The EA

"Why do you do that?" I was legitimately curious along with legitimately irritated.

She answered quickly like she knew the question was coming. "Do you ever read Russian novels? In every one of them, at some time, someone flings open the shutters in a cottage to let in fresh air and sunshine. You look like you could use someone to open those shutters."

Shutters to my damp cold life, that's what she was saying. I tried to keep the scowl away ... but couldn't.

We turned our different directions out of the elevator. I should have said something, anything, but I didn't, I walked to my room, my fortress and hid inside.

"What did you mean by opening the shutters?" She hadn't even settled across from me and my plate of eggs the next morning when I blurted that out.

She looked at me like it was a reasonable question. "You have a reputation for being cool and aloof. In those boardrooms you aren't ... you're anything but. You relate, you understand, you go places into peoples heads ... you have a sense of humour. But you close the shutters when you leave the room. All I wanted to do was to try to open them a little, to unbutton you a little ..." she chuckled, "to ungird you."

"Is that any of your business?"

She shrugged I thought acknowledging my point. "I'm an assistant, you haven't given me the parameters of that assistance. I thought I was helping."

"With a button?"

"You're more appealing with that button open, I'm just pointing that out."

"Appealing to whom? You?" I immediately understood the implications of my words and felt a blush burn my face.

"You're an attractive woman who is too buttoned down, too girded. That button does more than change your look, it changes your attitude ... the shutters are open, like in the boardroom. If you're taking offence for me pointing this out, if this isn't ... part of my job description, I'll stop, of course."

"How would you like it if I commented on what you're wearing?"

"If your comment was meant to be helpful, it would mean you care. I would be flattered."

"So I should be flattered?"

"Ms Walker you hired an assistant, not a robot. I don't want to offend, I want to succeed, I want to be of assistance in ways you want me to assist. Please tell me if and when I cross a line."

The girl is smart, I didn't know what to say.

Then she pressed. "Have I crossed a line ... with the button?"

I could feel myself squirming, I don't like to squirm. "No. We all need a little more fresh air and sunlight in our lives."

She smiled. "We all want to be seen for the person we are, right? Be nice for those outside the boardroom to see the woman we see inside the boardroom, that's all I'm saying."

I drank my coffee and ignored that it was cold. "Where does your name come from, Gemma?"

"From me. I took it in kindergarten. I was given Alice."

"Your education?"

"BA, literature, not always handy, wish it was Commerce."

"Are you married?"

"Just kicked my boyfriend, out — I'm nothing if not honest."

"So did I," I admitted without thinking and it shocked me. Then I added, "Husband, 25 years."

She has a sensible face, calm, intelligent. It now showed concern. "I'm sorry, that has to be tough."

I picked up my purse and stood up. "Put this on your room. See you in the lobby at 1:15."

Gemma

She was just about to walk away from the table when I said, "Look, can I ask you to help me out with something ... this is all new to me, I want to get a handle on it."

The waitress finally arrived to take my order. I waved her away.

"I've taken notes in the meetings, typed them out at night, tried to organize them to help me fast track an understanding of it all. Can you take a look at my notes, not read them, just see if I've organized them in an effective way ... I've got a lot to learn."

"Now?"

"On the way back to your room, should only take a few minutes."

My room was a mess — bed askew, underwear on the floor, clothes on the bed, vibrator on the table, I had planned to tidy it up when I got back ... I didn't know she'd come back with me.

She looked around when she came in and laughed, the first laugh I had ever heard from her. "Reminds me of a friend's room when I was growing up. I could never let mine get this way." The mess didn't seemed to bother her, in fact it kind of made her relax.

She sat down in front of my computer and immediately controlled the screen — I was impressed, she obviously had sound computer skills. She scrolled and read for a few minutes, skipping through sections, concentrating on headings then abruptly sat back, closing the lid and looked up at me. "You should have told me you were doing this. I can help: I'll email you my plans and strategies, you can build them in as the central focus, it'll help you nail down precisely what we're trying to do." She stood up. "Good work, a lot to learn but nice to see you're into it."

She turned to go but hesitated looking around the room. "Can I say something personal?"

"Sure." I knew it was going to be about the mess.

She was actually smiling. "This place opens my shutters. If I invited you into my room there wouldn't be a facecloth out of place." She laughed holding up a bra that had been hanging on the back of the chair. She looked at it and shook her head, dropping it back to where it had been then slowly looking around again as if fascinated, hesitating for a second on the vibrator beside the bed. "I should try this once, just for myself, leave a bra on a chair, my bed unmade — allow a little of your sunlight in." It didn't sound ironic, I think she meant it, the laugh on the way out sounded cheerful. I think I actually put the woman in a good mood.

Gloria

It shouldn't have taken courage, shouldn't have needed resolve but I needed both and the full power of my determination to head in the direction, heart pounding; then to open the door and go in.

It was the iconography of it that got to me, it's insouciant display there on the table. That little vibrator, lying there like a compass pointing the way, showing the huge gulf between my life and her's, my generation and her's.

I didn't actually fully figure out what it was until I got out in the hall where, when I put it together, I actually stopped still in shock, appalled for a moment, a long moment that would have lasted a lot longer had not the thing been a natural part of the mayhem.

I lay down on my made bed and wondered, who would do that? It was beyond shocking to me. Where is the pride? Where is the self-respect, the dignity? Who brings a boss into her room with her underwear on the floor and a sex tools on proud display? Who does that ... someone with her fucking shutters wide open, that's who; someone who could care less who looks in. Open buttons and dildos and attitude and run-amuck rooms ... and neatly laid out notes and smooth efficiency and intelligence and common sense. A realist would do that, a person without artifice — a woman who lives her life on her own terms. 'Have I crossed a line?' The smile just materialized then and, as I thought about it, grew. Seriously? The first day on the job and you unbutton the boss's blouse — have I crossed a line ... you mean the line that says you keep your fingers to yourself and your sex toys hidden? I laughed out loud. Then got very very scared.

But the fear went away fast enough. No one had his eyes on me; I was insignificant amidst the incomprehensible stuff hanging on the walls, stacked on the shelves, half-clothed manikins. I was lost, of course, hopelessly lost but, mercifully, obviously lost.

"Can I help you?" The young black girl with the welcoming smile and the studs in her cheeks knew she could, I just didn't know how. What do you say?

"A little vibrator thing about this long," I held out my fingers.

"You're new at this," she said, as I followed her.

I didn't need to answer. She handed me a small box with a knowing grin. "Do you want to quadruple the effect of it?"

"Sure," I said because I knew that was the obvious answer. We went a little further down the aisle where she handed me another box with the tell-tale name Butt Bullet. "These things really work. Do you have lube?"

"No."

I followed her marvelling at how easy this was and then it got unbelievably simple ... basic. When she was handing me the lubricant she said, "Use it or lose it, eh? You trying to get it back?"

The question so shocked me I was honest. "Yes."

"You travelling?"

"Yes."

"When you get home go hard at porn for awhile and get a big electric vibrator, you can get it back in no time ... but you have to stay at it; they're right: "Use it or lose it."

It might have taken me a half hour to get from my hotel to the store on Time Square and maybe 10 minutes to get back, all the time grinning: you want some open shutters, I'll give you some open fucking shutters.

But it isn't that easy.

I ripped open the boxes as I was trying to take off my clothes. My head was swirling with an excitement I knew I'd remember the rest of my life ... there being little to compete with it. I knew I'd feel ridiculous, I was already feeling ridiculous sitting naked on the bed fumbling with the batteries and I had felt ridiculous when I double checked that the door was locked; when I lay the towel on the bed; when I lay down with my head up on two pillows so I could see what I was doing: when I squirted lubricant on the bullet; when I arranged myself so I could comfortably push the vibrating bullet in — as I acclimatized to the sensation, pleasant, fun, weird, scary; then when I brought the little buzzing rocket to my clitoris. But I was feeling good, really good: modern, with it ... I was starting out on a new journey of self-discovery with a little battery-operated assistance. And then it all came to a crashing halt.

The wasteland of my life became oh so evident with my butt shivering, my clitoris quivering and my imagination stalled on the only sexual reference I have ever had, a husband I hadn't had sex with in years and in fact never much liked. Vibrations are an assistance, I learned, but they aren't an end in themselves. That's when I learned why she brought up the porn. I needed it, I knew right then I needed it.

This was always going to be too good to be true. You don't just flick a switch and all is well. I thought of giving up but even as depressed as I was the sensations were nice ... I had sat on a washing machine once, this was a bit like that. So I stayed with it, still feeling ridiculous, still feeling a bitterness for all the years spent in a loveless, sexless marriage ... and then out of nowhere the hands came out, the fingers stretched and I could feel the tips touching my blouse at my neck and the button turning and then the air on my cleavage and the warmth between my legs.

I would have moaned and squealed and cried out but I was too shocked for that. I watched, stunned: my toes curled, my legs straightened tight then buckled so my feet came up, my knees flopped open, I thrusted lewdly, wantonly as I remembered those fingers touching my neck — and the vibrations in my oriface zapped to my core.

It was the intimacy. The invasion of my personal space, that's what had excited me.

I threw the buzzing Rocket on the bed, stood in front of the full length mirror and looked at myself, probably for the first time ever. I've never been interested in me, the physical me. My body has always been just along for the ride ... all those trips to acquisitions, even on weekends, holidays, it was only ever about the deal.

But my body had performed, the skinny body with the heavy, drooping breasts, the slightly thickening waist, the triangular black pubic patch slowly flecking with grey, the narrow hips, the nice legs — I have long admired my legs because I stand on them so well, so boldly.

But my body had responded. My body had performed.

The vibrator was still buzzing on the bed and in my ass when the thought occurred to me. Was her intimacy a brazen act or was it just a touch, fingers on me, the tips pressing into me, three of them, I could still feel them now, their exact place.

A button, a goddamn button, I've lost focus before but never over anything quite so trivial and a button isn't even that. It's just a button.

Gemma

The afternoon session was what she said it would be, the start of a feeling-out process: table the knowns, identified the known unknowns, and speculate on the unknowables. And while you're at it know who you're dealing with, today as many women as men, three of each including Gloria. We had the book on the three men and one of the women. The other was new, a blank slate. Not long after the meeting started the boss passed me a note asking me to bio what I could on her.

I wrote back, 'Now?'

She nodded affirmatively. I left to do the first sleuthing in my entire life.

And was it ever fun, a perfect job for someone as pushy and obnoxious as I can be — I got everything on her, right down to her bra size.

I was proud of myself when I slipped the folder onto the table beside her — you want an EA I was thinking, you've got an EA. She took a surprisingly long time to read it.

You know a meeting has gone on too long when all the nerves were stretched. All the nerves but her's. She was leaning in the elevator with a slight grin on her face and her button open.

"See you're letting in the light."

"That was good work on the bio." She looked like she meant it.

I grimaced a thanks.

"You may have missed your calling."

"A PI instead of a EA, no thanks, but I enjoyed it ... any time."

She gave me a list of things to do before our flight tomorrow which, surprisingly, I was anxious to get to: it sounds great, a trip to New York, but there was nothing fun about it. After doing what she asked I wrote up my notes and wondered how she did it, deal after deal — it's tense-ridden and exhausting. Before much needed sleep I spent a little time with my vibrator ... imaging her with a guy from an escort service. I gave up. I couldnt make it work.

Gloria

I don't drink when I get home from work but I don't go on porn sites either, or fire up vibrators, or go online to buy them and, what the hell, some sexy underwear while I'm at it. But I was doing all of the above after I threw my bag on the bed — I had thought about only this at 33,000 feet all the way home.

I remembered how ridiculous I felt that first time I forced the buzzing bullet up my bum, about as ridiculous as I was feeling now, sitting all but naked in front of my all-knowing computer screen, a screen that was staring back at me, studying my tits, drooping like fallen udders and all too willing to get naked for the show, unlike my private parts which demanded I leave my panties on, no, more than that: demanded I find the sexiest pair I owned ... and were so disappointed with the results that I had to search the web for nicer ones.

But the nylon felt soft and cool and sexy against the back of my hand as my fingers tried to discover what my body likes ... and what my mind likes ... sure, the fingers and the blouse button but what else? I wondered about that as I scrolled through pictures of naked MILFs, a new term to me, I had to look it up. Harold has a nice cock I guess but it was his, I've never thought about it or anyone else's. Is that what this is supposed to be about, imaging another man's cock in me? Never have ... but there was this guy, a strangely geeky looking guy about 10 years younger than me who looked at me one day not long ago like I was the Venus de Milo with arms.

As I scrolled through pictures I tried to put myself on his bed — I didn't bother figuring out how I got there. I was like the MILF on my screen, on all fours, big breasts hanging temptingly, white panties bunched in my bum ... he had the same look Harold had before we were married, absolute desire. I hunched forward, concentrated, aimed the vibrator near the back of my clitoris ... and wasn't getting much until I felt the soft delight of her bra in my hand and my mind's eye remembered the skimpy black panties on the floor of her hotel room.

Gemma

The moment I stepped through my apartment door I was feeling my skin crawl. He notice. "I haven't found a place yet. I'm looking."

"Not hard enough. You're not going to be here tomorrow when I come home, do you understand? Not a trace of you!" I turned and left, bag in hand which 20 minutes later I put inside Brenda's door and accepted the glass of wine she knew I needed.

My mood changed with my first sip. All the way home, pressed between two over-weight guys in row 17, I pieced together the four days I had just experienced, redacting the boring bits, truncating the meetings, magnifying the speculations of all that I didn't understand, so my report, which I couldn't wait to unload on her ... I had thought it would be to my mother over the phone, took only minutes, babbling like a pre-teen describing her first date.

"Who are you an executive assistant to?" I had missed that part and laughed when I realized it — an important detail.

I described Gloria Walker kind of like I had written about Sarah Zimmerman, the woman she told me to research, with just the hard facts. Maybe 110 pounds, 5'6", thin, big breasts, dark brown hair, thin face, sort of pretty but not really because she scowls a lot; all business; focussed; driven; an absolute ace in the boardroom ... but anything but out of it.

"Did she get you to call an escort service?"

I laughed.

"No, seriously, if I was your boss I sure would have."

"No, she didn't," but it didn't surprise me she thought of it.

"Power and sex," she said, belabouring her point.

"No, didn't see a hint of it."

"Feel a hint of it?" She laughed.

"You mean was I horny? New York, posh hotel, $1000 suits ... bit of a let down, really, the whole fucking thing was intense but intensely about one thing: deals. It was work."

We were sitting on her couch; she casually reached out and flicked at my breast. "Want to play?"

I jumped to my feet. "I need a shower first."

She grabbed my wrist and roughly pulled me down. "Not a chance, I love it when you stink."

She wanted this when she was bored and horny and she was bored and horny a lot in college where I met her ... in the room we shared. She scared the hell out of me at first with all the masturbating, at first subtle but obvious, then reckless, then while cuddling against me. She brought me along slowly always going just one button more until I started to look forward to it, particular when it was over and every problem, every drama in my life had melted away and I lay satisfied.

"So," she was lying on her back, the nipples on her spindly tits (her word) still stiff, her finger absently scratching her pubic hair, "you're not going to like this ..." she thought about it, "or maybe you will. If you say no, fine, I'll forget about it and I'll never bring it up again. But I hope you don't ... and before you say anything you have to know, nothing ... well, nothing much has happened so far."

"What?" I knew this pattern well, she used it to borrow money, clothes, car, whatever.

"Brad has asked me if he can move in with me and I want to say yes."

I felt a bolt of shock. "You've fucked him?" She didn't respond, well, of course she didn't respond and in seconds I knew I didn't care. I reported, "He'll be moving in tomorrow."

She looked relieved. "I wanted to make sure you would be OK with it."

"I'm fine with it, he's a nice guy and a lucky guy, he's going to get a whole lot of great sex."

She grinned. "Threesome some time?"

"What's the most number of guys you've been with?" I've deliberately never asked her about her sex life because I already think of her as a ... well, no, that's not nice.

"Alone?"

"Ya."

"Five, I saw a porn video of this slut taking on five guys and it got to me." She laughed. "So did they."