Crisis Management

I glanced over at her for the fiftieth time. Two rows ahead of me, two machines to the left. I quickly forced myself to look back at the row of TVs hanging from the ceiling, not wanting her to catch me looking at her again. Not that she had any idea I was even alive, mind you; maybe I was more afraid of being embarrassed by someone else catching me ogling the ultra-fit redhead with the ponytail effortless gliding away on the elliptical machine. So instead I kept sneaking peeks every 30 seconds. If nothing else, she was great motivation—I could run twice as far, and with less effort, on the days when I could see her from where I was working out.

I was pretty sure her name was Bree or Brianna, from a distance I'd overheard other women in the club call her that. She was pretty friendly with some of the other women; there was a pretty regular crew of both genders that worked out in the second-floor midtown gym over lunch every day. There were plenty of little groups of men and women who were at least friendly if not actually friends. There was very little interaction between the men and women, however, and it wasn't just because of separate locker rooms. No, it was sexual politics—most of the men in here were either single or at least open to the possibility of having a new partner, if just for the very short term if you catch my drift. Most of the women, on the other hand, worked as professionals in downtown offices (rates were pretty steep for an administrative assistant) and were either married or in a relationship. Brianna was no exception; she wore a diamond the size of a raspberry on her left ring finger. Since most of the women were attractive, physically fit and financially self-sufficient, they were extremely enticing to us guys. It was best for everyone just to keep one's distance.

There were other beautiful women too, but for me Brianna was the only one that mattered. Her legs were long and lean as she strode on her machine; from time to time a glimpse of her belly would show, so tight you could see the individual abdominal muscles when she bent forward. Her tight exercise clothes always strained around her bust; her breasts seemed to be rather large for someone so lean. It was possible that they were augmented, but frankly I didn't care. Her ring suggested she had access to plenty of money, but that was just one of a dozen of ways she was out of my league. There seemed to be no chance that I'd ever get to see those lovely, hidden mounds of femininity.

Brianna began to slow down, cooling down. In a few minutes she stopped, wiped the machine with a towel, and headed towards the locker room. On most days, when Brianna left my motivation plummeted as well, and I would often end my workout within minutes of her. I would usually rush to shower and change, then linger out in the reception area hoping to catch one more glimpse of Brianna in street clothes as she headed out. Somehow, she usually managed to miss me. On the rare occasions where I had seen her leaving, the image of her in her well-tailored business suits, with very short skirts displaying plenty of dynamite leg and inevitably matching pumps, did little to curb my enthusiasm.

On this day, though, I kept striding long after she departed, lost in my own thoughts. This morning Eric, two years younger than I and in the cubicle next to me, announced his engagement. I like Eric—we've spent a lot of time together, in the office and out. For a while we would go out on the town together regularly, and I was actually with him when he met Heather. She was damn hot, and she was a nice enough girl too; now Eric was going to marry her. I was jealous—not so much of Heather specifically, since her personality was definitely a better match to outgoing Eric than to me. No, I was jealous that he wasn't going to be lonely anymore.

I work too much, and I know it. I have a good, high-profile job, with a six-figure salary that I keep by working 60, 70, sometimes 80 hour weeks. I used to have a girlfriend; we lived together after college, and I suppose part of me assumed we'd eventually get married. We never had any problems while we were in school, but once I started working and putting in long hours to keep my job, she started to feel abandoned. Eventually she gave me the "I don't know you anymore" speech and left. That was, what, three years ago? I wasn't even too upset at the time; the strain had been building up for a while. I figured the offices during the day and the bars at night were full of beautiful girls; I was actually kind of excited for the chance to see what maybe I had been missing. But I wasn't making a lot of money at the time, and I soon found that without it the girls that caught my eye seemed to have little use for a dime-a-dozen peon like me. I guess I was shooting for the stars in the girls I went after as much as they were in the men they hoped to find, but the result was just one rejection after another. The girls were all trolling for bigger fish—like me now I suppose, but I am left with a lingering bitter taste in my mouth from those days. Now as soon as a girl finds out that I'm doing well, I feel likeit's not me but my money that she's attracted to. I'm trapped in a dilemma of my own making; I don't trust girls I meet really like me not my money, and consequently I don't ever give them the chance to prove otherwise. Plus I really do work a lot; sometimes I tell myself its better this way, that a girlfriend or wife would just be another demand on time I don't have. But when I'm sitting in my apartment at night hunkered down in dim light before my computer screen, I can't hide from the reality of my loneliness. At least for a while I had companions in my loneliness, but now Eric was getting married. Now I was even alone in my aloneness.

I kept striding an brooding until I suddenly realized the gym was nearly empty. I glanced at the wall clock: 1:30. Yipes! I'd been on the machine for an hour. I quickly rushed to the showers, dreading the baneful scolding awaiting me from my Blackberry as it was overwhelmed with messages for me. Oh well...it wasn't like I wasn't going to work until seven or eight o'clock anyway...

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I went home that night and resolved that I would try, again, to go out socially and meet people, any maybe give someone a chance to show me she saw more than dollar bills when she looked in my eyes. That was my honest intention. I had no way of knowing that on before the week was out Wall Street would plummet, losing ten percent of its value, and another ten percent the following week. Panic resounded up and down Manhattan. When I went home from work on Friday I shared the subway with hundreds of employees of the investment banks whose offices seemed to surround mine; who would have thought that before the weekend was up two of those banks would be forcibly merged with commercial banks by the Fed, and another would fail outright. People who expected to be going to work on Monday instead went to the office on Sunday to clean out their cubicles, suddenly and unexpectedly unemployed.

Shock waves reverberated up and down the city. Six weeks later at my own company, people who had been dreaming of big Christmas bonuses were getting pink slips instead. Those of us who stayed on had to wonder whether they might not have been the lucky ones, as most of our workloads doubled or tripled overnight. Eric wasn't let go, but he was transferred to another, lower position in another department, at about a one-third cut in pay. Me—I might as well have given up my west side condo, because for a month I was at the office so much I might have been better off just sleeping at my desk. It was so bad that my boss insisted that I go home no later than 7:00 at night for fear I would kill myself with work (karoshi).

One thing I did keep doing for myself was to work out at lunchtime, only it wasn't doing much to control my stress anymore. The increased stress didn't help, but the real problem was after that first horrific weekend, Brianna stopped showing up at the gym. It was pretty pricey just because of the real estate it occupied, and if you had been laid off I would imagine it was a luxury you couldn't afford. I didn't know where she worked, and I suppose it was possible that she moved or something, but given the timing it seemed most likely she'd been one of the thousands of suddenly unemployed New Yorkers. Once regularly packed, the gym was barely half-full now; many who did not cancel their memberships outright weren't able to get there regularly anymore because of increased workloads. It made it a lot harder to get motivated than it used to be, and I started to gain weight.

With all the constant stress, I found myself really looking forward to Eric's bachelor party. I hadn't gone out at all since the financial crises began and was more than ready to forget about it all with a night of drunken debauchery. Even the wedding had been affected by Wall Street; originally slated for next summer, Eric's fiancée was laid off and they decided to move up the wedding so that he could put her on his health insurance, just in case their birth control failed. I wasn't standing up in the wedding per se; I was going to be an usher instead.

I knew Eric's best man a little, once or twice he came out with us back in the day. From what I knew of him, I was sure he'd have some... entertainment... lined up. I was expecting that the whole lot of us would hit a few bars and then hit a strip club. In fact, when it became clear that everyone was hitting it hard and it didn't look like we'd be leaving the apartment at all, I was disappointed and was heading into a vodka-induced withdrawal. Then suddenly about quarter after ten the doorbell rang, and the best man seemed very excited about answering it. He buzzed in the voice at the speaker and a few minutes later from the other room a heard a soprano voice purring "Hey guys!" The men I had been playing poker with glanced at each other knowingly and threw in--whatever was coming next promised to be better than this. Already a crowd was milling around a statuesque blonde in a long overcoat standing in the doorway. I heard her say "My name is Deena and I'm here to make sure everyone has a good time!" There were wolf whistles from the others--they seemed to have a better idea of what to expect than I did. "But I hope you don't mind...I brought someone with me. She's new, and she's here to observe before we let her do her own gigs. Wouldn't want to disappoint any of you fine gentlemen, now would we?"

I froze. Brianna from the health club peeked in behind Deena in the doorway. "Hi," she said nervously, looking very uncomfortable. "I'm Tiffany." Tiffany? Not Brianna? I knew I didn't have the face wrong, I'd spent too many hours admiring it at the gym. Maybe I'd heard the name wrong, or more likely, she was using a stage name.

"Now if you could show me to the bathroom so I can get ready...I'll be right out..." she promised. The host showed her to a room where she could change, Tiffany following behind, trying to get out of the roomful of lusty stares as quickly as possible. In the meantime, tables were hastily pushed aside and chairs moved so that there was a circle around an open spot in the floor. One chair was placed in the middle of the circle--special treatment for the groom.

The host reappeared and quickly went around topping off drinks for anyone that needed one. After about five minutes, Tiffany/Brianna appeared in the hallway, trying not to be seen, carrying a small portable CD player. She turned to her left, looking for a plug, finding one, and suddenly the air was filled with unmistakably stripper music. Twenty conversations ended at once, and the persistent underlying murmur that had hung in the air all evening ceased as all eyes turned towards the hall.

Suddenly Deena stepped out from the darkened hall, striking a pose while wolf whistles sprung from around the room. She was dressed like the prototypical sinful schoolgirl; white blouse tied up short to reveal her belly, unbuttoned to show a decorative red bra. The red matched the plaid of the ultra-mini pleated skirt she wore, so short it didn't quite cover her cheeks completely even when standing straight up. She playfully licked her finger, pretending to look naive, then whipped around so her back was to us, bent over and grabbed her ankle so that the skirt raised high and showed us her g-string. Then she stood and strutted towards the circle we had made, touching every man she passed along the way. When she got to the edge of the circle, she put her arms at her hips and accused "and are you the guest of honor?"

He nodded with a mix of embarrassment and expectation; someone volunteered that his name was Eric.

"Eric...are yousure you want to get married? I mean...don't you know what you might be...missing" And with that she launched towards him, kicked her leg up high, and swept it clean over him as he sat in the chair. He blanched in surprise.

"Aww, did that scare you? Here, let me make it feel better." And with that she turned her butt to him, lowered down, and buffed the crotch of his pants by making tight circles with her ass. That got the crowd going. She launched into a well-practiced and choreographed routine, teasing Eric with every opportunity, even doing the thing where she dropped her bra onto his face so he was actually the last to see her large, clearly augmented breasts. She stripped down to the g-string, then ended by sitting in his lap and doing everything she could to get him hard. She was pretty good, but although she was attractive and knew how to work a bachelor party, I was only half paying attention. Just like at the gym, I kept stealing glances over at Brianna, uh, Tiffany, and she didn't look any more comfortable. I saw her gulp once or twice as she watched how Deena worked, and it just looked like she wanted to be anywhere in the world but here. I could not imagine her being the one doing the stripping and the teasing--but I would have loved to be proven wrong.

When Eric was uncomfortably erect, she stood, put her arms over her head as if to say "ta-daa," announcing the end of the dance. It also made her breasts jut out that much more, making our mouths water like starving men staring at a steak. She knew this of course, and jiggled them slightly just to rub it in. Everyone applauded--well, except for Tiffany (Brianna?). Deena then announced "That's it for the show boys. I'll be in the back, though, if anyone wants a private dance for tips. One at a time, though, please." Then she grabbed the groom's hand, dragged him out of the chair and with her down the hall. "The groom's is free," she added as she headed down the hall.

The man next to me elbowed me in the ribs. "Private dance for tips...good one."

"Huh?" I asked.

"Private dance...clever." My confused look must have told him I had no idea what he was talking about. "Don't you know how this works? Officially, she's done what we paid for. But now she's giving blow jobs in the back--for a hottie like that, probably a hundred bucks a shot. That's the 'private dance.' Obviously, she can't advertise that she does it, or they might call try to nail her for prostitution. But in the back, door closed, who's to say what she did or didn't do, eh?"

I smiled and nodded, but my mind had just officially been blown. The thought of Tiffany dancing was one thing, but the idea of her sucking me off for a C-note...my mind could just not compute the concept.

Perhaps Tiffany's couldn't, either, for five minutes later she stormed out from the hallway, wearing her overcoat, looking like she'd seen a ghost. She made a beeline for the door and let herself out without so much as a word to anyone.

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I was useless the rest of the weekend. Brianna, or was it Tiffany, working for an in-house stripper service? Maybe doing blowjobs on the side? But she had been introduced as a new girl observing, and by all appearances she had been appalled by the extra services being offered. But I would pay a lot of dough just to get her to show me those wonderful apples that I'd tried to imagine a thousand times as they jiggled provocatively under a sports bra.

When Monday rolled around I asked Eric as nonchalantly as I could muster if he could ask his best man for the phone number where he'd hired the entertainment from. Eric had more important things to think about that week of course, but on Wednesday I lied and told him I was hosting a bachelor party the week after and needed to know soon; he had the number for me Thursday. Deena had been hired through an outfit called "City Deluxe Escort Service."

I looked them up in the phone book. They had a small ad with a stock picture of a sexy blonde. Bullets on the ad advertised "Escorts...special event companions...we do bachelor parties..." and so on. Instead of going to the gym at lunch, I found the most secluded spot I could find in midtown and called the number.

"City Deluxe Escort Service," said a cheery female voice on the other end of the line.

"Uh, yes...I would like to...uh..." How exactly do I ask this? "Um, I was at a bachelor party recently, and there was a dancer from your service?"

"Yes, we do bachelor parties. Would you like to book an entertainer?" she asked helpfully. Perhaps I wasn't the first nervous caller she'd dealt with, which made me feel better.

"Um, yes, but I was wondering...I really liked the person we had. Is it possible to request a specific entertainer?"

"Certainly sir, if she's not booked already. What was her name?"

"Tiffany."

"Ah yes, Tiffany is very popular. Let me see her calendar..."

Somehow that didn't fit with what I'd observed. I interrupted "Um...might you have more than one Tiffany? This girl was new, I guess? She was actually observing or something at the party I was at..."

"Oh," she said, her practiced routine derailed. "It's certainly possible, we're always hiring new girls and I don't always know them very well. Let me check the list..." there was a pause as she did something on the other line. "Well, it seems we have not one but three Tiffanys. I don't know how I'd know which is the one you saw..."

"This one had bright red hair," I volunteered.

"Ah, you're one of those redhead guys, huh?"

"Sorry," I said sheepishly.

"Don't be. Can you imagine how awful it would be if there was just one woman that every man in the world wanted? Besides, redheads are rare--if you'd have said blonde, well, that's 90% of our staff. Hold on." There was a pause. "Ah, this must be the one. Hired a week ago, bright red hair. Hmm...she's pretty, too. I can see why you'd want to see her again."

She must have had pictures she could refer to. I imagined a book with pictures of girls in dancewear, with a provocative picture of her in it. I cleared my throat and swallowed hard.

"Oh!" she said suddenly. "Um, Tiffany is listed as burlesque-only, were you aware of that?"

"Um, what does that mean?" I wasn't really sure what burlesque meant, but I gathered that it meant something less than stripping.

Now it was the girl on phone's turn to stumble for proper words. "Um...it means that...she will do stage shows, but no private dances." Ah. Now that I was in on the code, I understood that she'd dance, but no blowjobs afterwards. Somehow, it helped reduce the dissonance between the pedestal she occupied in my mind and the fact that I was booking her to strip for me to know that she wasn't turning tricks on the side. I wondered if "burlesque" also meant she wouldn't take her top off, but then I realized I didn't care. I was smitten with this girl, I had the money, and I was lonely and overworked--she could have read Shakespeare to me and it would have been worth whatever it was going to cost. I booked her for Friday night.