I was drunk. I was horny. And I was figuratively charming the pants off of Alicia, a second-year associate who I would consider hot by the standards of our aesthetically challenged profession. I even convinced the Partner to come hang out (read: open up a tab) after we finished our closing dinner with the client.
Alicia and I made out once before, and she was always touchy feely around me, so I naturally assumed that it was finally the night we would seal the deal. It was past 2:00 AM, the night was winding down, and when Partner told me to go order the next round, I assumed it would be his last. After all, shouldn’t he be heading home to his wife and kids, leaving me to take advantage of Alicia after her most recent breakup?
But when I turned around to bring over the Patrón shots, I saw what must have been an optical illusion: Her hand on his leg! To make matters worse, he had taken my place on the two-person couch, leaving me the distant, third-wheel chair, a full coffee table away from my prize.
I wasn’t a math major in college, but I knew enough to be certain that the guy on the couch is 78% more likely to bang the girl than the loser on the chair.
I weighed my options. I could turn on the charm even more and leave the Partner I work directly under (in a recession) holding his own, or I could meekly slink away and pocket a pretty good blackmail chip. I love winning, especially when it comes to sex, but sometimes you just have to say age before beauty.
I took my shot without waiting for them to notice my presence. Alicia excused herself to “powder her nose,” and for a second, I thought about doing blow with her in the bathroom and how that would certainly lead to boning back at my place. But as she left, Partner called me over for a quick powwow.
What, you want me to give you condoms too, buddy?
“Matthew, I need your keys.”
I knew what he wanted my keys for. I’m no fucking moron. I just thought by making him verbalize what he wanted, I might talk him out of it.
“I can’t get a hotel on my credit card,” he said.
As much as I hated the thought of him stealing my woman, in a way, I had a newfound respect for him. True lowlifes have to stick together. So I reluctantly handed him the keys to my apartment and stumbled back to the firm to pass out in my office.
I couldn’t get the picture of Partner carrying Alicia across the threshold of my love nest out of my head. Alicia was one thing. But my apartment was something else.
I love my apartment! It’s my pleasure pad, and I have put a lot of effort into making sure women think my residence is befitting of a hedge fund guy. I have no problem telling some women (okay, college girls) that I work on Wall Street because, well, technically M&A at a downtown firm could be interpreted that way. You see, being a lawyer has some cache. But not enough. And my apartment is my secret weapon. It helps me complete the rich-guy mystique, and the thought of Partner riding my coattails was making me sick.
I always pictured where in my shag palace I would finally get to have Alicia. Would it be in my kitchen or maybe my bathroom? No, the bathroom is better suited for paralegals. For Alicia, it would be sweet and tender lovemaking on my 800-thread count sheets.
Except I wouldn’t be the one banging her there!
God damn it.
My thoughts turned to vengeance. I plotted how I might run into his wife shopping at Saks and what I might say. Would I completely sell him out and reveal the truth?
No, I believe in guy code. It would have to be something else.
Dare I try to bed his wife? I do have a thing for cougars and had met her once at a Christmas party. I think I said something witty and she laughed. Was that a sign that she wanted me? Probably.
Finally, there in my “Wall Street” office, I passed out in my suit.
I rushed home at 6:30 to change clothes and rinse the bitter taste of tequila and resentfulness out of my mouth. My keys waited under the mat as instructed, and with less than 45 minutes to be back at work, I showered and escaped without casting a single glance at my defiled bed.
When I got back, there was a voicemail from Partner. He had a new deal he wanted me to work on with him. I darted for his office, assuming we’d begin with a blood oath of silence, but there was no mention the previous night’s shenanigans—he simply blathered on about the new deal.
Don’t add insult to injury, buddy. Give me the juice! Was it good? Was she a freak? Did she call out my name in the heat of passion? Did she scream for Gary Coleman? Nada? Nothing? No details?
After an hour-long call with the client finally ended, I need to get out of there.
“I’ll go type up my notes.”
“Matthew, before you go, there’s just one more thing.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word.”
“I know you won’t. I just wanted to let you know, we broke your remote. Sorry.”
Wow, this guy is really asking for it. I turned around so he couldn’t see my seething.
“Also, you’ve got some pretty funny pictures in that album on the coffee table.”
You went through my photos, you stupid motherf&*ker?
I can just picture them having a big laugh at my expense.
Alicia: “Isn’t Matt so cute? He thinks I would bang a midlevel associate who can’t do anything for my career or even get a reservation at La Caverna.”
Partner: “Yeah, he’s a silly boy, but he does have pretty nice Egyptian-cotton sheets. Let’s go make sweet love on those. But first, let’s break his remote control.”
Was I supposed to just stand there and meekly accept his ownership over me? Or should I test the limits of my newfound power?
“Actually, I just realized, I have a friend I am supposed to meet for drinks after work, can the notes wait until tomorrow?”
Usually, Partner rides me about deadlines. My excuse was piss poor, so I knew his answer would be telling.
“Take your time. Or, better yet, pull Bergman in on the deal and have him do it.”
I immediately deleted my future memories of banging his wife.
“Oh, I almost forgot, Matthew. You’re a Knicks fan, right?”
Partner opened up his desk and handed me two courtside tickets.
“I forgot. I’m taking my wife to the opera.”
I suddenly realized there was no way I could be mad at this guy. He’s me ten years from now.
Come to think of it, it’s a pretty good tradeoff. Or at least one I can live with. The more times I give him my keys and let him violate the sanctity of my home, the more I get to be an even bigger slacker than I already am and get to pocket courtside Knicks tickets enough to support my image as a big swinging d*ck.
“Why don’t you take Alicia?”
Did he mean to the game or off his hands?