I immediately clicked on my profile and opened the “What I’m Looking For” box, making sure that it still read the same: “Casual sex. Nothing more. Nothing Less.”
That line wasn’t there for decoration, and it was in bold print for a reason.
I returned to the woman’s message and responded. “I am no longer interested in meeting you. Best of luck finding whatever you’re looking for –Thoreau.”
“Are you for real?” She replied instantly. “You can’t use another friend? We can’t be ‘just friends’?—Liz.”
“Hell no—Thoreau.” I signed off and blocked her address.
Another shot made its way down my throat, and I scrolled through the remaining emails—immediately opening the one that came from the only person I considered a friend in this city. Alyssa.
Subject: Desert Dick
So, I’m emailing you right now because I just thought about how much pain you’re in currently...We haven’t talked about you getting laid in quite a while, and that concerns me. Greatly. Like, I’ve CRIED about your lack of pu**y...I’m very sorry that so many women have sent you fraudulent pictures and given you a severe case of blue balls. I’m attaching the links to a top of the line lotion that I think you should invest in for the weeks to come.
Your dick is in my prayers,
—Alyssa.
I smiled and typed a response.
Subject: Re: Desert Dick
Thank you for your concerns about my dick. Although, seeing as though you’ve NEVER discussed getting laid, I think having Cobweb Pussy is a far more serious illness. Yes, it is true that so many women have sent me pictures, but it’s quite sad that you’ve never sent me yours, isn’t it? I’m more than willing to send you mine, and eventually help you cure your sad and unfortunate disease.
Thank you for telling me that my dick is in your prayers.
I’d prefer if it was in your mouth.
—Thoreau.
Just like that, my night was now ten times better. Even though I’d never met Alyssa in person and our conversations were restricted to phone calls, emails, and text messages, I felt a strong connection to her.
We’d met through an anonymous and exclusive social network—LawyerChat. There were no profile pictures, no newsfeed activity, only message boards. There was a small profile box where information could be placed (first name only, age, number of years practiced, high or low profile status), and a logo on each user’s profile that revealed his or her sex.
Every user was “guaranteed” to be a lawyer who’d been personally invited via email. According to the site’s developers, they’d “cross-referenced every practicing lawyer in the state of North Carolina against the board’s licensing records to ensure a unique and one of a kind support system.”
I honestly thought the network was bullshit, and if it weren’t for the fact that I’d f**ked a few of the women I’d met on there, I would’ve cancelled my account after the first month.
Nonetheless, when I saw a new “Need Some Advice” message from an “Alyssa,” I couldn’t resist trying to replicate my previous results. I read through her profile first—twenty seven, one year out of law school, book lover—and decided to go for it.
My intent was to answer her legal questions, slowly steer the conversation to more personal things, and then ask her to join Date-Match so I could see what she looked like. But she wasn’t like the other women.
She sent me constant messages, and she always kept the topic of conversation professional. Since she was such a young and inexperienced lawyer, she asked for advice on the simplest topics: legal brief editing, claim filing, and exhibition of evidence. After we’d chatted five times and I’d grown tired of having three hour long info-dump sessions, I asked for her phone number.
She said no.
“Why not?” I’d typed.
“Because it’s against the rules.”
“I’ve never met a lawyer that hasn’t broken at least one.”
“Then you’re not a very good lawyer. I’ll find someone else to chat with now. Thanks.”
“You’re going to lose that case tomorrow.” I typed before she could end our session. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“Are you really that upset about me not giving you my phone number? What are you, twelve?”
“Thirty two, and I don’t give a f**k about your phone number. I was only asking for it so I could call and tell you that the brief you sent me is littered with typos, and the closing argument reads like a first year law student wrote it. There are too many mistakes for me to sit here and type them all.”
“My brief isn’t that bad.”
“It’s not that good either.” Before I could sign out of our chat, her phone number appeared on the screen, and underneath it was a short paragraph: “If you’re going to call and help me, fine. If you’re using my number to talk me into joining a dating site later, then forget it. I joined this network for career support, that’s it.”
I stared at her message long and hard—debating whether I should help her with no chance of getting anything out of it, but something made me call her anyway. I walked her through every mistake she’d made, insisted that she clear up a few sentences, and even re-formatted her brief.
Just when I was about to tell her goodbye and hang up, the strangest thing happened. She asked, “How was your day today?”
“That’s not in your brief.” I said. “You only want to talk about lawyer shit, remember?”
“I can’t change my mind?”
“No. Hang up.” I waited to hear a beep, but the only thing I heard was laughter. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was such a raspy and sexy sound, I would’ve hung up myself, but I couldn’t put the phone down.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still laughing. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t. Hang up.”
“I don’t want to.” She finally stopped laughing. “I apologize for that hostile message I sent you...You’re actually the only guy I’ve met on here who answers all my questions. Are you busy right now? Can you talk?”
“About what?”
“About yourself, your life...I’ve been asking you boring legal questions every day, and you’ve been very patient so...It’s only fair that we talk about something less boring for once if we’re going to be friends, right?”
Friends?
I was hesitant to respond—especially since it didn’t seem like the ‘less boring’ topics would involve sex, and she’d said the word “friends” so easily. Yet, I was in the middle of another sex-less night already, so I began to have a regular conversation with her. Until five in the morning, she and I discussed the most mundane things—our daily lives, favorite books, her dream of becoming a late, professional ballerina.
A few days later, we spoke again, and after a month, I was talking to her every other day.
Tossing back another shot, I pressed the call button on my phone and waited to hear her soft voice.
No answer. I considered sending her a text, but then I realized it was nine o’ clock on a Wednesday and we wouldn’t be able to talk at all tonight.
Practice...Wednesday nights are always ballet practice...
“Mr. Hamilton?” My secretary stepped into my office the next morning.
“Yes, Jessica?”
“Mr. Greenwood and Mr. Bach would like to know if you want to participate in the next round of intern interviews today.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay...” She looked down and scribbled something onto her notepad. “Did you at least look over the resumes then? They have to narrow it down to fifteen today.”
I sighed and pulled out the stack of resumes she’d given me last week. I’d read through them all and written notes, mostly—“Pass” “Double Pass” and “I don’t feel like reading this.” All the remaining applicants were from Duke University, and to my knowledge, we were the only firm in the city who accepted pre-law and law school applicants for paid internships.
“I wasn’t impressed with any of the applicants.” I slid the papers across my desk. “Was that the entire selection pool?”
“No, sir.” She walked over and placed an even larger stack in front of me. “This is the entire selection pool. Do you need me to do anything else for you this morning?”
“Besides getting my coffee?” I pointed to the empty mug at the edge of my desk. I hated that I always had to remind her to bring it; I couldn’t function in the morning without a fresh cup.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll get that right away.”
I turned on my computer and scrolled through my emails, sorting them all by importance. Of course, Alyssa’s latest email was pushed straight to the top.
Subject: Get Over Yourself.
Thank you for the childish picture text of the white dust that was outside your condo this morning. I really appreciated it, but I can assure you that that is NOT what the inside of my vagina looks like right now.
Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t need to get laid every other day to satisfy my needs. They are WELL taken care of with a VARIETY of tools.
—Alyssa
Subject: Re: Get Over Yourself.
I sent you two pictures. One of the white dust and one of a dried up lake with dying animals. Was the second picture more accurate?
The only tool your pu**y needs is my tongue. It’s here whenever you want it, and it works in a “VARIETY” of ways.
—Thoreau
“Here you are, Mr. Hamilton.” Jessica suddenly set my coffee on the desk. “Can I ask you something?”
“No, you may not.”
“I thought so,” she said, lowering her voice and looking into my eyes. “I know this is a bit unprofessional, but I need a date for the gala next month.
“Then find a date for the gala next month.”
“That was my way of asking you to be my date...”
I blinked. I needed to find a way to word this “Hell no” very carefully.
Jessica was fresh out of college—way too damn young for me, working here because her grandfather started this firm, and looking for much more than I’d ever be willing to give. I’d overheard her several times on her lunch breaks, talking about how she wanted to be married before she turned twenty five. She also apparently wanted to be a stay-at-home mom with six kids, and live in a house in the suburbs.
In other words, she was completely out of her f**king mind.
“So, what do you say?” She smiled.
I tried not to roll my eyes. “Jessica...”
“Yes?” Her eyes were full of hope.
“Look, sweetheart. Not only would it be highly inappropriate for the two of us to ever engage in any type of relationship outside of this office, but I’m not the man you’re looking for. At all. Trust me.”
“Not even for one night?”
“The words ‘one night’ in my book hold certain expectations that you couldn’t possibly meet. So, no. Go do some work.”
“Is ‘one night’ a code for sex?”
“Why are you still in my office?”
“I wouldn’t tell anyone if we had sex,” she whispered. “I’ve actually fantasized about it since we first met. And, since you never have any calls on the books from a girlfriend, I’m assuming you’re available.”
“I’m not.”
“I walked in on you while you were in the restroom once... You’re at least nine inches I think.”
What the f**k?!
I was five seconds away from recording this conversation on my phone and emailing it to her grandfather.