"It's not like I am being paid to fuck"
Lisa's Uber arrived for her before I had chance to respond.
It's exactly like being paid to fuck, I had wanted to scream, What else do you call it?
It was the same old argument. We had shared our two bed Mountain View rental for three years during which Lisa's career had taken off while I was barely managing to keep my head above water. Lisa spent her vacations in Barbados and Hawaii. I spent mine moonlighting as a network admin to make my college loan payments on time.
We both knew the reason Lisa had been so much more successful and it certainly wasn't her technical abilities or her people skills: Lisa went to those parties and I did not.
I'm not a prude by any means. Any Friday or Saturday that was neither a party night nor one of my increasingly brief periods of monogamy would find us in a singles bar. The morning after the parties (or more likely afternoon) I would trade a cooked breakfast with a pot of really strong black coffee for details of Lisa's night out. It was a ritual so firmly established that Lisa continued to insist on her sausage, bacon and fried egg sunny side up even after becoming an otherwise strict vegan.
There are silicon valley parties and there are silicon valley founders parties. The parties are like the minor leagues in baseball, a feeder circuit for the main event. There are many rich people in the valley, but only a few are really rich, Engineers drive Jags and Beemers, Founders drive Ferraris and Aston Martins.
Founders are the people who get into the startups first and get out with the biggest rewards. Joining a hot startup and making a million bucks in the IPO is the dream of every engineer in the valley. Congratulations, do it twice and you buy a house. Founders are the people who get in at the ground floor and get the lion's share. Engineers sign the kids up for a sleepover with friends and invite a couple of dozen people to a two beds-and-a-couch gangbang. Founders host parties.
Lisa was 27, bisexual and uninhibited. Her accounts of her adventures were comprehensive and delivered without the slightest hint of shame. A CEO whose name you must know had fucked her in the rear while she licked his wife's pussy. She had laid head to toe next to an engineer from a rival company and competed to take the most cocks inside her. She had been tied to benches, to ceilings, to whipping posts and to other women.
It was during a pause one of these accounts that Lisa had taken away my lesbivirginity. We were sitting together on the sofa in our sleep shirts, mugs of coffee in hand. I asked what it had felt like to be kissed by a woman and Lisa replied by way of demonstration. After our first kiss, we put our mugs on the table and kissed again without either of us saying a word.
Lisa had offered to pop my woman cherry for me soon after I moved in, an offer I had decided to treat as a joke. My stomach churned as the angels of my better and worse conscience carried out a furious argument in my head as our lips and tongues pressed close together.
Act like a man! Drill her!
Never fuck your roomie!
She, wants it, you want it, do it!
What would Hector think if he saw you?
The last argument was so stupid, I almost laughed. I had known Hector all of two weeks for a start, and what man doesn't fantasize about a threesome with his GF's roomie?
Be like Hector! I thought, and decisively placed my hand on Lisa's thigh. Meeting no resistance, my hand slid her sleep shirt back to explore Lisa's slippery cunt.
A few minutes later, we were a pair of scissors, grinding our pussies against each other. After we both came, Lisa gave me a comprehensive training in the pleasures of my newly discovered vice.
What man doesn't fantasize about a threesome? Hector. "There is never a quid without an eventual pro quo", he said as he dumped me.
Lisa had to make her own breakfast the next morning: I was spending my Saturday morning at work, packing my stuff into the car before the liquidators came to lock the building.
It wasn't the lost money that depressed me, it was the lost time. All I had to show for my six months of work was a huge dent in my bank balance and the Herman Miller Aeron chair I nicked from the CFO's office.
It wasn't just my bank balance that was being depleted, it was my energy. I had worked 350 hours in the last four weeks trying to get a product ready for launch that nobody would ever use. In valley lingo, such projects are known as a death march.
Lisa understood the reason for her missed breakfast and my foul mood the minute I wheeled the chair into the apartment. Lisa realized what had happened immediately. She had looted one herself in the exact same circumstance. I am pretty sure nobody in the valley ever pays for one, they just pick them off the corpses of failed dotcoms.
We always wore the same sleepshirts for our after-party parties and only ever washed them when the stench of sex became too overpowering. Lisa tried to cheer me up with a snapchat from the previous evening's debauchery of her hogtied naked to the spoiler of a bright yellow Lamborghini Countach.
Three men had taken her in that position. A power-fuck for the ages: Taking a beautiful woman in the rear as she was spreadeagled on the rear of the original supercar the original icon they had lusted after since before they discovered women. No man would forget a fuck like that. It would be the fuck they remembered when they fucked their wives, the fuck they remembered with their dying breath.
On any other day, we would have spent the rest of the day at each others naked crotch. But my energy was spent. I slouched off to my room to crawl under the duvet and cry where no-one would see.
****
After three days updating my LinkedIn profile, posting my resume to a half dozen jobs boards and playing way too much Gears of War in the apartment, Lisa summoned me to a lunch at The Good Earthin Palo Alto, 'to meet a friend who might be useful'.
I was tired, depressed and disappointed. There were plenty of jobs on offer but most would be a step back and none seemed likely to be a clear step forward. It didn't seem likely Lisa's head hunter would be able to find me anything different but I was obliged by the fact she had made an effort on my behalf.
Much to my surprise, Dave's portfolio was a clear cut above the rest. There is never a shortage of companies looking for code monkeys able to churn out Java, Python or C# and there are always jobs for systems and network managers. I wanted a job where I could own a little piece of the product we were building, a job that would allow me to move up the ladder, not sideways.
Lisa finished her lentil casserole and left me discussing three positions he thought might be a match. These were all positions that hadn't been posted yet. I wanted to know why they weren't posted, because companies don't ask for what they think they can get.
Despite living in the States for twenty years, Dave had not lost his native English accent. He spoke clearly and with precision as if narrating a documentary for the BBC. As we spent the next hour discussing possibilities and opportunities, I kept reminding myself of the need to focus on my future and not daydream the possibilities of a married man nearly twice my age.
It was only when it was time to leave that I discovered the cause of my unexpected good fortune. After paying the bill, Dave turned to me and asked if I could do him a favor, he had parked head on, could I be his eyes and guide him out of his parking space?
Dave started to explain that the mirrors in his car are practically useless for parking but I already knew that because there is only one car it could be. A car notorious for its comically defective rear vision and grossly incompetent spoiler that actually slowed the car down rather than speeding it up. A car that I had spent many hours thinking about even after Lisa's snapchat had expired: A bright yellow Lamborghini Countach.
A gaggle of admirers had formed around the car and it felt rather good to be the person charged with directing him out. Not that it was a challenge on this occasion, the cars stopped on both sides of University Avenue to give him space. The driver of one of them, a Porsche Boxster gave a smile and a friendly salute as he passed. If only they knew the use that spoiler had been put, I thought.
I was on cloud nine till Dave's farewell brought me down to earth, "Thank you! See you at Victor's on Friday then".
Six words brought my hopes for a new life crashing down again, See you at Victor's on Friday.
Where did I stand? What had Lisa told him? Had I just walked (or been led) into a quid pro quo?
I felt trapped. I could go to Victor's party and trade my self respect for a career or I get another job as a code monkey in a doomed startup on a death march and lose my sanity and my health along with my self-respect.
Lisa had meant well, I am sure of that. Girl goes to party, girl gets favor: Why should the girl who goes to the party be the girl that gets the favor. Why shouldn't the girl who goes to the party gift the favor to a friend in need of it?
That's just not the deal, I said to myself.
Dave was only the middle man. The founders wanted their parties to be filled with attractive, intelligent and available women. Dave's job was to find them.
For me, letting Lisa party for me was the worst deal of all. I might learn to live with myself for whoring my own body out to get ahead but I would never learn to live with whoring out Lisa. And the fact that Lisa was willing to be whored only made things worse. If I couldn't thank her for it, I would have to resent her for it.
Seeing no end to my foul mood, I decided I might as well be completely miserable and headed back up El Camino Real to have the lower half of my body tortured with hot wax. Next day, I went to Baker Beach to practice having people look at me. If I was going to be a whore, I could at least do it well.
Bitch,
Nothing says you're somebody's bitch as surely as being collared and led naked on a leash. It was Lisa's idea and actually rather practical. Touching a collared sub without permission of their master is one of the worst breaches of decorum possible.
Victor's party was just as splendid as you would expect of that Victor, the one you know because he's been a household name for a dozen years and you use his company every day. No expense was spared from the moment of our arrival when we were greeted by liveried staff who took our coats and handed Dom Perignon in crystal glasses from a silver tray. At the end, there were chauffeured limousines to take guests who might have had too much to drink home.
Our arrival marked my transition from the outside world to the party world, from regular me to obedient sub, a transition Lisa had made me practice several times. As the maid removed my coat, I was to tilt my head down towards the floor and put the end of my leash in Lisa's right hand. These apparently simple instructions were actually quite hard to make appear smooth and effortless. Or perhaps that was just some story I was telling myself for distraction.
At this point in the evening, the party might have passed for any other cocktail party in the atrium of an upscale boutique hotel. Guests wore Tuxedos and brightly coloured dresses. A string quartet (well known) played in a musician's gallery and the wait staff moved in and out of the crowd with trays of canapes. It might have passed for any other evening of drinking and small talk if not for the living statues wearing only brightly coloured body paint and a mahogany flogging horse in the shape of a pentagram at the very center of the atrium..