***

It was mid-November when Tony and I flew down from Seattle to Portland to meet colleagues for our first West Coast sales team rally. The evening before we left, I practiced posing in my new lingerie in the full-length mirror at home. My two fluffy gray cats, spooned on the bed, yawned at my shenanigans as I turned from side to side in the glass. I imagined the lust that would spread across Tony’s face upon seeing me undress to reveal this peignoir. I felt powerful and sexy knowing I could steal him away from his mousey wife who would never wear something so outrageous or look so good in it. I hid the lingerie beneath a pair of pleated black pants in my suitcase, betting Alan wouldn’t notice.

The following evening, six of us representing Washington, California and Oregon met for an expensive dinner Tony paid for with his gold card, winking at me across the table. A $2,500 bill, no problem. His nonchalant buying power excited me. Only six months under his tutelage, I stupidly fancied myself sophisticated enough to play his game.

That night, I donned a shimmering black sheath dress with a cropped blazer that covered my shoulder tattoo (i kinda like it, he texted the first time he noticed it. r u a racy girl?), and chunky heels from Nordstrom’s Brass Plum section that made an impressive attempt at appearing expensive. As we filed out of the restaurant, Tony slipped his hand across the small of my back, suggesting we all go bar hopping as a group-bonding activity. It was a bad situation: older, married men in senior roles flocked by young female staffers, eager to impress. We immersed ourselves in copious amounts of alcohol, throbbing music, and the power of limitless charge accounts and dark dance floors. It all felt very grown-up.

Despite the Barolo at dinner, I was too sober and nervous to do anything at the bar except laugh along with the conversation at first. Was I blowing my chance with Tony? The longer he cackled with the other VPs around the sticky table, the less likely it seemed, so I slammed vodka shots for courage. By the time “Tainted Love” thumped through the speakers, I was shrieking along with the rest of the room. Tony and I smiled dopily at each other and rushed out onto the dance floor like teenagers at prom, our arms thrust into the air, our torsos writhing, our feet stomping the four syllables—tain-ted-lo-ove. We danced hard and fast, bumping against each other in our haste for physical contact.

As the house vodka blossomed into my bloodstream, my body enlivened with a warm, unearthly bliss. My spirit floated above my body, pulling away my reason with the squeak of the opening strings to “Come on Eileen.” Our bodies moved back and forth beneath the flash of strobes, and I reached out to lay my palm on Tony’s chest. Would he brush it off? His eyes locked onto mine as colored gel lights tumbled dizzyingly, a blinding glare of yellows, greens, blues and reds that severed the darkness into rainbow ribbons.

Suddenly, he pulled me into his hot, sweaty chest. My heart pounded, my armpits and breasts drenched in perspiration. I had entered my own Dionysian Mystery, pressed against Tony by the backs and butts of hundreds of other horny celebrants hoisting plastic drinks cups in the air as they shouted along with The Cure, “Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick, the one that makes me scream she says.…” Where would this lead? I wondered, a humid slick of excitement coating the insides of my thighs. My spinning head gave the illusion that no one could see us because I couldn’t see straight. We were in the thick of it, twisting, shouting and fighting for air in the center of the creaky old wooden dance floor. I leaned in to nuzzle the sandpaper-flesh beneath Tony’s jawline, tasting the salt of his middle-aged effort. My imprisoned heart threatened to burst madly, ecstatically into his arms. Before I knew what was happening, Tony grasped my hand and pulled me off the dance floor towards the exit without collecting our coats or informing our colleagues of our departure.

Like my father, Tony wasn’t a sentimental man, so I was surprised when he held my hand for the entire nine blocks that we ran in the pouring rain from the bar to our hotel near the train station. I had wanted to be alone with him so badly I was afraid he’d let me go. We were drenched by the time he pulled me through the threshold of his hotel room. Against the silence, the echoed reverb of ‘80s music still rang faintly in my ears. It was so quiet I could hear thick pats of water dripping from my dress onto the carpet as I waited.

“Here,” Tony said, returning from the bathroom with a towel for my hair, which I had recently transformed from strawberry-mouse-brown to blond. I patted down my shoulder-length bob, cut in the style of “The Rachel,” and licked my lips, wondering what would happen next. I surveyed the tiny scratches of crow’s feet at the corners of his chocolatey eyes—older but sexy—a man. Tan, hairless flesh peeked out where he had unbuttoned his white dress shirt. I worried I looked like something fished from a drain. This wasn’t the liaison I had planned. Was my new glittery Chanel eye shadow smeared down my face? I had wanted Tony to pick me, and he had, sort of; here we were, alone. Now what? We faced each other in a soggy showdown of man and girl, boss and protege, someone’s husband and someone’s wife. A train whistle sounded in the distance.

Mom’s voice hissed in my mind—What are you doing?! You’ve worked so hard to get here—you’re ruining everything!

But was I really ruining it? Or was this actually my shot?

I couldn’t say who grabbed who first. The next thing I knew, I was scaling Tony’s shoulders as if he were a mountain. I tried to shut out my mother’s admonitions as I pressed my tumescent lips to his, which opened like a dew-drenched rose. After months of fantasizing about tasting him, I had a sort of psychic orgasm, even if he wasn’t the best kisser. As our tongues flicked and encircled each other, it occurred to me Tony was someone’s father. He had two teenage girls at home, just fourteen years younger than me. Jesus. Tony was a Dad I Wanted to Fuck—I had never slept with a real man before. Would he be able to tell? Was he going to be rough? I kind of hoped so. I kind of hoped that I didn’t have a choice. As if to answer, he tossed me on the bed and pulled my dress over my head in one motion; like my mother, I let him do what he wanted.