I'm Erect. Why Aren't You?

When I tell you about one of the fucking strangest things that’s ever happened to me, I want you imagine your boss peeing on you.  The only way you’ll be able to truly relate to my curious experience is by picturing a golden shower steaming off your chest, creating a little yellow pool around your crossed legs before whirl pooling down the drain.  Now that you have that image in your heads, buckle the fuck up cuz’ if I accepted the job I applied for on Craigslist, I’d be making $191.78 a day doing the same thing.  Thaz right:  One Huuuuundred and Ninety One Big Ones every day of the year for living the very definition of the trickle-down effect.  One Huuuuundred and Ninety One Smackeroos.

It all started out with me farting around in my underwear looking for paralegal jobs online.  It’d only been a couple days since I was officially unemployed, but my skin was already starting to itch with broken desperation.  I had sent my resume to dozens of law firms, and the lack of response was aiding me in considering robbing my neighbor.  The high of walking out on my job had worn off, and just when I wanted to hurl my laptop at the wall, I found an ad for a personal assistant job that paid $70,000 a year, and involved travel abroad.  My mind danced the truffle shuffle just thinking about what I’d do with all that dough, so I ate a sandwich and applied.

I got a response back shortly from a woman who was labeled as ‘First Personal Assistant’ on her signature block.  She said at this stage of the process, she would only interview me through Google chat.  I was full off of PB&J and didn’t have shit to do for the rest of the day, so I agreed.  After we went through the obligatory meet-and-greet (she asked me where I was from, to which I bellowed, “Back east….different places!”), we got down to business.  She asked me why I thought I was qualified for the position, and of course I gave her the typical I’m-really-organized-and-I’ve-been-so-dedicated-to-every-job-I’ve-come-across schpiel.   Everything seemed like standard question-answer fare until things took an unexpected twisted turn.

To give you a little background before I go in deep, the man I’d be ‘assisting’ was the CEO of a multi-national corporation with estates in the U.S., Asia and Europe.  If I were to get the position, not only would I be living rent-free in luxury, but I’d also be spending over half the year in the U.K. and Japan.  After I went through all these details with my interviewer, the First Personal Assistant began explaining what Mr. [Blank]’s expectations of me would be.  Here’s a choice nugg verbatim:

“Okay well I should tell you that this position's job description at its core is very simple. It is to be able to wake up in the morning and ask yourself how you can make Mr. [Blank]’s life better, easier and happier that day and do whatever it takes to make that happen. The word "no" is not in our vocabulary. The words "That is not my job" are not in my vocabulary. There are no "yeah buts".”

After that gem, she asked me if I had any limitations, and I said, “Oh, that's a tough one. This may sound really stupid, but I would do anything for Mr. [Blank] short of something sexual or totally humiliating.”  Bitch actually was taken aback by this, and proceeded to tell me how she took pride in her ability to please in all situations, and Mr. [Blank] would have serious concerns that I had two ‘buts’ on my resume.  I confusedly pressed on, saying, “Well, my shred of dignity would keep me from agreeing to have sex with a boss or pick up animal feces with my bare hands. The point that I'm trying to make here is that I am so good at rolling with the punches that aside from the scenarios I just described above, I would do absolutely anything for Mr. [Blank]. I would be absolutely dedicated to making his life better than it already is.”

Now, all regular viewers know I’m a hell of a slut.  It’s been fairly well-documented.  However, this actually felt like the first time I had to defend my morality because this woman was making it abundantly clear that sex with Mr. [Blank] and his business associates was a regularly expected part of the job.  I got nervous and started going into the coercion factor between an employer and employee, but suddenly I stopped dead in my tracks for two reasons.  Paranoia had set in that the person on the other end of this Google chat might not have been the First Personal Assistant to Mr. [Blank], but a total random creep trying to get girls to admit to things they wouldn’t normally.  Second, a fucking napalm bomb of curiosity exploded all over my pants. 

In my splendid judgment, I decided to say, “You know what?  Life is short.  Sure, I’ll have sex with Mr. [Blank] if that’s a job requirement.  But let me ask you a few things first:  Is Mr. [Blank] married? Attractive?  Is he into kink, or does he usually go for straight sex?”  The F.P.A. answered, “He is divorced and yes, I feel he is very attractive. What would you describe as kink? I've heard different definitions in my time.”  Now was my time to gratify my prurience, so  I asked, “Has he ever asked you to do anything like pee on him? Does he really enjoy getting or giving head?  Does he ever role play?”

My interviewer told me she would never dream of peeing on Mr. [Blank], although he was welcome to do it to her if he wished.  She also said, yes, he was into role playing.  I barrel laughed in front of my computer.  What the fuck kind of role playing was this guy into?  Let me guess:  I would play a wealthy boss lady, and he would play….a lowly assistant sleeping with me for money?  I was having an absolute ball, but after a while I started getting confused about how un-serious or serious I was about this position.  Was our state’s job market so terrible, that I actually considered be a glorified prostitute?  Ah shit, things were getting muddy now.  Somewhere inside my soul, I felt like this:

After a long discussion with myself in front of the mirror, I decided to stop G-chatting the woman after that last conversation.  I decided that no matter how great it’d be to get out of debt by fucking, the risk was too much.  The scary thing was I actually felt like I could have gotten the job if I really wanted to (that is, if it existed).  In retrospect of the whole ordeal, I’m thinking of sending this post to Congress with the subject line “Look What You Almost Made Me Do, Assholes!!”  Uhhhh huh, I’m so sure I’ll garner a shitload of sympathy from Washington.  Some junior senator is gonna be like, “Bitch, I’ve forced a personal assistant to wear a fucking ball gag and watch all of Rachel Getting Married with me while I barebacked her.  So sorry you blew an opportunity with killer travel benefits just cuz’ you didn’t want to suck some wealthy dick, fucking socialist.”