A few years ago, I was interviewing people for an art director position at the company where I was working. After nine cookie-cutter interviews, David walked across the editorial floor, blending in as much as a panther in Times Square. Everyone stared. I quickly ushered him inside my office and shut the door. "Thank you for coming in," I said. Looking at the perfectly uncombed Ashton Kutcher hair, the solid shoulders under his Brooks Brothers button-down, I actually meant it this time. God, he had a dimple. I wanted to lick it.
I asked him a series of questions, such as, "Why are you leaving your current job?" when all I really wanted to know was, "Would you like to have sex with me against this wall here, or would you prefer the desk?" Within 20 minutes, I knew I had found my next, uh, art director.
But wait, what did his portfolio look like? I couldn't remember. I took a deep breath. If I hired him, it would be based on his looks and not his talent. Isn't that sexist? Unethical? Haven't men been doing it for years? Yes. Yes. And yes. Call me Clarence Thomas. I hired him that week.
I wanted to look at him every day. Preferably naked, but sitting confidently slouched at his desk with his sleeves rolled up was great, too. But unfortunately, being hot didn't make David a good art director. He sucked.
He also started sleeping with my assistant. She got to live out my "me Demi Moore, you Michael Douglas" work-sex fantasy, while I had to stay late every night redesigning pages and cursing myself for letting my hormones do the hiring.
I wanted to fire them both. Instead, I quickly accepted when I got another job offer. Now, when I think I want to live out my fantasies, I have sex with my new boyfriend in his office. And I try not to call him David.