A Night to Forget

         I loved his cocky little Italian strut.  All of the other executives here at Bornstein and Bornstein are old and stuffy.  They're either so fat that their expensive suits barely fit or they're so old that half the time they don't even know they're in the office.  But Paul DeMarco is the total opposite.  He's like a short John Travolta from his Urban Cowboy days.          

         I've been at Bornstein & Bornstein for four years.  I worked my way up to the executive floor two months ago.  The administrative assistants on this floor work directly for the company’s executives and have spent years working their way up here.  The only way a position opens up on this floor is if someone quits or dies.  I was lucky. One of the senior administrative assistants died.  The woman who would have filled her position was on maternity leave, so someone else was able to take the job, in short, I moved up much sooner than I should have.

         Like every other office building, our floor is laid out, of course, in a maze of cookie-cutter cubicles.  When you come off the elevator, there is a long wide aisle.  On either side of the aisle are three rows of cubicles.  At the end of the hall, there are big sliding glass doors leading to to the executive offices.  Where you sit in this layout shows your rank in the company.  For those of us in the cubicles, the closer you are to the center aisle, and the further you are from the executive offices, the lower your seniority. So the person above me is in the middle row, and the woman above her has a window. I happen to be on the center aisle and right next to the elevators.  If I work hard enough, maybe, just maybe, I'll have a window too someday.

         But for now, I have no window, no privacy, and I get asked stupid questions like, "Where's the bathroom?" or "Is this the executive floor?" or "Could you tell me where so-and-so's desk is?"  The other part of being in this spot that sucks is that since I have no privacy, I can't play video poker, or check out Myspace anymore.  I have to pretend to look busy all the time because whoever steps off the elevator can see my computer screen.

         The only thing that makes this seat bearable is Paul.  He walks right by my desk at least three times a day.  Sometimes he passes so closely that I can smell him.  It's that clean manly smell of soap and hair gel.

         When he's by himself, he even speaks to me.  Usually, it’s just "Hi" or "Have a good night," but lately, he’s thrown in a couple more sentences.  Last Monday, he asked me how my weekend was, even though he walked away before I could say anymore than "fine."

         Friday, I wore a burgundy silk blouse, and when I saw Paul coming off the elevator, I unbuttoned the top two buttons and leaned forward as he walked by.

         "Morning, Paul,"  I said, putting on my sexiest smile and praying to God I didn’t have lipstick on my teeth.

         His eyes went straight to my cleavage and sat there for a moment until he realized that it was me, not them, who had spoken to him.

         "Hey, um . . . ," he looked as though he was trying to remember something.  "Good morning, uh . . . "  he was giving me the charming, smiling, pointing I forgot your name thing.

         Oh my God!  He doesn't even know my name!  I took a deep breath and plastered on a smile.

         "Cecily," I reminded him.

         "Right, Cecily.  It was on the tip of my tongue."

         Sure it was.  I was getting ready to say something un-Christian, but before I could cop an attitude, he flashed those hazel eyes and that perfect smile.  He held the smile and the flashing eyes until the anger in my face disappeared.  He glanced at his Rolex.  "Well, I'm gonna be late.  See ya later."  He gave me a wink and took off down the hall.

         I was left sitting there with my mouth and my top hanging open, when my supervisor came out of the elevator with her boss.

         "Good morning, Cecily."  She was not smiling.  Instead, she and her boss, Mr. Gershon, were staring at my overly exposed bosom.

         "Good morning Beatrice.  Good morning Mr. Gershon."

         Beatrice leaned towards me and hissed, "You might want to button your blouse."

         "Sorry, it must have come undone."  I buttoned my blouse and they continued down the hall.

         The rest of the morning was the usual bullshit: finishing the orders for corporate Christmas gifts, setting up meetings, etc.  I had my usual lunch: a large order of fries, a diet coke and a couple of cups of coffee (I'm a caffeinaholic).  I spent most of the afternoon doing more of what I had done that morning.  It seems like Friday afternoons drag on like a line at the DMV.  I was going over my slim Christmas budget when I noticed someone standing over my desk.  I thought it was Beatrice again, so I tried to cover the paper with my arm and start typing.  When the scent of Irish Spring hit my nostrils, I knew it wasn't her.

         "Hey there, Cecilia."  It was Paul, and he was standing so close to me that I was eye level with his crotch.  "I meant to tell you this morning that you really look nice today.  The color of your blouse really complements your complexion."

         "Why thank you Paul, but it's Cecily."  I hope I didn't sound too bitchy.

         "I'm so sorry," he shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced down the hallway.  "It's just that I have a, uh . . . cousin named Cecilia, and she's pretty like you, so . . . I guess that's why I called you by her name."

         "That's okay, close enough."  As I spoke, I noticed that he was looking down my blouse.  Slutty as it sounds, I felt myself getting a little hot.  As much as I hated to, I had to break up the moment before someone walked by.

         "So Paul, what can I do for you this afternoon?"  I leaned back so we could look each other in the eye.

         "Hmm?"  His eyes jumped from my chest to my face.  "Well," he sat down on my desk.  "You'll be at the Christmas party tomorrow night, won't you?"

         Only if you're there sexy.

         "I was thinking about it, but this is the first year I'm invited, so I don't think I'll know too many people there."

         "You'll know me," he said. 

         The way he was looking at me at that moment, I felt like we were the only two people in the office.  But Mr. Gershon walking by with some of the other executives reminded me that we weren't.

         "Yeah, and you'll be with the rest of the VP's and the board members, schmoozing and talking business stuff," I said.

         "Not the whole time."

         "And I'm sure you'll be bringing your girlfriend or your wife or something."  And out goes the bait.

         "What makes you think I'm not single?"

         "Why would you be?  You're handsome, successful, and charismatic.  Someone must have gotten their hands on you by now."

         He stopped smiling.  I'm an idiot.  I got too personal.  I ruined the moment.  But then, his smile returned.

         "I was engaged once, but it didn't work out," he said matter-of-factly.

         "I'm sorry to hear that." 

         Yessss!

         "That's okay.  If I had gotten married, I couldn't be here talking to you now, could I?"

         "Good point," I agreed.

         He stood up, looked around, and then leaned back down and spoke in my ear.  "So I'll see you at the Christmas party tomorrow night then?"

         "I'll try to make it."

         He winked at me and flashed that Colgate smile.  "I'll take that as a yes, . . . Cecily."

         I melted into a puddle of hot chocolate.

         The last hours of the day flew by.  All I kept thinking about was what Paul said to me.  He actually wanted me to go to The Christmas Party!  Our company has two Christmas parties every year.  There's the one for the entire company, held in the cafeteria with carolers, cookies, finger foods and punch.  It's held during business hours at lunchtime.  The Christmas Party is held in one of the ballrooms at the Marriott Marquis Hotel in Manhattan.  It's fully catered with a sit down dinner, open bar, live band and everyone dresses up.

         The only people invited to this party are the people that work on the executive floor.  This year, for the first time in the four years that I've worked at Bornstein & Bornstein Enterprises, I’m part of this group.  The Marriott parties are legendary; not only in our own company, but among all of the New York marketing firms.  At these parties, alligences are made and broken, and reputations are built and torn down.

         I had been on the fence about going, but after my conversation with Paul, I had to go.  But I needed help, so I called the closet person to me.  My roommate and "sister": Rudy.  Rudy is a window dresser at Saks Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.  Whenever I have anywhere important to go, which is practically never, he (yes, he) dresses me because according to him, I can't do it myself.

         "Rudy?" I shouted into the phone, trying to be heard over the commotion in the background.

         "Hey Honey, hold on," he shouted back.

         I heard him talking to someone else in the background.

         "No, idiot!  Not the Chanel jacket!  We're not doing Nancy Reagan in Christmas at the Whitehouse.  We need something that surprises, something that pops.  I want attitude.  I know it's Christmas dammit, but I want attitude (sigh).  Will someone bring me the gold Roberto Cavalli blazer?"

         "Okay, babe, what can I do for you?” he asked me in an instantly sweet tone.

         "Remember that Christmas Party at work, you know, the big one?  Well, gues who asked me if I was going?"

         "Ooh, don't tell me, our favorite Italian stallion?”  He sounded more excited than I was.

         "Yes girl!  He sort of said he wanted me to be there!  And he was all up in my shit.  He wouldn't take his eyes off m tits."

         "And you like that?"

         "Well, as my Auntie used to say, 'sometimes you gotta help a man work up his appetite before you bring him home for dinner.'"  I reminded him.

         "You could say the same thing about a stray dog.  Hussy."  He laughed.

         "Well, you know what I mean.  Since I moved up to the Executive floor, he actually notices me.  I used to see him on the elevator a couple of times a week, but he didn't even know I was alive."

         "So now you think that he thinks you're special because you stick your tits in his face every morning."

         "I didn't say all that.  I'm just excited that he wants me at the party."

         "Just be careful, girl.  You know how some of these men are.  They think that just because they make big bucks and drive expensive cars that they can treat women like another one of their toys," he warned.

         "Okay, Mother.  Now are you gonna help me find an outfit or not?"

         "Of course I will.  I can't let you go out there embarrassing me with one of your hoochie momma outfits.  But I'm meeting Jeffrey and his parents for dinner tonight, so it'll have to be tomorrow morning."

         "You comin' home tonight, or sleeping at Jeffrey's?"  I asked.

         "I'm staying at Jeffrey's, but you know we won't be sleeping!"

         "Okay.  See you in the morning, whore," I joked.

         "Takes one to know one.  Bye, babe."

            After work, I went to the gym for the first time in two months.  I'm not overweight, but at 26, I'm not as tight as I used to be.  After about six minutes on the stair master, I decided that I just wouldn't eat until after the party.

            Saturday morning, I weighed myself as soon as I got up.  I lost 2 lbs, leaving me at 124 lbs, not bad for 5'4", but I still felt fat and bloated.  I know I'm a normal, healthy size, but I blame my insecurities on Rudy.  Well not Rudy himself; he is nothing but supportive and he always has my back.  Actually, I blame those skinny model bitches that he insists on hanging out with.

         After I polished off a quadruple venti latte and half of a chocolate chip cookie at Starbucks, Rudy sashayed in around 11 am reeking of alcohol.  I could tell he was hungover, because even when we walked into Saks, he kept his Jackie O. shades on.

         After a couple of hours of arguing, crying, near fist fights and at least 20 different dresses, we agreed on a flaming red (it's Christmas season, right?) Dolce & Gabana dress that dipped dangerously low in the back.  But I still had some reservations about the choice.

         "I was hoping for something that shows a little more cleavage," I complained.

         "Girl, didn't you get the memo?  Pamela Anderson is out and J. Lo is in.  It's all about the bootie, baby."

         "Besides, I can't afford it.  I mean, even with your employee discount, this’ll still cost me a week's salary."  I took another turn in the mirror.  "It does look hot, though."

         I looked at the price tag again.  I'll definately have to do the old “wear and return” trick. 

         "Okay, so that’s a done deal.  I hope your next stop is Carol's, ‘cause child, your head looks like a 'hot mess'," he said, shaking the bun piled on top of my head.

         "Oh yeah, like I'm gonna wear my hair in a bun with a $700 dress.  I'm not that ghetto.”

         I got my hair and nails done and then hurried home to get ready.  I took a shower and started getting dressed.  I was so hungry that I had eight Cheetos before putting the dress on.  I didn't want orange fingerprints on the red dress.  I taped the tags to the inside of the dress and slipped it on carefully, trying to avoid getting deodorant lines on it.  I had my curly hair blown straight and even had Carol put in a couple of extra tracks of hair for volume.  I looked in the mirror.  I had to admit I looked pretty good, except for the panty lines.  I felt sort of slutty taking off my thong, but it made me look like I was wearing a rubberband around my waist.

         The Towncar dropped me off in front of the Marriott Marquis.  I followed the signs up to the party.  I had never been to such a fancy event before.  Everyone was dressed so elegantly.  The men looked sharp in their tuxes (even the fat ones).  The older women wore evening gowns or dresses they had bought to wear as mother of the bride or something.  The younger women wore chic cocktail dresses.  I felt a little out of place.  Compared to the rest of them, I looked like a high class hooker in a designer dress.  I grabbed a glass of champagne from the first waiter that walked by.  I downed it and switched that glass for a full one from the next waiter's tray.

         I sat at a table with Dana, who sits across the aisle from me at work.  She was there with her husband and was sharing the table with a couple of the other assistants and their spouses.  I was never really close to the other women to begin with, but judging by the way their husbands were looking at me, that wasn't going to change anytime soon.

         As dinner was being served, the executives made the rounds with their wives, greeting all of the support staff.  The scowls that I got from the wives were a mix of jealousy and contempt.  Paul came by, but only gave me the tiniest nod of acknowledgement.

         After dinner, the band played dance music, or whatever it is that people dance to at these sort of things.  Not my kind of music.  Dana and the other women led their husbands to the dance floor.  I had the feeling that they were anxious to get their men away from me.

         I looked around for Paul.  I found him over at the bar toasting with some skinny chick I had never seen before.  She was laughing and hanging all over him.  That slut.  Now I felt like a total asshole.  I'm all hoed out in this dress I can't afford, I barely know anyone here, and the one person I came here to see has some other bitch all up in his face!  While I tried to figure out my next move, I had one, maybe two Cosmopolitans.

         "Fuck that," I mumbled to myself.  "I've had enough of this shit.  I'm outta here."

         After downing my last Cosmo, I went to get my coat from the coat room.  As I was tipping the coat check girl, I felt someone grab my shoulder.

         "Hey, where you goin' sexy?"  It was Paul.

         "Huh?"

         "You're not leaving me, are you baby?"  His eyes were glassy and he couldn't stop grinning.

         Before I coud answer, he snatched my coat from me, threw it back on the counter with a $20, and grabbed the ticket back from the surprised attendant.

         "Well," suddenly I was all smiles, "you're not giving me any choice are you?"

         "Nope."

         Before he could pull me back into the party, I had one more question.  "What about the woman I saw you with at the bar?"

         "That's one of the Bornstein daughters.  We went to college together.  She’s just a friend."

         He pulled me into the doorway and pointed to a mistletoe hanging between us.  While I was still looking at it, he put his hands on either side of my face and pressed his lips to mine.  I had been waiting for this moment for at least a year, and even though I could taste the woody flavor of scotch on his lips, the warmth and softness of them sent a hot, tingly feeling deep into my womanly parts.  My heart was pounding as he led me back into the ballroom and onto the dance floor.  The band was playing Salsa and the dance floor was packed.  Paul led took me to the middle of the room and began guiding me to the beat.  Those last few drinks were taking their effect, so it was only by the grace of Paul that I was able to keep up.  Man, he was good. I never danced with anyone so light on their feet.  After about 30 minutes of Latin music, the band slowed it down to allow people to catch their breath.

         "So where'd you learn to dance like that?"  I asked.  The way he was slowly swaying me to the music was almost hypnotizing.

         "My grandmother.  She was a dance teacher in the Bronx for almost 50 years.  How about you?"

         "Didn't you know?  Us Sisters can dance to anything."

         He stopped moving.  "I didn't get that memo."

         I guess my joke was a flop.

         "I'm just kidding."  We started moving to the music again.  "I grew up in Washington Heights, so all my friends were Dominican.  We used to practice all the latest Salsa and Meringue moves after school."

         Somehow, he took my words as the cue to press his crotch against mine and cup my left ass cheek.

         "I've got a few moves I'd like to practice on you."

         "Need practice, do you?"  I teased.

         "No.  I just thought I'd do you a favor and let you practice first before I hit you with the real deal," he said.

         "Bring it on, tough guy."

         He pressed his lips to mine again, but this time,  he slipped me a little tongue and put both of his hands on my ass.

         I felt someone watching us.  Sure enough, it was Beatrice, wearing a look I hadn't seen since my grandmother caught me with my neighbor's head up my skirt when I was eight.

         I tapped Paul on the shoulder.

         "I think we're starting to attract an audience."

         "Who?"  He looked around to see Beatrice staring at us with her arms crossed in front of her chest.  He flicked his fingers forward from underneath his chin.  "Fongoul her."

         "Shhh!"  I hoped to God she didn't see what he just did.  "That's my boss, Paul.  You wanna get me fired?"

         He squeezed me even tighter and planted a wet kiss on my neck.  I didn't know whether to be pissed off or turned on.  Thankfully, Paul made my decision easier.

         "Of course not.  Then I wouldn't get to see your pretty face every day."  He caressed my cheek as he said this.  A devilish smile spread across his face.  "I got an idea.  Why don't we get outta here?"

         Think quick Cecily.  You know what he wants and you know what you want.  To hoe or not to hoe, that’s the question.  I didn't know whether to listen to my mind or my body.  My mind was saying don't be a whore, but my body was screaming that it was too late to turn back now. 

         I took another look over Paul's shoulder.  Beatrice had turned back to her group.

         "Where'd you have in mind?  I don't think either one of us is in any condition to drive."

         "Don't worry, my lady.  I already thought of that.  I got a room upstairs and I've already got a bottle of champagne chilling up there."

         That said, he pulled me off the dance floor.  He picked up my coat and we jumped on the elevator.  As soon as the doors closed, we were all over each other.  It took us a few minutes to realize that we weren't moving.  He reached behind me, smacked a button, and we began to move.

         When we finally reached the room, I excused myself to freshen up while he poured the champagne.  In the bathroom, I fixed my makeup and took out my tracks of extra hair.  I could imagine how horrified he would be to find a clip-on extension laying on the pillow next to him.  I also washed up and spritzed some Chanel No. 5 "down there" (not "in" there) in case I had gotten funky from dancing.

         I was not prepared for what I saw when I came out of the bathroom.  Paul was leaning back on the bed wearing nothing but black socks, a bow tie, and black satiny bikini briefs.  He sat up and offered me a glass of champagne.  If his body wasn't so perfect, I would have peed myself laughing.  His body was like Brad Pitt’s in Thelm & Louise.

         I took the champagne and drank half of it in the first gulp.  Out of nowhere I became nervous.  What I had fantasized about over and over again was about to happen.  I swigged down the rest of the champagne and my fears turned back into lust.  I put down my glass and kicked off my shoes.

         "So are you gonna just sit there with a lump in your pants or are you gonna undress me?"

         He pulled me to my knees onto the bed and snatched my dress up over my head.  After tossing the dress on a chair, he ran his hands down my body.

         "Whoever said Black is beautiful wasn't lyin'."

         He kissed me again.  This time he moved from my lips and worked his way down.  When he got to my navel, he laid me gently down on the bed.  I was hoping he would kiss me a little lower, but for our first time, I wasn't really expecting it.  We kissed roughly while he struggled out of the rest of his clothes.

         "Prepare to ride the Italian Stallion," he moaned.

         It took all of my drunken restraint not to burst out laughing.  But then I had a sobering thought: men that are good in bed don't say corny shit like that.  The let their actions speak for themselves.  I tried to think positive and get back into it.

         "Ohh, baby," I moaned, pulling his hair.  "Show me what ya got."

         He reached down beside the bed and pulled a condom out of his pants pocket and put it on.

         "Are you ready?"

         "Yup."

         It was over before I realized it had even started.  I couldn't believe it.  All this hype and build up for, like, three seconds of pleasure.  Wait, no, I can't even call it that.  It definately wasn't pleasurable.

         Then he started to get heavy.

         "Paul?"  I tapped him on the shoulder.  No response.

         "Paul?"  I shook him harder and he began to snore.  Are you kidding me?

         "Paul, are you asleep?"  I pushed him off me and sat up.

         He stirred.  "Hmm?  What?" He opened his eyes halfway.  "Oh, hey, Cee Cee."  He yawned, yanked the condom off, and threw it on the floor.

         "It's Cecily."

         "That's what I said."  He rolled over onto his stomach.

         I sat there staring at him for a minute when he turned his head in my direction.

         "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not used to sleeping with other people. . . I toss and turn a lot."  He turned away from me again.  "I'm golfing with the partners tomorrow morning, so I gotta get some rest.  Know what I mean?"

         My eyes got hot and my vision began to blur.  I felt the blood rush to my face.

         "Sure, no problem," I said, trying to keep my voice from quivering.

         I threw my dress on, picked up my hair, my shoes, and my coat, and stormed out the room slamming the door behind me as hard as I could.

         As I ran barefoot down the hallway, I felt vomit rising in my throat.  I barely made it to the garbage can at the elevator before I puked up the champagne and cosmopolitans.  By the time I made it home I had sobbed, puked again, and almost wet myself. 

         And on top of all that: I ruined the goddam dress.