Just Say No

"Google 'Jared Lamar' and 'hypnotism,'" she told me. "Go on, the phone's not locked. I want you to see I'm not making this up."

My heart rate went up instantly. I know what to click on my laptop to bring up Google. I knew it was possible to do that on a phone, but I'd never bothered to learn how. My phone was for making calls and, if I was feeling adventurous, checking email.

I slid the Cassie's phone back across the table. "You do it. It will be faster. I'll probably either spell it wrong or find the wrong Jared Lamar, anyway."

She shrugged and took the phone back. The way her fingers moved I could tell she was one of the technologically gifted.

When she turned the phone back to me, it showed an advertisement for "Jared Lamar, Stage Hypnotist Extraordinaire." There was a picture, and show times listed for a casino in Las Vegas.

"Okay." I didn't know what she was getting at, but I waited for her to continue.

She took her phone back, jabbed at it some more, then flipped it around again. This time it was a picture of her and Jared, arms wrapped around each other.

"He's my ex," She said. "Are you with me so far, or do you still think I'm bullshitting you?"

"Well," I hesitated thinking about it. "I'll believe you dated this guy at one point, and I'll believe he's doing these shows. That doesn't mean I think hypnosis is real. No one is getting controlled, it's just social pressure. If you tell someone they're hypnotized and they're up on stage, it's more awkward if they don't jump around and flap like a chicken, or whatever. No one wants to be the kid in the Emperor's New Clothes that points out the whole show is a sham. Besides, this says he's in Vegas. That's a long way from Manhattan. How long ago was this?"

"We broke up six months ago," Cassie said. "That's when he moved to Vegas. I offered to move with him, but he made it pretty clear that when he said he wanted a fresh start he didn't just mean a different city."

"He dumped you?" I asked, surprised. "So he's not just a charlatan, he's an idiot."

"He's not a charlatan," She shrugged. "At least, he tries not to be."

"Tries?" That word didn't seem to fit the context.

"Before you start quoting Yoda at me, think about it. Imagine you're a stage hypnotist. How can you tell for sure if any of your subjects are faking it? You see them for one night, and then they're gone."

She had a point. "Fine," I acknowledged. "You were dating a guy who believes he can hypnotize people. So what?"

"He doesn't just believe—" she stopped mid-sentence, frustrated. "You know how there are music geeks who are obsessed with music and stereo equipment? And computer geeks are obsessed with computers and code? You might call Jared a hypnosis geek. He does everything he can to get it right. It's not just a way to make money to him."

I crossed my arms across my chest. "My firm recently had a case where the head of an old, wealthy family started believing he was the Greek god Hermes. His children hired us to help get him committed. That guy was really into being Hermes, swift-footed messenger of the gods. He still needed a wheelchair to get around."

"And what if you'd seen him leap out of the chair and run a ten second mile? I know Jared's for real, because he I let him practice on me."

We were interrupted by the appearance of our waiter. Cassie ordered the chicken Parmesan and a glass of white wine, while I selected the veal and opted to skip any alcohol. I wanted to keep my wits about me.

After the waiter left, I continued. "Let's say I believe you. How does that explain last night?"

"I—" She hesitated, looking down at the table. "I have a bad habit. I asked Jared to help. You can't be hypnotized to to do something that you genuinely don't want to do, but curing a habit? That's real. That works. Only I wasn't ready to give it up altogether. Instead, Jared hypnotized me so I had to ask his permission first."

I had an idea where this was going, but I still needed her to clear up a few details. "If you need his permission, what did you want with me?"

"When Jared left, he put me under again, and changed it," she said. "It wasn't a bad breakup, he said he wanted to let me down gently, so he did what I asked. I still need permission, but not necessarily his. Just someone. Anyone. It doesn't have to be the same person each time. But, if I ask someone, I can't ask anyone else until that person says yes. I don't think he intended that, but that's how it worked out, how my mind is working. So now I'm stuck."

She was earnest. At the very least, it seemed like she believed it. Further, if she believed it, then it was by definition the truth, wasn't it? The whole crazy claim hinged on what what was going on inside her head.

I think part of the reason I was starting to believe her about the hypnosis was because bad news is easier to believe than good news. My mindset went from she's spinning a crazy but entertaining story, to oh shit, she's just like Ms. Henderson.

"That day on the elevator, you were asking my permission." I surmised. "You were trying to make me think you were asking to leave the elevator, when really it was this. Right?"

It was obvious to me what habit she was referring to. I probably should have just said the word out loud. I hesitated, because even the thought of Cassie, this beautiful woman before me, smoking turned my stomach.

Cassie had blithely dismissed doing drugs the previous night, and she'd just ordered a glass of wine herself. That narrowed the possibilities. Further, she'd mentioned she had porn queued up before visiting me. Smokers liked to practice their filthy habit after getting off, didn't they? Not that Ms. Henderson ever got off in my presence, thank goodness. The thought of that was stomach turning all by itself, even without the cancer sticks.

Cassie nodded. "Right. I've found this workaround. I don't have to explain why I need permission. You were there on the elevator, and it seemed like an opportunity. You believe me?"

"I believe that you have a filthy, disgusting habit. But you already know that, don't you? That's why you asked for this."

Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes went wide as she spluttered in surprise. "I don't— You—" She stared at me in silence for for a moment, then dropped her eyes, breaking eye contact and then finally answering in a much softer voice: "Yes."

"Believe it or not I was listening last night, and I'm not stupid," I told her.

"You realize it's not the porn, right? I'm not addicted to porn. It's what comes after."

I hadn't even considered that possibility. Could women even get addicted to porn? Either way, she was confirming my deduction. "I know. Calms your nerves, does it? Takes the edge off? Helps you relax? I've heard it all before. You expect me to approve of that?"

She kept her eyes down, staring at the table in front of her. Again, her response was barely a whisper: "No."

When I was seven years old, over two decades ago, I had a babysitter. She was an acquaintance of my parents, her name was Anita Henderson, and she was the most revolting human being it has ever been my misfortune to meet.

Mrs. Henderson smoked, not so much like a chimney, but rather like a forest fire. Possibly an active volcano. Her home was perpetually enveloped in a toxic, nauseating miasma of tar and nicotine. Everything in there was covered in countless layers of yellowish brown residue, and that very definitely included her own hair, teeth and fingernails.

That wasn't the worst part, though. The worst part was what happened when she needed to run an errand. She would force me to ride along with her to the bank or the post office or wherever she needed to go. As she drove, she puffed away on her vile Marlboro Reds with the windows up. Ms. Henderson would crank up the windows, crank up Billy Joel on the radio, and trap me in what can only be described as an earthly embodiment of Hell.

To this day, the thought of being around someone smoking makes me physically ill. I even start to throw up in my mouth a little bit every time I hear a song by Billy Joel.

I wanted to communicate to Cassie just how inappropriate her habit really was. In my experience, smokers could be willfully oblivious.

"Tell me something," I said. "Do you hide it from your coworkers? Do they know about your little problem?"

Her demeanor changed in an instant. She was defensive, angry. "My clients don't know shit about me, and I like it that way."

This time it was my mouth that fell open. I was surprised at the instant shift in her behavior more than what she said.

Cassie must have assumed I'd jumped to the wrong conclusion. "Get your mind out of the gutter!" she snapped. "I'm a freelance developer and I work remotely. Android apps, mostly, though I'm branching out into iOS."

I raised my hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, I don't care, really. I was just asking whether your habit is something you're proud of. You asked your ex for help for a reason, right?"

She seemed to deflate all at once. "Sorry, sorry. It's a reflex. You want to know why I work remotely? I did an internship my last summer in college, and that's the first and last time I've ever worked full time for a big company. Maybe you've heard stories about how women don't get taken seriously in the tech industry? Trust me, they're all true. I've found freelancing is the best way to get away — physically, away — from that bullshit. Even then, it's still there, waiting under the surface to bite me in the ass. Let's just say I can be a bit sensitive on the subject."

"Well, let me say, for the record, that I'm sure you're good at your job. Two of the three partners at my firm are women, and they're scary smart. I'm all for gender equality in the workplace." I hesitated. "It's just—"

I saw her eyebrows go up, and her facial expression shift as if to warn me to rethink finishing that sentence.

I kept going anyway. I already thought of her as a smoker, which drastically reduced my interest in any sort of relationship. I really didn't feel the need to hold back. "I don't have a Facebook page. I don't tweet, and I don't use Snap-gram or Insta-whatever. Call me old fashioned, but I like to use my phone to talk to people with my voice. I'm sure you're really good at what you do, but are you really happy working with all that stuff? It all seems like such a waste of time and energy. And yes, I'd tell Mark Zuckerberg the exact same thing, to his face."

"Hmm." Cassie's anger had dissipated, but she wasn't ready to drop the subject. "An equal opportunity Luddite then?"

It was my turn to be defensive. "Hey, I'm not a Luddite. I'm all for curing cancer or going to Mars. I just don't think we need any more apps and ridiculous internet media companies with equally ridiculous names."

"You have a problem with what I do? That's funny," she said. "You're the lawyer. Quick, what do you call twenty-five attorneys buried up to their chins in cement?"

"I've heard that one. Not enough cement?"

"Not nearly enough cement. There are a hundred times that many lawyers in New York alone. Pot, meet kettle."

She was glaring at me, but I had the impression she was enjoying the verbal sparring.

I offered her an opening, though I let a bit more sarcasm creep into my voice than I really intended. "Why don't you tell me more about what you do? How are you working to better humanity?"

Cassie ignored, or at least pretended to ignore, the barb. She eagerly started explaining what she was working on, which is what I expected. Most people like talking about themselves.

Needless to say, I wasn't impressed. The app for a local food delivery service and the game she was working on seemed just as lame as every other useless thing that came out of Silicon Valley in the last two decades.

Her job seemed a safer topic than her addiction, though. I could nod and pretend to follow her talk about tech, but there was no way I could hide my passionate hatred of tobacco. I didn't want to inadvertently cause a scene at a restaurant as nice as La Campagna.

Cassie was still talking about her work when our food arrived. She continued throughout dinner as I politely listened and tried to work out how best to explain why I was never going to agree to give her the permission she wanted. At least the veal was exceptional.

As Cassie finished the last of her chicken, she gulped down the last of her wine, practically chugging it. "I think we may have gotten off topic. We were here to talk about my problem, weren't we?"

Here it was then. "I thought we already had."

"I still need your permission."

I sighed. "You're asking the wrong guy. Go ask someone else."

"I already explained," she said, "I can't. I asked you, so now I need an answer from you."

"And you already have my answer. I said no."

"That isn't—" Cassie didn't bother finishing the sentence.

"It isn't the answer you were looking for? Too bad. Not my problem."

She paused, apprehensive, before replying. "What do you want?"

I was saved from answering immediately, as the waiter came by with the check, which I paid.

The problem was circular: I would never be interested in someone who smoked. If I said yes, that's exactly what she would be. Yet, she had obviously intended to quit. She was smart, drop-dead gorgeous and the whole tech thing wasn't really a deal breaker. If I said no, she might be worth seeing again, but the chances she would still be interested under those circumstances were slim. If I said yes, she would become what I hate, and there would be no point in spending time with her.

Given that I couldn't have it both ways, I decided that turning her down made the most sense. If nothing else, it would be a tiny blow to the tobacco companies. One less customer. That, and this had a slimy sex-for-drugs vibe to it, which didn't sit well with me. "What I want is to make sure someone as smart and beautiful as you doesn't fall prey to this. I don't want something from you, I want this for you. You understand?"

As soon as I said it, I realized how condescending that sounded. Luckily, Cassie didn't seem offended. She blushed a little, and her voice once again retreated to a whisper. "I— Yes. I understand."

We walked back to our apartment building in silence, much as we had on the way to the restaurant. She had her eyes cast down toward the pavement the whole way.

When we reached my place, I wished Cassie a good evening and moved to close the door.

"Wait." Her hand pushed the door open again.

I knew what she wanted and had half expected this. "I'm not going to change my mind."

"Listen, it's not a game."

I crossed my arms cross my chest. "Of course it isn't a game."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"It's been over six weeks," she told me. "There was this nice, old guy, Barry, that was always at the coffee shop where I take my laptop to work. Whenever I sat down next to him, I would ask, 'May I?' and then he would say 'Of course.' It was so easy. But he stopped showing up. Now it's been six weeks, do you understand? That's why I took a chance on you. Six weeks! I'm going crazy!"

I nodded, even though I didn't sympathize with her plight one bit. "The first six weeks of the rest of your life. Did Barry know what he was agreeing to?"

"That's beside the point."

"No, it isn't," I told her. "That's exactly the point. You want permission to debase yourself. I don't approve, and while I don't know Barry, I'd be willing to wager he wouldn't approve either. He only thought you were asking permission to sit down, am I right?"

"Yes, alright, but you seemed to enjoy my visit last night, didn't you? At least, before you decided to take a nap."

Hadn't we been over this? "I'm not going to give my permission just because you show a little skin."

"How about a lot of skin?"

"Remember what you said before?" I asked her. "You told me about how you work remotely because you can't stand the sleazy guys in the tech industry. Listen to yourself. You're willing to throw yourself at me just to get your fix? Where's that self-righteous indignation I heard earlier?"

"Don't." Her voice was harsh, but the intensity faded as she went on. "Just don't. It's different. There's work, and then there's personal. This is personal. And besides, what I said was that guys wouldn't take me seriously, didn't respect my work. It sucks when you do everything right and your boss still treats you like you're incompetent because you don't have a dick. I didn't say anything about sleaze. Maybe I like sleaze. Did you ever think of that?"

"Actually, that fits. You want my permission to be filthy, after all."

I expected Cassie to flinch at that language, but she didn't. Instead, she took two steps closer to where I stood. She was now fully in my apartment instead of the hallway, and she closed the door behind her. "Oh? And what are you going to do about it?"

"Do?" The question seemed out of place in the conversation. "Nothing. I'm going to keep saying no until you figure out that I mean it."

"So you just plan on repeating that, over and over for the next hour and a half, or what? It's only eight, and your bed-time isn't until nine-thirty, is it?"

"Sounds like you're a slow learner, so I'll slow this down for you: Nooooo." I drew out the word. "I think that brings us back to where we started, doesn't it?"

"Convince me, then," she said.

"What?"

"Convince me that you mean it. I think, deep down, you want to give me what I want. Most guys would. You're just playing hard to get."

"I'm not most guys. What is it going to take to convince you?" I asked.

"You tell me. Be creative. We have an hour and a half before you turn into a pumpkin."

So that was how it was. Cassie was so desperate for her fix, she would put out anyway. No strings attached. She was gambling that I would feel be feeling magnanimous afterwards, which was a terrible bet.

I spoke slowly, deliberately. "You need to understand, really understand: if you stay, I'm still not going to say yes."

"Nope, not getting it." Her voice was playful. "You're going to have to be more persuasive than that." She was the one who had insisted her situation wasn't a game, and now she seemed to be treating it like one.

In that case, I could play that game. As soon as she decided to leave, I won. So long as I gave her the opportunity to leave and she refused, I could do whatever I wanted. I had her consent. She was literally asking for it. My house, my rules.

I had no intention of holding back. I intended to take the opportunity to indulge my own darker fantasies, of which I had many. There were things I would never admit turned me on, let alone try, in a real, equal relationship. In real life, I thought of women as friends and equals, but my fantasies ventured into much less socially acceptable territory. These unconventional circumstances provided a unique opportunity to explore them.

In a way, I was doing her a favor. She needed to quit smoking. Not only was she asking for this, she deserved it. She was a smoker who needed to learn her lesson. Reaching for a cigarette meant getting fucked, and not in a fun way. She was also a tech geek — a little payback for the hours of frustration I'd had over the years was only appropriate.

Alright, I was rationalizing this decision to myself. But, really, why not? As far as I could tell, there was no downside.

"You have two options," I informed her. "Your first option is to leave, right now. Just say, 'hey Bob I get it. I'll behave.' But, if you insist on sticking around, there's option two. I really don't think you'll like option two, but it's your choice. If you want to stay, then strip. Right now."