line in the sand

Sarbanes-Oxley has given my company dozens of new responsibilities: complicated, labor-intensive recordkeeping and ass-covering, all of which requires the creation of lengthy procedures and endless documentation. The company doesn't dare put the money that they need to into these projects, because it's money that goes down a rabbit hole; they are, after all, initiatives that won't make the company rich.

Instead of creating a national corporate compliance department and staffing it, as they should, the company split the work into quarters and dumped it on me and my three counterparts across the country. They know we are already overworked, and the additional projects make it hugely difficult to run our offices, but remember, CEO's and CFO's are making these decisions. They have revenue targets to hit, and they have Wall Street boots to lick. They would love nothing better than to stand in front of a room full of reporters and crow that their "SOX" compliance costs 25% less than comparable companies'. Sure, for the people actually doing the work, life is hell, but those are just details, and true leaders don't sweat details. True leaders are on a first-name basis with every maitre-d' in town, and work short weeks so they can drive to the Hamptons on Friday morning to beat the traffic.

My job is to run an office of 100 employees, with an annual budget in the neighborhood of $100 million. I worked 50-60 hours a week before; now, I have forgotten what it's like to come home when the sun is out, and weekends are no longer for sleeping in, but for catching up. As soon as I heard we weren't staffing up to meet the new demands, I called Dan Johnson.

"You're beginning to sound ungrateful," he said, without a trace of humor.

"You hired me to run an office. Now you're asking me to oversee government compliance."

"Compliance is part of your job."

"It's most of my job, now."

"Do you know how many people would kill to sit at your desk, Steve?"

That's right, Dan, change the subject, because you know I'm right.

I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere with him. This was the job, and it wasn't changing.
But my strength has always been in managing people, in building strong relationships and finding effective solutions to business problems. Compliance, to me, is tedious and boring. Still, I did not have another job lined up, and the pay was good where I was.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006, 10:06am
Steve's office

I have reached the point of no return.

Emails continue to flood my inbox, employees with problems continue to flood my office, and new compliance projects continue to monopolize my time. I simply cannot do this anymore, without letting it take over my life.

I decide to make the call that I have been putting off for months, a call which will do serious damage to my career. I have stalled as long as I could, hoping that things would miraculously rebound. They have not.

"What have you learned today, Steve?" Dan says.

"That I'm no longer the right man for this job," I reply.

"Bad day, hm?"

"Bad year, Dan. If this were a six-month situation, fine. But my entire job description has changed. It's not the job I was promoted to."

"Steve, I don't have to tell you--"

"That other men would kill to have this job? Be my guest. Go and promote one of them."

He pauses. I'm sure most people don't have the balls to answer him that way, and he must be surprised.

"Steve, you are better than this. Are you just going to give up? Tell me what the problem is, and tell me what you need to solve it."

"The problem is Sarbanes-Oxley, and I need you to hire a national compliance department to get that work off my desk."

"Not going to happen," he replies sharply.

"Then you'll have to find someone else to do my job."

"You better think about this, Steve. This is career suicide for you. If you walk away now, if you just cave in and quit, it's going to affect you for the rest of your life. You'll never work in this business again, that's for sure."

He's right. A high-level executive my age who quits and does not take a similar or better position with another company will be judged unable to handle the pressures of a corporate insurance job. Word travels fast in the industry around here, too.

And you know what? I don't care. Maybe this is the level of commitment that is required to be an executive now; if so, I don't want to be an executive. I'm smart, and I work hard. I'll find another job, even if it means a cut in pay.

"Thanks for the heads-up, Dan."

"Are you giving your notice?"

"I'll give you until the end of September, if you want."

"Think it over, Steve. Get back to me on Monday."

"I've already thought it over. I wouldn't have called you if --"

"Monday, Steve."

Without a trace

Wednesday, July 5, 2006, 2:57 (continued)
Steve's office

I dial Bonnie's cell. Voice mail.

"Heidi, have you seen Bonnie?"

She looks suspiciously from side to side, like a spy giving out classified information.

"She ran out of here crying," she whispers. "I asked her what was wrong and she didn't answer. What do you think is going on?"

"That's what I want to know."

"She was due for a raise. I wonder if she didn't get it."

That's nonsense. I am Bonnie's supervisor, and her review isn't for another month. I open my mouth to tell Heidi when I think the better of it. This isn't Heidi's business, but she is damn good at prying information out of people.

"Trust me, it's not about a raise, Heidi."

"So she got one?"

"Heidi."

"Okay, okay, I'll let you know if she calls in," she smiles.

I sit in Bonnie's chair and flip through her caller ID numbers. The last one is from a "Pine Brook Veterinary".

Bonnie's husband Mitch died four or five years ago, and her son lives out of state. The only company she has is her cat, Ralphie. She grew more attached to him after Mitch died; I remember one afternoon last December, when she burst grinningly into my office, showing me all the cat toys she had bought to put under the tree for him. That cat was her only link to Mitch; I hope nothing happened.

I dial the vet's number. "Oh. Ohhh, yeah, that was me who called her," says the woman on the other end. "Is she okay?"

"What happened to Ralphie?"

"Sometimes we sedate cats when we clean their teeth. Something went wrong and... he didn't wake up."

"He didn't wake up?"

"It happens."

A red light flashes on Bonnie's phone console. "Steve", the button label says. This is where most of my calls stop before being put through to me. Every time I lean to the left and look out my door, Bonnie's got the phone to her ear. She probably handles at least 30 calls a day for me, calls that I don't have to take because Bonnie knows the answers. I get tons of work done every day, and Bonnie is a huge reason I am able to do so. What would I ever do without her? In fact, what am I going to do today?

Another red light flashes, and the two orbs blink in perfect unison, like a well-rehearsed dance routine.

Screening my own calls defeats the purpose; the whole idea is that someone else speaks to the callers, so I don't have to stop what I am doing. I press the button marked "night", which will immediately route all calls to the automated attendant. The two lights go out.

I return to my desk. Da-dum! Da-dum! Da-dum! goes my inbox. I've been getting slammed with emails and phone calls all day about a contract I'm working on. We are hiring a firm to process our COBRA (insurance for terminated employees), and our HR director wanted the contracts signed today. We are on our 10th or 11th draft, and we aren't nearly done--

"Just say thank you," Peg shouts from outside my door. "Just say thank you!"

"I'll do no such thing," Jared shoots back, his words muffled slightly, as if passing through clenched teeth.

Why are they fighting outside my door? What are they doing there?

Da-dum! goes my appointment reminder. "3:00, Peg and Jared", it says. Bonnie always warns me 15 minutes in advance of my pending appointments, so I can prepare. Obviously, that didn't happen today.

"Steve, we need you! Peggy and Jared are screaming at each other in the hall!" Heidi says.

Da-dum! Goes my inbox, and I click on my inbox, expecting to see 30 or 40 new emails.

One hundred eighty-six.

It's going to take me hours to clear these emails. If I have my raggedy ass under the covers by midnight, it will be a huge victory.

"Steve!"

The meeting goes poorly. Peg and Jared shout each other down repeatedly, and it's growing harder to calm them. I had hoped not to have to involve HR, but--

"Steve, if you can't resolve this properly, I'm gonna have to leave the firm," Jared says, his cheeks flushed, his eyebrows knit angrily.

"Good. Go," Peg shouts, and Jared raises his voice in reply.

Da-dum! goes message number 187.

My cell phone rings; it's the HR director, no doubt needing an update on the COBRA contract.

No matter how hard I work, the best I can manage is to tread water. It's demoralizing.

Two years ago, I was a leader. I improved processes, I helped people, and I woke up every morning eager to tackle whatever obstacles were in my way. Now, I referree arguments and make sure our corporate ass is covered. I have grown to hate my job.

4:34pm

I call Tim.

"What do you mean, you're thinking of quitting?" she asks.

Just another tricky day for you me

Wednesday, July 5, 2006, 10:15am
Steve's office

"I need to talk to you," Peggy from finance barks, squeezing my door frame with her right hand, as if to keep from being pulled away.

I have an open door policy. In my two years at this job, I don't think I've ever refused to meet with anyone. Of course, that does not mean that you can just barge in whenever you want; I organize my day just like everyone else does, and interruptions throw me off schedule.

Part of Bonnie's job is to be my gatekeeper, to redirect people like Peggy so I can stay on track. It's not easy. Everyone's got an emergency; every problem is life or death, and some people aren't polite about it. Sure, Bonnie takes coffee breaks, and uses the bathroom, but she's good about telling me before she leaves her desk--and she hasn't. So how did Peggy get past her?

There's no way I'm going to ask her what the problem is. If I do that, she'll break out the violin and give me the saddest sob story you've ever heard, and I'll be a cold-hearted bastard if I dismiss her. The trick is to deflect her gently, to subtely remind her of the rules.

"Peg, I'm actually right in the middle of a contract negotiation. Why don't you talk to Bonnie and tell her I'd like her to set up a meeting for this afternoon?"

"I'm gonna walk right outta here," she says, her voice quivering. "He's driving me crazy! I can't take it anymore! I'm gonna look for another job!"

So much for redirecting her. Peg is overly emotional at times, but she does seem very upset. I sure wish I knew where the hell Bonnie was.

"Who is driving you crazy?"

"Jared! He's waiting for me to balance a file and he keeps calling me every five minutes to see if I'm done. I have other work to do, Steve! He's always doing that. Why does he keep bothering me? He's not my supervisor--"

Jared works in our payroll department. He is an amazing worker. He'll do whatever project they throw at him, no matter how early he has to come in or how late he has to stay. When he took a week's vacation, we required two full time employees to produce the same amount of work.

The problem is, he is also a head case. He walks around the office singing gospel songs, argues loudly with anyone who disagrees with him, and regularly sends out rambling, stream-of-consciousness emails complaining bitterly about his working conditions--normally copying the CEO, the VP of Human Resources, me, and anyone else he can think of.

After such a tirade, I'll call him into my office, and he'll smile and tell me not to worry about it. "I was just having a bad day," he'll tell me.

"I know he can be tough to work with--"

"So do something about it, Steve!"

"Peg, I really need you to set up an appointment with Bonnie."

"She's not there!"

My cell phone rings. Maybe Bonnie had an emergency and had to leave; I'll bet this is her. I pick it up.

"Steve, I need to talk to you right away. That woman is going to be the death of me! May she burn in hell! God fogive me," Jared shouts, so loudly that I instinctively pull the phone away from my ear.

Bad move.

"Is that him?!" yells Peggy.

"Is Peggy in there with you?" Jared squeals. "What is she doing there?"

"I was in here first," Peggy says. "You can call him back later, because I came in here first."

Da-dum, goes my email alert. That will be from legal; I was supposed to have the contract reviewed two hours ago.

I wish I could talk to these two together; it would make things easier.

Wait a minute--I can!

I hit the speaker button and place my cell phone on the desk. "Everyone take a deep breath. Enough is enough," I say, slowly. They fall silent, and it looks like things are under control. For now.

"We're not going to resolve all of this right now," I continue. "But Jared, I assume you are waiting for the deposits to be released so you can post the tax payments."

"Right," he says.

"When are the taxes due?"

"Steve, I don't want to wait until the last minute--"

"Friday!" Peggy shouts, so loudly that her voice reverberates. "We don't even have to release them until tomorrow!"

"If we wait until the very last second and then something goes wrong--" Jared shoots back.

"Enough!" The room goes silent.

"Peg, how much time do you need to balance the file?"

"It will be done before I go to lunch at noon."

"Jared, if you don't receive confirmation by 1:00, call me. Not her. Okay?"

"Okay, Steve."

I swing around in my chair and check my calendar. "I want both of you in here at 3:00 today to discuss what's going on between you two."

"Steve, he's constantly-"

"Three O'clock, Peg."

I wonder where the hell Bonnie is.

Da-dum.

"Now then... what was next on my things to do list?"

Friday, May 26, 2006

It's hard working when I'm horny.

I cross my legs, and my slacks tighten against my cock, which reflexively stiffens. Some chick holds the receiver too close to her mouth while leaving me a voice mail, and her breathy coos send me to Oz. "Please call me back" might as well be "Please fuck me with your steely pork sword." The reaction is the same.

Being monogamous feels right for me, but it scares me, too. My body doesn't care if Tim is on her period. My balls don't ache less because she's working all weekend. There are certain times when I need to fuck, and it's sometimes hard making that happen.

11:45

I call Tim. "Hey," she says.

"Where are you?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Where are you?"

"I'm on 95, exit 12. What do you need?"

"You."

"I'm not far from your office."

"So come over!"

"Why?"

"You know why."

Yearlike moments pass, until finally my phone buzzes. "Steve, Tim is here," Bonnie says. "Should I send her in?"

That depends. How horny does she look?

"Sure."

Tim looks out of place in my office, with her navy blue, Ralph Lauren-logoed dress and black boots that don't quite match. She doesn't care that she clashes, nor do the three 20-something male employees who suddenly have urgent business in the general area outside my door.

"What?" she smiles, dropping her keys on my desk. But it's a silly question.

"Close my door."

As she turns the deadbolt, I go stiff. My ears ring. I wouldn't stop now, couldn't, even if the building were on fire. If a 747 were screaming towards my window, all I would do is try to come faster.

"I hope you don't expect me to get naked, Steve."

I'm already unzipping, pulling my pants down but not off, and she follows my lead, reaching under her short dress and sliding her panties down her thighs.

She straddles my legs, facing me, flipping her hair out of the way.

"Hope you...appreciate this...," she whispers, wiggling into position as her eyes roll back and her voice fades, giving way to the rhythmic squeak of my leather chair. I grow harder inside her, marveling at her tightness, wondering how she got so wet, so quickly.

She grabs the back of my chair and I pull her hips to me as the squeaking grows faster, more urgent. "Uhh," she moans. "Right there."

My phone rings. Let it.

She pulls back, slowly, staring at my face as I watch my wet cock slide out of her. She likes when I look.

I am fully out of her for a moment before she thrusts it hard back into her, kissing the side of my neck, then tickling with her tongue, then biting. I am overcome by all of it, the juicy sound of our sex, the squeaking chair, her hot mouth against my skin. I blast cum inside of her, pulling her tight against me, and the chair stops.

"Feel better now?" she asks.

Dairy Products for Dummies

It amazes me how many people are unfamiliar with the term "butterface".

It refers, simply, to a girl who is sexy but ugly: everything is hot but-her-face.

There were plenty of nights I ended up jerking off because the girl who was talking to me at the party wasn't pretty enough. From time to time, especially when I was younger, I overlooked stringy hair or clownlike makeup and nailed the girl anyway, but I wasn't proud of it. As far as I was concerned, any guy who enjoyed such things, who targeted butterfaces intentionally, was a loser.

April 3, 2006, 9:03am

Marriott Hotel, conference room 1
Semi-annual leadership conference

I notice Gretchen immediately. Her eyes are too narrow, and her bangs obscure them anyway. Her mouth is crooked, and her bright pink lipstick accentuates the flaw; her glimmering cocktail party earrings are completely wrong for a business meeting.

Facewise, she has little to work with, and her style choices have made matters worse.

Then she stands up.

She has a wiry waist, like the thorax of an ant, giving way to a bouncy ass, and her breasts pop voluptuously from under her mohair sweater. Her body has somehow remained pristine, immune to her ugliness.

As I steal delicious five-second glances at her, I suddenly get it.

I have always wanted to be seen with attractive women; I felt I belonged with them. But as my taste for toys and status has mellowed, I see the appeal of the Gretchens of the world.

A relationship with a Gretchen would be an overdose of lust, a steady stream of hot nakedness. I wouldn't want to be seen publicly with her. I wouldn't want to feed her, keep her warm, or satisfy any other biological need; she would exist only to satisfy mine. I would fuck her mercilessly and I would want her to like it, but only because it would pride me to know that I had the power to make her scream. Her personal happiness would mean nothing; she would be a vehicle for my entertainment, a geisha or a concubine, living to please me.

9:02pm

I need to see if I could actually make this happen. Would I be able to seduce her? Would I overcome the desire to avert my eyes from her less-than-magazine-ad-ready mug?

I'm not going to bag her. But I'll go through the motions, and stop just short of the actual act, becuase I need to know I haven't lost it.

"Hey, Gretchen, how's it going?"

"Oh, hi... Steve," she says, reading my name tag.

Some chicks look better far away than close up, like a painting by Monet. Gretchen is the opposite. She impresses me, attracts me, even, with how she carries herself, her back straight, her chin held high.

Her confidence sells me. Yeah, if I were single, I'd fuck her.

"Did you end up getting the lobster bisque last night?"

And speaking of white creamy stuff...

"Oh, yeah, it was heavenly," she moans, with a skyward eye tilt. And then I listen to her speak, examining every word, waiting for an opening to extend the conversation, reading her eyes, gauging how aggressive I can be, how hard I can push, just like I used to do.

I joke about the tie the presenter was wearing and she smiles politely, her mouth bent like a flexed crossbow. Her mouth is her worst feature; at least when she sweeps her hair from her eyes, their deep blueness catches my attention.

She tells me that she is an agent in commercial lines. "How did you get invited here? You must have impressed someone," I say.

"Or pissed someone off," she retorts, grinning.

The conversation continues and I am drawn to her ever more desperately; I have gone from "I wouldn't mind fucking her" to "I want to lay her out on the nearest cocktail table right now". But where do I stop? How do I stop? Do I wait for her to hit the ladies room and just take off? Tell her about my girlfriend? Get her naked, mount her, then stop with my dick two centimeters away from her steaming gash and say, "Oh shit! I'm missing Prison Break!"?

"I'm going for a smoke," she says, holding up a pack of Marlboro Menthols.

I don't smoke, but it doesn't nauseate me, either. If I'm loaded, and someone offers me a butt, I'll take it. Especially if that someone is as fuckable as this hottie, if for no other reason than that I can watch her succulent rump as I follow her outside.

She turns to leave, and two guys trail her closely.

Fuck this. I don't care how hot she is. I don't chase anyone, especially someone I've already decided I'm not going to have sex with. I was looking for an easy out: maybe this is it.

"Steve? Steve!"

I turn to see Lisa, from our training department. She's attractive and all, but every time she's nearby, I have the urge to strangle the perkiness right out of her. I swear, they get these training chicks straight out of cheerleader camp.

"Hi, Lisa."

The hiball glass wobbles unsteadily in her hand, and her voice is too loud for the conversation. But I let her talk, smiling slyly at her bad jokes, nodding patiently as she draws one asinine conclusion after another.

This is how I used to do it, and the technique comes back to me easily, though I've been out of practice for months. I go after one, and if she doesn't work out, I find another. We've all gone to the store looking for a certain sweater, found that they didn't have it in stock, and left with something we liked just as much. Too many guys go after one girl, and when they strike out, they go home feeling sorry for themselves. Why? Not that I give a shit, of course, because losers like them make it easier for me.

She's not dumb, Lisa, just naive. She doesn't know enough to flirt subtlely, so she keeps joking about taking me up to her room and letting me eat oysters out of her navel. She's trying to be cute, and coquettish, but instead she's coming off as a huge slut.

This is what they call low-hanging fruit, easy money, taking candy from a baby. I've fucked a million Lisas in my life, conned each one of them into thinking that there was some kind of connection between us, that her moronic story about surfing in Australia interested me. I played them, all of them, got them to suck my cock, to tell me that they wanted my big fat dick inside of them, and I unceremoniously blasted their faces with white stuff, right between their saucered eyes. Welcome to the major leagues, honey, I'd think, and stifle a laugh.

Suddenly I hate Lisa. I detest her lack of common sense and self-respect. Is she an idiot? I can't be the only guy she's hit on this way. Surely a parade of men has marched in and out of her bedroom, each one of them sticking it to her good and then avoiding her like an IRS auditor. How many times is she going to get used before she wakes up? And am I the only one who finds it funny that this trainer, who gets paid to teach other employees, is apparently unable to learn herself?

"Good night, Lisa," I say, though she is in mid-sentence, and I head upstairs to call Tim.

Contributing to the delinquency of a (hot) minor

Everything has been going so well, for so long, that I had forgotten what an asshole I turn into when I can't get laid.

I was starting to lose my patience with people in the office. I never yell, but I do give nasty looks. Yesterday, Bonnie, one of our older receptionists, stuck her head in the door to tell me that we were doing a birthday cake in the conference room for one of our employees.

I wheel around in my chair and just glare at her, my brow furrowed, chewing my bottom lip.

"Ohhh, I'm very sorry Steve," she says, running away.

Lila has been in lockdown for weeks, and I am tired of sneaking around. I am not one to sit around lamenting my lot in life; when things go wrong, I devise a plan....

What if I "hire" Lila to clean my house, or my garage, or my frenulum (look it up), or whatever I want, for about 5-10 hours per week, and pay her $100 bucks a week or so for it?

It's perfect! Lila gets some extra cash (she already makes enough for a car payment, but if she is looking to move out, a little more would help), her mother would probably approve, knowing that she is in the mature and capable hands of her boss Steve (chortle, chortle) and that she is working, not socializing. And we wouldn't have to sneak around! Suddenly, there would be a perfectly acceptable explanation as to why I am driving Lila back and forth to her house.

[cue maniacal laughter]

I call Lila into my office and tell her about the idea.

"Oh YEAH! Of COURSE!!" She says. "This is PERFECT! But..."

"Hummm?"

"Do I really have to clean?"

"Lila. Come on! My house is friggin spotless! Maybe I'll have you fold my laundry or empty the dishwasher. The rest of the time, we can hang out!"

"And we don't have to sneak around," she says.

"Yeah!"

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you know how long it's been?" she asks.

"Since we've had sex?"

"Six days, 20 hours," she says.

"I'm going nuts too," I say.

She looks at the door, then back at me. Is she thinking what I think she is thinking?

I've always wanted to do it in my office. Always. I have a dead bolt on my office door, and the only one who would dare interrupt me if it were closed is Ross, and he is out of the office for the rest of the week...

I buzz Bonnie. "Bonnie, Lila and I will be on a conference call for the next half hour. Can you cover her desk?"

"Sure, Steve."

Lila gets up and closes the door, then turns the dead bolt. She is wearing a pink and white 3/4 sleeve blouse. She pulls it up over her head.

She is wearing a cream colored satin bra. There is something bizarre about seeing her in her underwear in my place of business. It's unusual, and fascinating, and totally fucking hot at the same time.

She steps out of her clogs, unhooks her denim skirt and slides it down her legs in that sexy way she has. She is wearing pink panties.

Hey, you didn't borrow those from a chick named Kelly by any chance, did ya?

She stops and looks at me, smirking.

"What."

"Are you getting undressed, or what??" She says.

Oh, shit!

I pull off my polo shirt (we have a business casual dress code) and unhook my belt. I take my pants off, gingerly and quietly. I hope my keys don't jingle too loudly, I think.

She sits in my lap on my high-back leather office chair. Her hair almost completely covers my face. The green-apple smell envelops me; it's intoxicating.

I can feel her skin, warm and smooth, against mine. She reaches back and grabs my hands in hers, stretching our arms out to either side.

Ok, what is this? Office sex aerobics?

I kiss her neck. She turns her head towards me and puts her lips against mine, slipping her tongue into my mouth.

I always envisioned sex in my office as a quickie. But, now that I am finally doing it, everything is happening with exquisite slowness, every detail amplified and magnified.

I open my eyes while Lila and I are kissing. Her eyes are closed, her long eyelashes resting against her cheeks. The angle of her nose, the tight, round slope of her chin, the slight hollowness of her cheeks: They are all flawless.

Why me? I think. What makes me so deserving of her? What does a girl like this want with me? I am almost twice her age! Yeah, I have confidence. I like myself. But she could have....anyone....

"Steve?"

"Hmmm?"

"Baby, is everything ok?" she asks.

"Lila, why do you say you love me so much?"

"Because I do!"

"Why?"

OK, am I turning into a girl? Again?

She turns around and faces me, one foot on the floor.

"Because, Steve, you amaze me! You are so smart, and so funny, and so confident. I love learning from you and hearing what you have to say. And you're always right! People look up to you! Even people older than you-"

I kiss her. "MMMMMMMMMMMMMM," she says.

"You're so sweet, baby," I say. I reach behind her back and unhook her, with one hand. Like I said, it's a rare skill. But here is how you do it:

Reach behind her back and slip your middle finger under the part where the two straps meet. Pull UP with your middle finger, so that the clasp is sticking straight out. Pinch one strap between your thumb and middle finger, and pull on the other strap with your index finger. It takes practice, but you'll get it. If you live with your wife or girlfriend, get ahold of one of her bras when she is not home, hook it around a chair, and practice.

She pulls her panties down. I can still see her, even now, bent over at the waist, her porcelain skin hugging every angle and curve of her body tightly and firmly.

She flips her hair over her right shoulder and straddles me, her knees on the seat cushion. I enter her.

I let out a sigh. It's a huge relief for me, actually being able to have sex again. It's THIS moment, THIS feeling, that explains why masturbation doesn't come close to the real thing.

I suck her nipple while she rides me. I lean back and watch her hips as she grinds them rhythmically against mine. She leans her head back; I feel her hair brush against my legs. She moans quietly.

Her hands are on the arm rests. She is pumping me more urgently, now.

"Ohhhhhhhh," she says. She stops fucking.

"Ohh, oh my godohmygodohmygoooooood," she whispers. I feel her clamp down on me, her body shuddering with orgasm.

I like watching Lila come. And usually, if she has come, it means I have not yet, so there's always an awkward 2-3 minute period after her orgasm where I'm trying to get off before she totally dries up and loses interest.

I shouldn't have worried. Lila reaches down and starts to rub me, with me still inside her. She knows just how I like it, slow and steady, not too hard. I grab her hand and stop it, near the base of my cock. I squeeze her fingers a bit.

The contractions start from inside me. Suddenly, I am gushing into her, filling her full of jizz.

Lila is kissing my neck. "Baby, that was soooo good...I [kiss] love you [kiss]..." Now she is kissing my chest, softly and gently, the way you kiss a new baby. "[kiss] love you so much [kiss]..." Her pouty lips are forming a big letter "O". She is bending over to kiss my chest. I pull her to me and kiss her. Her lips engulf my mouth, her tongue is licking me; the smacking sounds are driving me insane.

I am hard again.

Lila turns around. Her round, firm ass is against my throbbing cock. She rubs it, up and down, against me. I HAVE to fuck her again.

I open my desk drawer. Shit, do I have lube in the office? I don't think so. Maybe I'll find something.

Altoids. Cough drops. business cards. Office keys. Sugar packets.

Fuck. FUCK! Come ON, man!!

AHA!! Vaseline lip therapy! Not ideal. But close enough.

The tube is half full. "Lip therapy" is the same as regular Vaseline; only the packaging is different. I squeeze a glob of it on the head of my cock. Then more on the index and middle fingers on my right hand. The tube is almost empty.

I rub the Vaseline around her tight little asshole. It is spotlessly clean: You'd never guess shit comes out of there!

I press the head against her ass, slowly. I push it with my fingers, just a bit, and hold it there. I can feel her hole opening.

It takes a while, but now my head is inside her. I work it, slowly, gently, in and out, until suddenly I am almost all the way in her. She sits up straight and starts to ride me. She inhales sharply through her teeth.

I reach around and find her clit and touch it, press my fingers against it, then hold it in place.

I grab Lila's hips and hold them with my other hand. I am all the way inside her. I reach up and grab her tit. Now I am exploding in her again, grunting and moaning with ecstasy.

Just curious: Do I still have to give Lila a coffee break today? Maybe I should check with HR...

I pull out of her; she leans back against me, our faces side by side. She sighs. I kiss her. "I just wanna fall asleep in your arms," she says.

Luckily, I have paper towels in my office. There was, um, a LOT to clean up. But we did, and got dressed faster than I thought possible.

I keep thinking back to when I asked her why she says she loves me. Why did I need to know that? Why is it on my mind? Am I just curious? Or am I really falling for her?