The Education of Adam Ch. 01

The summer after I turned 18, before I went to college, my parents decided that it would be better if I got a job, instead of spending the summer "loafing" (their version) and "hanging out" (my version). When I proved less than enthusiastic in my pursuit of this goal, my parents managed to find a job for me—in the business office of my father's law practice. And, while I thought I'd hate it (I never had any intention of going into law, or business), it turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life. That had nothing to do with the work; in fact, there wasn't much for me to do, except file and make copies. But I sure learned a lot from my fellow employees.

They were all really nice to me; not that they had much of an alternative—I'm quite sure that my father didn't ask them what they thought of the idea, and then put it to a vote among the staff; that just wasn't his style. Still, they accepted me with good grace. There were four of them in the business office: Jean, the receptionist; Arlene and Sally, the secretaries; and Deborah (not Debbie!), the office manager. They were of various ages (being young and utterly self-absorbed, I had no ability to distinguish the ages of anyone above 30), with Sally being the youngest (early 20s) and Jean the oldest (my inner child still sees her as 80, but in truth she couldn't have been more than 50 or so). They were a fast-talking, wisecracking bunch; jokes flew around the room constantly, and a lot of the humor was decidedly on the salty side. For a gangly 18-year-old, who had never been on a date, or spent any time in the company of women—apart from his mother and grandmothers—it was an education.

I immediately developed a crush on Sally. She was the closest to my own age and, although even then I knew that she wasn't really pretty, she had an ease, and a grace, and a sense of her own sexuality that, even though I could not have articulated it then, impressed me with the sense that she was a woman in the ways that the girls I knew were still only trying to be. She was married—as were all of the women, except for Deborah, who was divorced—and, even if she hadn't been, I'm sure I would never have seriously entertained the hope that she would ever do anything more than smile at me (which she did, readily enough). Still, in my fantasies, I imagined her begging me to fuck her, which I would then do, over and over and over again. The others came in for bit parts, too, on occasion: Arlene, who had the biggest breasts, and a pair of thick, black plastic framed glasses that made her perfect for the role of what I would only later—when I discovered video porn—realize was the naughty librarian (no matter how hard I fucked her, she never took the glasses off); Jean, I suppose, for a bit of variety, although I never had much interest in her; and Deborah, almost as rarely. Not because she wasn't sexy—she was: she had the best ass and legs of the group, and knew how to dress to show off everything to the best advantage—but because her air of authority made her seem off-limits, and a bit intimidating. She was the only one in my fantasies who, when I fucked her, stayed in control.

Although I would have vigorously denied it at the time, I was enjoying my working summer vacation. I was learning that women were not the mysterious, decorative creatures my limited contact with the species had led me to believe that they were. I learned that women could be capable and hard working; that they could be at least as willing as men to talk about sex, and even more willing to have a sense of humor about it; and that, even if they weren't above enjoying the occasional joke at my expense, they were not, as my school experiences had taught me, conspiring to take turns alternately humiliating and ignoring me.

One morning, about a month after I started, Deborah approached me and suggested that we go to lunch together, because she had something she wanted to discuss with me. This wasn't especially unusual; going out to lunch was routine at the office, and people usually went out in groups of two or three (it was necessary, of course, to leave at least one person to answer the phone). The prospect of a tête-à-tête with Deborah was simultaneously worrisome (I knew I hadn't seriously fucked up, but there was always the possibility that I was in for some criticism) and exciting (I was having lunch with an attractive woman, just like the man I knew I had it in me to be). At noon, we walked out together into the July sunshine, to her car (I rode to work with my Dad). Inside it was steaming, but, more than anything, I was struck by the smell: pure Deborah, a mixture of her perfume, with a faintly musky odor that I unconsciously recognized as sexy. She drove, confidently and efficiently, to a Mexican restaurant across town. Inside, it was dark and cool, and almost empty; we were led to a booth in the back, and left alone to look over the menus.

After we ordered, and the waitress had disappeared, Deborah got down to business. "You've got a crush on Sally," she said, "and that's natural, I suppose, and, ordinarily, harmless. But it's beginning to disrupt the atmosphere in the office, and that makes it my problem."

I began a feeble protest, but she cut me off. "I don't blame you," she said, a bit more gently, "as I said, it's only natural, especially for someone your age. You must be a seething mass of hormones, and you don't seem like you know what to do about it yet. I don't suppose you have a girlfriend?"

"No," I replied, now thoroughly miserable.

"Look, it's OK. Girls your age can be difficult, I know. They don't know how to make themselves available for what they want, any more than you do. But Sally knows, all right. Not that she really wants you, mind—but believe me, she gets a charge out of turning you on. Yeah," she nodded at me, noting my surprise at that, "you should know that. Flirting with you makes her just as hot as it makes you. But she's never gonna let you pull those damp little panties down; at least, not as long as she can lead you around by the nose the way she's doing. And it's creating some resentment. Yes, I know they're all married. But we're not talking about marriage here; we're talking about sex. And, as the only man in a group of women, you are unsettling the balance. You are giving all of your overtly sexual attention to one woman. Even if none of these women actually want to have sex with you—and maybe you shouldn't jump to that conclusion too quickly—they don't want to be made to feel that they are utterly uninteresting to you, compared with Sally."

"So what do I do?" I asked, finally. My mind was still clinging to the image of sweet Sally pulling down her damp panties.

"You have to stop it, obviously. I don't mean stop flirting with Sally altogether; that would just make her upset, and make everything worse. But tone it down. Be aware of what you're doing, so you don't walk around with your tongue hanging out. And try flirting with the others. If nothing else, it's good practice. Believe me, a man who knows how to flirt will never have to settle for a strong right hand."

I must have looked pretty embarrassed at that. "There's nothing wrong with it," she laughed. "Women do it too, did you know that? Not the same way, obviously. But it's just as much fun." She looked me straight in the eye, and winked. She murmured, more to herself than to me, I think, "It's too bad nobody teaches kids these things. Still, I suppose there are some things you have to find out for yourself." Then our food came.

After we started eating, she changed the subject, asking me a lot of questions about myself: what subjects I liked in school, what I did with my friends, where I wanted to go to college, what I wanted to do when I "grew up"; pretty standard conversational fare between an adult and a teenager, which put me back into familiar territory. She even told me a little about herself: that she had divorced her husband nearly ten years ago, after only a year of marriage, but not before she became pregnant with her son, who was now the center of her life; that the men she met were either uninteresting and unimaginative, or else too controlling, and unwilling to allow her the kind of freedom she had become accustomed to.

"I have a lot of one-night stands," she said, matter-of-factly. "I like sex—need it, even. But I have to separate it from what's really important to me: raising Nick, and living life on my own terms. You must think I'm a terrible person," she added, almost shyly.

"I think you're terrific," I objected. "In fact, at the moment I can't think of anyone I admire more." I felt my face flushing; not, this time, with embarrassment, but with determination.

"Not even your own mother?" she asked, with a smile.

"I love my mother," I said, "and I appreciate what she'd done for my family, and for me. But sometimes I feel a little sorry for her. I think maybe she gave up too much to get what she has."

"You keep thinking that way," she said, after a brief pause, "and you're going to make some woman very happy, someday." Then, glancing at her watch, she became suddenly businesslike again. "It's time to get back to work. Remember what I said: be aware of yourself; flirt, but do it on your own terms; and remember to spread it around. You do it my way, and you'll be cock of the walk by the end of the month—guaranteed."

Dropping some cash on the table with the check (I had made a feeble attempt to grab it, which she had briskly ignored), she whisked us both out of the restaurant and back again to work.