Contract (n.):
An agreement between two people that creates an obligation to do or not do a particular action.
Andrew
Six years later...
Durham, North Carolina
The woman who was currently sitting across from me was a f*cking liar.
Dressed in an ugly ass grey sweater and a red plaid skirt, her hair looked as if it’d been dyed with a box of crayons. She looked nothing like the woman in the picture online, nothing like the smiling blonde with C-cup breasts, butterfly tattoos, and plump, pink lips.
Before I’d agreed to this date, I’d specifically asked for three separate proof of truth pictures: one of her holding a newspaper with the most recent date on it, one of her biting her lip, and one of her holding up a sign with her name on it. When I requested these things, she’d laughed and said that I was “the most paranoid person ever,” but she’d done them. Or so I thought. With the exception of telling her my real name—I stopped giving out my real name years ago, I’d been completely honest and I expected that in return.
“Well, now that we’re alone...” She suddenly smiled, revealing a mouth full of metal and rubber bands. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Thoreau. How are you today?”
I didn’t have time for this. “Who’s the girl in your profile picture?” I asked.
“What?”
“Who is the girl in your profile picture?”
“Oh...Well, that isn’t me.”
“No shit it isn’t you.” I rolled my eyes. “Did you hire a model? Buy a bunch of stock images and use Photoshop?”
“Not exactly.” She lowered her voice. “I just thought you’d be more likely to talk to me if I used that photo instead of my own.”
I looked her over again, now noticing the strange unicorn tattoo across her knuckles and the “Love is blind” quote that was inked onto her wrist.
“What were you expecting to happen when we actually met?” This shit was boggling my mind. “Did you think about what would happen when that day came? When I realized that you weren’t who you said you were?”
“I was kind of expecting for you to have lied about your picture too,” she said. “I didn’t know that you would really look like you, you know? This is the first time a guy on Date-Match has told the truth. I think it’s a sign.”
“It’s not.” I shook my head. “And the model? How did you get someone to take all those pictures?”
“It wasn’t a model. It was my roommate.” Her eyes widened as I stood up. “Wait a second! All the things I said to you on the phone were absolutely true. I am interested in politics, and I do love studying the law and keeping up with high profile cases.”
“What law school did you go to?”
“Law school?” She raised her eyebrow. “No, not law school type of law. Law like, I’ve watched every episode of SVU and I’ve read all of John Grisham’s books.”
I sighed and pulled a few bills out of my wallet, putting them on the table. I’d wasted enough time with her.
“Goodbye, Charlotte.” I walked away, ignoring the rest of her apology.
The moment the valet pulled my car around, I slipped inside and sped off.
This shit is getting ridiculous...
This was the sixth time this had happened to me this month, and I didn’t understand why someone would willingly lie with a potential face to face meeting on the line. It didn’t make any f*cking sense.
Annoyed, I picked up a bottle of scotch from the store across the street, and made a mental note to block this latest liar from my page. I was starting to feel like I’d run out of available women to sleep with in Durham. I was also starting to feel like I needed to switch cities and start all over again; the cold sweats from years ago had returned, and I knew the nightmares were coming next.
As soon as I stepped into my condo, I poured myself three shots and tossed them back. Then I poured three more.
I scrolled through my phone and checked my emails for the day—client referrals, more requests to chat from Date-Match, and a message from the sexy blonde I was supposed to meet this Saturday.
The subject-line read, “Honesty is Key, right?”
I tossed back another shot before opening it, hoping it was an invitation to meet tonight instead.
It wasn’t. It was a goddamn essay.
“Hey, Thoreau. I know we’re supposed to meet each other this Saturday and trust me, I was sooo looking forward to it, but I need to know that you’re interested in me for me and not my looks. I’ve met a lot of creepy guys on here because they just like my picture, and when we meet, they just want to have sex. I can assure you that I am who I say I am, but I’m looking for something a little more fulfilling than casual sex. We don’t have to have a full blown relationship, or engage in an intense affair, but we could at least build a friendship first, you know? I’m looking forward to seeing you, so let me know if you’re still interested in meeting me—Liz.”
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 p-ssy...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 p-ssy 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*cked 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*ck 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 p-ssy 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*cking 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*ck?!
I was five seconds away from recording this conversation on my phone and emailing it to her grandfather.
“I’m really good at giving blowjobs,” she said. “I’ve been doing it since high school. All the guys I’ve blown have said my mouth is amazing.” She bit her lip.
“Is there super-glue on my floor? Is that why you’re still standing there?”
“If you were my date to the gala and we ended up having a good time, you’d be the first man I’d actually went all the way with.” She blurted out, blushing. “I’m still a virgin, down there.”
“Then I’m definitely not the man for you.” I rolled my eyes. “Now, leave before I call Mr. Greenwood and tell him that his precious granddaughter is offering to suck my dick over morning coffee.”
Shocked, her cheeks tinged red and she quickly walked to the door. Then she looked over her shoulder and winked at me—f*cking winked at me, before stepping out.
I immediately typed a note into my planner: Find a new secretary—an older, married one...
Before I could finish organizing my inbox, my cell phone rang. Alyssa.
“I’m busy,” I answered.
“Then why did you pick up the phone?”
“Because the sound of my voice makes you wet.”
“Funny.” She laughed. “How’s your morning?”
“Typical. My secretary just came onto me for the third time this month.”
“She sent you another ‘You and me belong together’ note with chocolates?”
“No, she offered to suck my dick.”
“What?” She gasped. ”You’re kidding!”
“Unfortunately not. After that, she told me she was willing to give me her virginity. Needless to say, I’ll be posting a replacement ad pretty soon. Anyone from your office want to work for a better firm? I’ll double the salary.”
“How do you know that my firm isn’t better than yours?”
“Because you call and ask me for advice on cases all the time—silly cases at that. If your firm was better, you’d never have to ask.”
“Whatever.” She groaned. “Have you bucked off the online dating wagon yet?”
“Bucked? Wagon?” I could never understand her little Southern metaphors. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Ugh, god...” She sighed. “It means you didn’t update me about your date last night so I guess it was a bust, which means you haven’t slept with anyone in over a month. That has to be a record for you.”
“It is.”
“Do you want some advice?”
“Not unless you want to come to my office and tell me in person.” I smiled.
“No, thanks. Speaking of advice, I’ll need your help Friday night.”
“With what?”
“I just landed a pretty big case. I haven’t gone through all the documents yet, but I already know I’m in over my head.”
I leaned back in my chair. “If it’s that big of a case, you could bring the documents to my condo tonight. I’d be happy to help you sort through them. Categorization has always been my specialty.”
“Ha! Nice try, but I don’t think so.” She continued to talk about her case, but I was only halfway listening. It still struck me as odd that she didn’t want to meet me in person, that she shut down the very thought any time I brought it up.
“Also...” She was still rambling. “I’ll probably have to do some research on those changes. I’m not sure if—”
“Tell me the real reason why I can’t meet you in person.” I cut her off.
“What?”
“We’ve known each other for six months now. Why don’t you want to meet?”
Silence.
“Do I need to repeat the question?” I stood up and walked over to my door, locking it. “Did you not understand me?”
“It’s against the LawyerChat rules...”
“F*ck LawyerChat.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s against the rules for you and me to have each other’s phone numbers in the first place, for us to act like f*cking teenagers and make each other cum over the phone at night, but you’ve never complained about that.”
“You’ve never made me cum...”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“You haven’t.”
“So, last week when I said that I wanted you to ride my mouth so I could eat your p-ssy until you came all over my lips, you were pretending to breathe hard?”
She sucked in a breath. “No, but—”
“I thought so. Why can’t we meet in person?”
“Because it would ruin our friendship and you know it.”
“I don’t.”
“You’ve told me that you never sleep with the same woman twice, that after you sleep with someone you’re done with her.”
“I’ve never f*cked one of my friends before.”
“That’s because I’m your only one.”
“I’m aware, but—” I stopped. I had no defense for that.
Silence lingered over the line, and I tried to think of another argument.
She spoke up first. “I honestly don’t want to ruin our friendship over one senseless f*ck.”
“I guarantee we’ll have more than one senseless f*ck.”
Her light, airy laugh drifted over the line, and I sighed—attempting to envision what she looked like. I wasn’t sure why, but over the past few weeks, I’d been longing to experience her laughter face to face.
“You know,” she went on, “for a high profile lawyer, you have a pretty dirty mouth.”
“You’d be surprised how much filthier it can get.”
“Filthier than what I’ve already experienced?”
“Much filthier.” I’d been treading the waters since we began this friendship—still hopeful that we’d meet in person someday, but now that we weren’t, there was no point in holding back. “I guess I’ll talk to you tonight.”
“Not unless you find another date between now and then. I know you’ll be searching.”
“Of course I’ll be searching.” I scoffed. “Is Alyssa your real name?”
“Yes, but I’m sure Thoreau isn’t yours. Do you care to finally give it to me?”
“I’ll give it to you when you come to your f*cking senses and let me see you.”
“You just won’t let that go, will you?” She laughed again. “What if the real reason I don’t want to meet you is because I’m ugly?”
“I have a good feeling that you’re not.”
“But if I was?”
“I’d f*ck you with the lights off.”
“I prefer the lights on.”
“Then I’d make you wear a paper bag over your head.”
“WHAT?!” She burst into giggles. “You’re ridiculous! Ugh, there’s a client at my door right now. I have to go. Can I call you later?”
“Always.” I hung up, smiling. Then it hit me.
F*ck...She always finds a way out of that line of questioning...