She was once a curvy Hooters waitress where all the girls are measured by bra size first, panties second and intelligence fifth. Marissa was a total babe, the package magnificent, body taut and mind razor-like. She utilized her girlish assets under 21 to get a sugar daddy for 12 months. Fifty large, a black Lexus, cute kid and $2,000 a month in child support later, she was out the door to make her way in the nefarious power-drunk world.
After getting through the 6-year torture session that is college, with professors that drone on, and on, and on about their ideas, while never applying a lick of them, Marissa finished up near the top of the 2004 Kellogg Business class at Northwestern. She was out to make a name for herself – willing to set aside principles and morals for bullshitting and cash receipts – if only to have what others desire, but won’t pay the adequate price for.
I met her during the company introduction of new ‘imps’, as the H-N-I-C was apt to say, which usually comprised of quick run down of a resume of useless information, since none of it usually true or leaves out the real juice to squeeze. Somehow, she noticed me. Or at least wasn’t repulsed by any ogre-like tendencies most men carry around like their penises.
“So what do you do here?” she asked.
“I wash the cars of big wigs, maybe get them a call girl for the evening.” I nonchalantly replied. (At least I think I did.)
“That’s nice, at least the sexual innuendos are out of the way. What do you really do? All these others are pretty staid.” The bullpen was nearly empty after the 9AM meeting discussing numerous particulars relevant to particularly no one.
“Gather and process information. Make someone happy by knowing something they don’t, or anyone else does for that matter. Inside… it’s all pink.”
“So you think you know stuff?” Marissa asked.
“I know…lots of stuff. And little else.” As we finally packed up to leave the bullpen of the 58th floor high rise.
“Guess I have a few nuggets to share…soon with you.” She strolled out the door in a way that spoke to me. The magnetic pull of her ass to my privates was something of an embarrassment. I jerked it off to her before the clock struck midnight.
As the months went by, I saw Marissa manipulate her way into projects – with success and praise soon to follow – and soon she was my equal in everything. Our banter revolved around sex, numbers, Buddhism and lingerie models’ weight. At 5’7” and 115 lbs., her lithe body was toned on a Stairmaster workout midday. I’d smack a handball around with the H-N-I-C because I knew his ass was ample to kiss. Soon though, 7 PM meant we would recap some parts of the day, and talk sweetly about what little direction we actually had. (Or, I at least did.)
“Tom…Are you happy?” Sucking down her 3rd screwdriver without skipping a beat.
“I wonder until the paycheck comes. Then the cycle repeats.” I take a swig from my 4th Long Island. “How about you, expert mountain climber?”
“Hey, I utilize my exceptional assets in a talent-poor market to increase my bottom line.” She half-stands, smacking her ass. I only wish I was the hand.
“Not at all against free-market…Milton Friedman, God rest his soul.” We clink our glasses.
Later, as I nestle her close in my bed, I feel something unreal – more pressing than ever – the desire to profess my love to her. She lays asleep, or I think she is, or know that I must be crazy to think this smooth worker is actually interested in my 6-figure ass. She mumbles something in her dreamy state that sounds like a call order. I must be nuts…
We’ve spent the last 5 months figuring out the language of love and manipulation. I work overtime figuring out what she is trying to accomplish, cause that is what you do when you never speak the truth of your hearts. We fuck a lot. Not so much as to interfere with her ‘plans’ I suppose, but enough. We’re not exclusive…
As the year-end bonuses come, I am hoping to lock Marissa up for the long-term. Her daughter Kate is a pistol at 5 years old. Always talking and saying something that matters. I wonder if Marissa was talking to her daughter in the womb.
Marissa knocks at the door, “Tom, are you ‘bout ready to go?”
Closing up the laptop, “Yeah, I’m done. How did you do?”
“Got what I needed…” Marissa doesn’t sound happy.
“What’s wrong? They leave off a zero?”
“Let’s talk about it at Breakers.” Referring to our bar in the financial district.
End Part II
