Once upon a time, before she was sleeping with married men and having people eat raw fish off her raw fish, all in the name of journalism, Melanie Berliet supposedly worked as a bond trader at “an elite investment bank.” She was one of just a handful of women and sushi girl liked it.
…my token status gave me an extra thrill. There was something doubly funny when I drilled a Nerf football into some guy’s head. Something gratifyingly titillating about my accidental flubs, like the time I announced, too loudly, “I love nuts.” I enjoyed being called a “fucking dullard” or being instructed, patronizingly, to “remove head from ass,” because my reaction–to grin rather than cry–impressed the guys. I loved their attention and the daily opportunities to prove that I fit in.
To that end, Mel B was up to get down when her boss, “Carl Pratt” (whose name was changed for this article, more on that later), texted her shit like, “Just woke up from a dream. I had you on your belly and took you from behind. You came multiple times.” At first she was like, silly Carl you sound like such a tool using the word ‘belly’ but as for the doing me from behind? I’ve been thinking about it too. She hadn’t actually been thinking about it, but Carl was her boss and they’d been doing the sexual banter thing for some time now. Also, Melanie felt “blessed to be able to play the sex card rather than cursed to have the game foisted upon me” and the bottom line was her “overwhelming preoccupation was procuring a fat bonus check.” There was only one thing left to do. Text back: “Wow. And I thought I was the only one still having wet dreams.” She figured, later that night, there’d be a few more drunk exchanges with CP but she didn’t think that even after telling him she had her period and that she’d “pulled her groin” that he’d persist but surprise! He did. So she told him to put on some “hard core porn” and got in a cab.
Too briskly, the elevator transported me to the twelfth floor of his hotel. I stood, ears popped, on the hallway’s plush carpet, pondering again. I imagined Carl’s arms around me. Then I saw him at work, rounding the corner to my desk, vigorously shaking the back of my chair, upsetting my balance before locking me in his devious grin. I was Carl’s underling, but I refused to consider myself a victim. Our audacious, perpetual flirtation was not one-sided. I could have ignored him. I could’ve avoided the girlish smiles and spurned the extra attention. Foreseen that it might not end well. I looked from the indiscernible smudges of the abstract painting on the wall to the small numbers on the door to my left: 1201. Neither told me what to do. I glanced behind me. In an inspired moment of clarity, or out of acute fear, I made a promise to myself: If I could lunge back toward the elevator doors in time to thrust my hand between them, I would go. A few impossibly large steps brought me to the elevator bank, and I sprang toward the narrowing gap. A soft beep sounded. A brightly lit empty box opened before me. I was gone.
So, she didn’t fuck him, but then he fucked her, hard, for not doing him, by giving her a $65,000 bonus, which Mel says was “at least $35,000 too low” and “mocked her.” But you know what comforted young Melanie? The realization that everyone on Wall Street is a whore. Is there really a difference between coming two shakes from having your boss fuck you from behind at the W and not coming two shakes from having your boss fuck you from behind at the W? Mel doesn’t think so.
Without a word, I walked back onto the trading floor, past the plantation of computer stations manned by employees like me. Recognizing our commonality, my rage receded. I had been ruthless, as they were, because I wanted the rewards of success–to assert control and live an independent, enviably cushy life. I felt absurdly unoriginal.
So…anyway. Let’s put your collective intel to work figure out the real identity of Carl the Bonus Buster. He’s probably got some good stories to share.
Playing The Sex Card At Work [Elle via Daily Intel]