BigLaw Sexy Beast

Normally, one of my favorite parts of this tremendously rewarding profession is the closing dinner. Fancy meal at a top-notch steak joint. Six to eight dirty martinis (do I count the ones that end up in my lap?). Maybe even a redux of a sex romp I had at the last closing with a random junior analyst in a low-cut top.

When I arrive, I scan the room like a Terminator hunting for my next target—the men appear in gray, women in red, whores in bright red.

While the room pretends to be transfixed by the 34-year-old millionaire telling unfunny jokes as he gives out deal toys, my scanner starts picking up some serious heat.

In the corner, I lock on a woman in a gray pantsuit that isn’t doing a good job of masking her obvious desire to be tied up and put in one of those leather outfits with a ball gag, like the gimp from Pulp Fiction.

I put my glasses on to get a better look and immediately start having terrible, terrible flashbacks.  This woman resembles a former partner at my firm. A hiring partner. A not-so-attractive hiring partner. A not-so-attractive hiring partner I had sex with. When I was a Summer Associate.

________________________________

Flashback to August a few years ago.

Our firm, like many other firms, had a tradition. One day near the end of the summer program, we went to a fancy restaurant.  The sole purpose was to get every Summer shitfaced and pressure them into accepting their offers. (Seriously, is this a top law firm or Sig Ep rush?)

Different summers react differently to these kinds of situations. Megan, the nerdy Summer seated to my left, got hammered and vomited into her bowl of penne ala vodka… but not before accepting her offer.  And John, the abrasive Summer to my right, started spewing racist remarks after he had a few too many—but lucky for him, the David Duke impression came after he accepted.

Yours truly got wasted, took the hiring partner back to an apartment I shared with another summer, had sex with her, vomited, had sex again, vomited a little more, and then accepted my offer.

My memories of this encounter are a bit hazy, but after dinner that balmy summer evening, a bunch of us went to do karaoke. I recall doing a horrendous rendition of “I Touch Myself.” Sometime after that, I remember the hiring partner’s hand rubbing my inner thigh. After a quick detour back to the office so she could get her purse (translation: she needed her diaphragm), we took a cab to my place.  Probably because she didn’t want to tell her husband.

My apartment at the time was not the great mid-level associate bachelor pad it is now. We went back to a five-floor walkup that featured a living room converted into a second bedroom and posters of paintings.

I tried to run up as quickly as possible, but we had to pause for a few minutes on the third floor so she could catch her breath. It was like watching a fat cop tell his partner to go on and catch the bad guy on the roof without him.  “I’ll cover the front, if he comes back down.”

When we disrobed, I saw the classic non-attractive older-lady signs. C-section scar: Check. Untrimmed pubic hair: Check. Musty smell reminiscent of my grandmother’s attic: Check.

I almost backed out, but I had to lock up my offer, didn’t I?  What followed was some generically non-memorable, lawyer-sex interspersed with bouts of nausea.

In the morning, she stuck around to take a shower and said something like, “Hey, kid, when you get to be my age, you can’t just do the Walk of Shame.” A remark that 1) sounded really, really gross in person and 2) shocked me that the Walk of Shame was something her generation had even heard about.

Then she asked me to keep things quiet, as if turning this romp over to the grapevine would’ve somehow enhanced my reputation. I’m not proud of what happened because she was pretty much a 50-year-old sea monster who had the body of Queen Elizabeth and the face of Ellen DeGeneres. But eight hours of drinking makes a 50-year-old sea monster look like, well, a 45-year-old sea monster, which just so happens to be my arbitrary cutoff. I showered for an hour and discovered that no matter how much soap I used, I couldn’t wash off shame.

Lucky for me, the shame didn’t haunt me when I returned next year. The sea monster had already moved on, which seemed a bit odd, since she had just come over from another firm. The narcissistic part of me felt like I was responsible for her leaving. As if having to resist the temptation of my doughboy-body would be too much for her to stand. But like so many of my regrettable liaisons, I simply forgot about her after I concluded that I’d likely never run into her again. Unfortunately, BigLaw, even in New York City, is a much smaller community than many people realize.

___________________________

I look again.  It’s her!  The Ellen DeGeneres/Queen Elizabeth thing is suddenly painfully apparent. What in God’s name is she doing here?!  I turn to the Hermes tie-wearing dbag junior banker next to me and nod toward the oldie in the corner.

“Who’s she?” I ask.

“General Counsel at [Client,]” he says.

I’m immediately overcome with a potent mixture of fear, disgust and self-loathing.  Why didn’t I notice her name on all the deal-emails or recognize her voice on those conference calls? Perhaps it was because she never screamed, “Harder, Bronco, harder!”

I stare at the sea monster and wonder why I’m incapable of putting my career ahead of my libido. God, why do I make such poor decisions? Before she was just some partner I was going to avoid working for. Now, as our client’s in-house counsel, she can subject me to an endless stream of daily calls and emails. Every time she calls to ask me when she’s going to see a redline, I’ll wonder if that’s just code for: What time is the bone-a-thon?

I can already feel the vomit in my esophagus, which means it’s time to hit the bathroom and puke. And with that behind me, I down another martini and consider whether I’m going to 1) get really drunk and have sex with her again; or 2) get really, really drunk and have sex with her again. The only good news is that I live in an elevator building now, so at least she won’t be huffing and puffing her way up to my place.

It’s suddenly 7:00 AM.  I take a scalding shower, swallow five Tylenol, chug two oversized cups of coffee and try to forget.  But I can’t get the sea monster out of my mind—or out of my bed.  She’s lying there.  Old.  Soft.  Chubby.  For a moment, she reminds me of my Aunt Carol.  But then the self-hate sets in, and it’s time to make a run for it.  I make up a lame excuse—something thin about a conference call with London—and bolt for the door.

“Don’t forget about our conference call at 10:00,” she says.  “And if you meet me for a drink tonight, I’ll put in a good word for you with [Senior Partner.]”

“Sounds good.” I force a wan smile and head out the goddamn door… Maybe sea monsters aren’t that bad after all.

Matthew Richardson is mergers & acquisitions by day, Unethical & Amoral by moonlight.

Read more Unethical & Amoral.

26 Comments

  1. BL1Y

    January 29, 2009 at 5:11 am

    Definitely the funniest writer this site has.

  2. Bill Dugan

    January 29, 2009 at 5:17 am

    Interesting.  He should always wash his fingers with Ajax after partaking of an older woman.  He forgot to mention that he nearly got swallowed up in her stench trench.

  3. Ex-BigLaw

    January 29, 2009 at 6:38 am

    Best column yet.

  4. Anonymous

    January 29, 2009 at 6:48 am

    Bone-a-thon.  Hilarious.

  5. Shiraz

    January 29, 2009 at 8:04 am

    Truly hilarious LOL

  6. da heat

    January 29, 2009 at 8:13 am

    that is disgusting. Why would you subject yourself to that?

  7. TBone

    January 29, 2009 at 9:00 am

    gold!

  8. TXLaw

    January 29, 2009 at 9:54 am

    Best thing yet!

  9. Anon Female

    January 29, 2009 at 10:07 am

    foul male comment. I guess we will keep you wondering and not comment!

  10. BL1Y

    January 29, 2009 at 10:40 am

    Does anyone else think it sounds like Anon Female hit the sauce a little early today?

  11. Anonymous

    January 29, 2009 at 10:46 am

    I once dated a woman who was a moose.  She eventually became a partner at a big DC firm.  She looks a lot better to me now.  That’s the way it is.  Success has a way of making people look better.  That goes for men too.  Men partners may be total dorks in the outside world, but amongst lawyers, they are gods.  That’s how come men on this site think so highly of themselves (myself included).  In the insular legal community, we extol ourselves.  Outside, we can’t get any respect.  That’s why we’re bitter lawyers, ladies.

  12. Tbone

    January 29, 2009 at 12:15 pm

    think anon female’s comment was in response to aq stupid comment about a female’s crotch odor, which has since (thankfully) been deleted.  so her comment is actually kind of funny.

  13. Pacific Reporter

    January 29, 2009 at 1:06 pm

    This was like a bad Tucker Max impression.

  14. Lydia H.

    January 29, 2009 at 1:19 pm

    There are plenty of male “beasts” though the female summer associates do not ordinarily knowingly F*** them.  Women have more discretion than male associates, who are led by their libidos and penises to do these type of things.  The woman here should not be embarrassed for sleeping with the associate.

  15. Annonymous

    January 29, 2009 at 7:32 pm

    Absolutely hillarious

  16. Anon

    January 30, 2009 at 7:28 am

    Very good.  Write more!

  17. lebowski

    January 30, 2009 at 12:50 pm

    one time i dropped a huge load in partners office, it smelled for weeks. but he shook my hand and said it was a funny prank

  18. Lady of Law

    January 30, 2009 at 5:22 pm

    The bruise on that leg in the picture is disgusting. haha Way to bag ‘em.  I think the reasons Matthew is proud enough to post this are the the real story here.

  19. my leg

    January 31, 2009 at 8:51 am

    Actually, it’s not a bruise at all.  Just a few weeks before this pic I’d had surgery to stop the spread of a flesh-eating anaerobic bacteria that attacked my leg and the reddened area is adjacent to the surgical incision.  Just had to set the record straight–sorry if it was more thrilling to think it was the limb of a cougar….
    And, FWIW, I don’t know Matthew Richardson and I’ve never fucked him.
    So…any IP lawyers out there want to remind Mr. Richardson about the rules for using images shared with a Creative Commons license?

  20. watch66

    February 3, 2009 at 1:07 pm

    Hahahaha…You’re never too old to do the Walk of Shame, apparently!

  21. Craig

    February 4, 2009 at 9:07 am

    Loved this one as well. Don’t hold anything back, as it seems the more you write, the more explicit you get. Keep it up.

  22. Anon

    February 4, 2009 at 11:11 am

    WGIYF.  BTW, you should never take tylenol after a night of drinking, numbnuts.  It’s a great way to wreck your liver.  Advil/ibuprofen/more vodka is the correct choice.

  23. R. Duke

    February 6, 2009 at 8:28 am

    Tucker Max is a bad Tucker Max impression.

  24. JoeD

    February 9, 2009 at 10:09 am

    Really Funny

  25. ABC

    September 5, 2009 at 5:53 pm

    That is the exact same description your garderner gave of your mother.

  26. HR

    September 5, 2009 at 5:57 pm

    Mathew Shithead.
    WTF do you think you look like now, and you;re not even her age.  Take a good look at the senior associates in M&A;world, they look twice their age. With all those long hours, wives in Westchester get lonely.  White men do not age well.

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