The Atrocities Of A Client Night Out On Wall Street

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A Client Night Out on Wall Street

I come to, and have no idea where the fuck I am.

But I’m getting a blowjob. Okay, things could be worse.

I remember vaguely. I was out with some colleagues and clients. We had drinks. We had dinner. And then we had more drinks. Now, we’re in some sketchy bar.

But we’re not even in a back room. We’re in a booth, close to the front door, facing the bar.

I know this because there’s a burgundy velvet privacy curtain that loosely encloses our booth. It’s not totally private – more like the barrier separating first class from economy on an airplane.

Every time the front door opens, a gust of wind pushes the curtains apart for a second or two. Not long. But long enough for me to make eye contact with some of the patrons drinking by the bar.

I look across from me in the booth. I see Chris. He’s a good friend and a colleague — one of our senior bond sales guys. He’s getting a blowjob also. This is weird. I’ve never been in this situation before.

He nods and grins, clearly out of his mind as well. “Welcome back. I thought we lost you there for a minute.”

I tune him out again.

The front door opens. Smells like burning palm oil and car exhaust – an offensive odor, but one that is freakishly alluring. The draft blows our curtains wide open once again.

I notice that the bar is getting more and more crowded. A guy drinking a beer nods at me. Black socks. Shorts. Tevas. He looks German. I manage to reciprocate the nod just before the curtains close.

I look back at Chris. His new lady friend is now up on the couch, on all fours. Chris has his head buried in her ass, and is violently finger-blasting her.

Wow. Finger-blast. I think to myself. I haven’t even thought of that phrase since high school. It’s hilarious. I meditate on this thought for God-knows-how-long.

My consciousness jolts up a notch or two. “Dude… Dude… What the fuck are you doing? You’re NOT supposed to be pleasuring THEM.”

Chris looks across at me, eyes totally vacant. He seems confused. “What? She was trying so hard, but I just couldn’t get it up. So I felt bad.”

He’s always been the sensitive type.

Any chance of success I have is now completely gone. Realizing this as well, my lady friend starts trying even harder. Now, I’m starting to feel bad. God bless her.

I attempt to relieve her of her duties, but the gesture gets lost in translation. The two girls begin conversing with each other. They sound like Muscovy ducks, if only Muscovy ducks could talk Thai.

Our curtain opens. It’s the mama-san. Having overheard the chatter, she does not look happy. The conversation continues. The mama-san appears increasingly agitated with the two girls, and is gesticulating wildly. Finally, she kneels down before me, next to my lady friend. She then grabs my cock, thrusts it into her mouth, and begins to demonstrate the proper technique and appropriate hand/mouth ratio to her less-experienced colleague.

I’m just assuming she’s got experience. She looks a little bit like a middle-aged John Wayne. Obviously, she has better hair, but not by much. She’s also got these aged Mother Teresa-looking hands, just without the celestial powers. No magic so far. Presumably cultivated by decades of practicing her craft, it feels like she’s wearing one of the discarded golf gloves I find in the bottom of my golf bag from time to time. That’s all I can think about. This immovable thought has unstoppable consequences on our shared objective.

I tap them both out, zip up, and politely extricate myself from the booth. Without saying a word to Chris, I make my way to the bar and order a beer. “Open it in front of me, please.” I’ve heard all the stories about white guys getting drugged in bars like this and waking up in an alley, having been robbed of all of their possessions. It’s a smart play; most of the time, the victims are too embarrassed to call the cops.

Looking around, I am by far the youngest and most handsome patron in the entire place. This saddens me deeply. Two beers later, Chris joins me. He is sweating profusely, but at least now, there’s some life in his eyes. “Hey man, want to get the fuck out of here?” There’s a nonchalance about his demeanor that I find comforting.

We hit the door and head out, sending the entire row of curtains fluttering in our wake, undoubtedly exposing yards of cock.

But, we’re not alone; Chris has a new lady friend in tow. I’m visibly confused. Apparently, so is he. “Yeah, I don’t know either, dude. They said I already paid for her. You know how it is. You always order too much food when you’re hungry.”

The street is complete chaos – people, cars, bikes, mopeds, tuk-tuks, all dancing amid a sea of hazy neon lights. Now I start to remember more clearly. We’re in Bangkok for a conference. Our bank rented out a bar nearby for a client party. But that’s as far as I get.

In this madness, we manage to locate some order in the form of an organized taxi rank. The line is incomprehensibly long, but contemplating an alternative is far too daunting at this point. I’m uncharacteristically patient as we inch our way up the queue.

We’re almost at the front on the line when we hear someone shouting. “Hey Chris…Yo… Yo, Chris.” It would appear that we’ve been spotted.

Then we see two familiar faces. “Oh man, thank Christ I saw you. We don’t want to wait in this fucking line. We’ll just share a cab back to the hotel with you guys.” It’s Chris’s boss, Peter, who is in town from New York, along with one of our more important buy side clients.

Peter courteously makes it known to the people immediately behind us that they aren’t actually cutting the line. It occurs to me that he and the client have no idea that this love monkey standing behind them is with Chris. How could they know? She just looks like a random person in the line, waiting to get home from a REALLY hard day’s work.

Our turn finally comes. I grab the front seat, more instinctively than selfishly, because I’m the odd man out.

The client walks around to the other side. Out of respect for his senior, Chris gets in first and slides across to the middle seat. Before Peter can get in, this completely random prostitute (in his mind) jumps in and slides across next to Chris. Peter then has no choice but to squeeze in next to her and slowly wedge himself in far enough so that he can close the door.

I turn around to admire what’s going on in the back seat. There are four of them packed so tightly that they are unable to move their arms: Chris’s boss, Chris’s prostitute, Chris, and one of our biggest clients. The client is pinned against the door, his head forced to look out the window, which is probably what he wanted to do anyway.

“Peter, are you on the interest rate strategy panel tomorrow morning? I ask.

“No. I’ve got a conflict. But if the attendance is good, we might rerun it later in the week.”

“Oh, that’s cool.”

John LeFevre is the creator of the @GSElevator Twitter feed, the curator of the hilarious Instagram feed, and the author of Straight To Hell: True Tales of Deviance, Debauchery, and Billion-Dollar Deals.


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