Women want to be her. Men want to be with her.

Women want to be her. Men want to be with her.

September 12, 2024

I am one of those women.

I work with her and see this adage unfold on a daily basis. She works where I work, but does not need to work where I work. She wears the latest fashion. She displays creations of gold and platinum to adorn her skin. We think her accent is French, but it could really be Russian, possibly even from the Caucasus.

Her perfume is a signature Chanel #5, discreetly displayed, concentrated only for detection from those permitted within closest proximity. When she passes by either sex, her hand drapes across a shoulder or a wrist so as to emphasize the attention she passively demands when offering her time to even speak with you.

I am sure there is a daily matching set of lingerie, color coordinated, beneath her Italian wools and Persian silks.

In essence, I want to be her.

But the competition for her is as high as the reverse dowry value for her time.

I see both the contenders and pretenders vie for her attention. All fail, although some do get close. She will not entertain offers that dispel the illusion of an impregnable fortress breached without paying hefty dues for the attempt.

She is not qualified for work in this office. However, she is essential to our financial well-being. She is the office rainmaker. She brings in millions in business, making the partners very happy to continue her employment.

Now, I want to learn her secrets. I want her playbook. I have to have access to her client list.

On September 08, of this year, my wish came true. She did not appear for work that morning. I received her call to locate a file and personally meet with her. She wanted the contents decrypted. I was in charge of the latter, but never the former. Such separations kept unfortunate “conflicts of interests” minimized.

She said please in that strange accent of hers.

I was putty in her hands.

We met during my lunch at the only four star hotel the city had to offer. The front desk said she was staying in room 112. While she might have reserved that room for rendezvous, it was beneath her station to actually occupy a room that was close to the ground.

So, I knocked.

No answer.

I used the back on my knuckle to push the door open.

I was unlocked and the latch was not set. She must have wanted me to enter.

I wish I hadn’t.

She was on the couch, sporting a black eye and a few other bruises. He was naked on the bed. She asked me not to touch anything, say anything, or remember anything.

This was an opportunity if I ever saw it.

By sundown, she lay on the same bed as he. The police said it must have been a suicide by poison once the lovers realized they could not be apart.

I don’t believe that story either.

However, I had her file and the location of everything else.

I tendered my resignation at the office one week later. My story was that my mother took ill and I had to tend to her needs. By the end of the month, I was gone.

By the onset of the next month, I got my wish.

I was the new her. I was the woman women wanted to be. I was the woman men wanted to be with.

The only disadvantage was that my accent was American Southern. Still alluring to those who find such belles alluring.

The best advantage was that I was the same size as her.

And yes, I do wear the garter belts under my Italian wools and Persian silks.