Sweet Hot Justice

Bring On That Client Contact

By  
on

[Ed. Note: The following piece was authored by “The Legal Tease” of Sweet Hot Justice fame. You can check out all of Legal Tease’s other musings from Sweet Hot Justice here.]

I’ll admit, this is probably a bad idea. But I’m sorry, I can’t help it any longer. I’ve had one in every other job I’ve ever had and it’s about time I had one at the firm. I’m not going to be particularly picky about it. I just want one–I need one. Because it occurred to me last week, sitting in my giant bed in the middle of the night, alone, watching an old Law & Order marathon, if I don’t get the juices flowing soon, I’m going to dry up, die of boredom, and go the way of every leading lady lawyer the Dick Wolf gang has ever offered up–which is to say nowhere at best and crumpled in the trunk of a car at worst. In other words, it’s time: I need a work crush. Stat.

One small issue, though: There’s no one to crush on at my firm–hell, within a mile of my firm, it seems. After you weed out the lawyers who aren’t indisputably trollish or creepy or latent pervs, only a handful of possibilities are left.

I guess there’s always Pete, my immediate supervisor and work buddy. He’s a great guy, cute in a sort-of asexual hipster way, and has good hair and a mellow, easy-going personality that’s a nice foil to my more manic vibe. But he’s happily married and just had a kid–very look but don’t touch, which kind of kills the point of having a crush. Part of the thrill is the possibility that something actually could happen, isn’t it? OK, forget Pete. The only other candidate, then, might be Alex, a newly minted partner who’s genuinely lawyer-hot, just dickish enough to make him that much hotter, and definitely single. Only problem is, he’s one of the most socially awkward lawyers in the building, notoriously avoids eye contact with women, and last I heard, lives in a two-story house with his parents.

So. That’s it: a married, asexual dad and a socially retarded powder keg who may or may not live with his mom. This is depressing even me. The upshot is becoming painfully clear: If I want a work crush, I need to move on to my clients.

And she does, after the jump.


Now, let’s have a reality check for a minute: It’s not like my client list is brimming with alluring, charming sexy young things–or sexy old things, for that matter. It’s mostly populated by bloated, irritable associate general counsels and your standard assortment of game-free i-bankers.

Sponsored

There is, however, Phil P. He’s a junior banker who I’ve spent about 900 hours with on the phone over the past few months slogging through a ridiculous, on-again-off-again nightmare of a deal. I’ve always been struck by how funny and charming and nice he seemed. I’ve also noticed lately that our conversations and emails have been getting more personal and decidedly more flirtatious–so much so that I actually wondered at one point if they were borderline inappropriate (and mind you, this is coming from a girl who once did this). Inappropriate or not, he definitely has all the makings of a perfect work crush–except I have no idea what he looks like. We’ve never met in person. And even Google Images has been no help. Basically, all I have to go on is his voice. Yes, I am that much of a loser: I have the functional equivalent of a crush on a radio ad.

Things started looking up, though, a few days ago when I got an out-of-the-blue email from Justin, a finance associate in my year at the firm: “Hey, Phil P____ says hi. (Old friend from b-school.) Going to drinks Thurs night, wanna join?”

It was a like a bomb went off in my stomach. I’ve been thinking about Phil for a few days now, bemoaning the fact that we’ll probably never meet, and then this literally falls into my lap? This can’t be just a coincidence, but…what else could it be? See, this sort of stuff doesn’t usually happen to me. I don’t have much luck with fate. I thought The Secret was a scam. But there it was: Drinks on Thursday. With the new crush.

Now, friends, I know the drill. This is the part of the story where, if history’s any guide, I’m supposed to sweep into the bar on Thursday night, all dolled up in my sexiest business casual, lock eyes with the unseen crush and see that he’s…morbidly obese. Or balancing a hooker on his lap. Or wearing flip-flops and carrying a box of porn. Right? Well, sorry to disappoint, but Phil P. was pretty damn perfect–just the right amount of dork mixed in with sparkly eyes, a quick smile, and the same crush-worthy personality from the phone. He was hard-core flirting, I was flirting back and the crush was in overdrive–so much so that I had to check myself. This couldn’t actually be real, right? I mean, a guy can’t possibly be this charming, this cute, this seemingly interested and not actually be secretly insane, or married, or some sort of dormant serial killer, can he?

As it turns out, no, he can’t.

Sponsored

Find out why they’re called “crushes,” at Sweet Hot Justice.

Topics