Flowers. Fucking flowers. Of course they’re from that Abernathy guy. You don’t send flowers right to another guy in his fucking office. Now everyone knows.

Yes, you were drunk.

Yes, you barfed up the prime rib all over yourself at the vendor’s team dinner.

Yes, you were grateful one of those old sales guys—something Abernathy or Abernathy something—got you to your room, got your clothes off, got the hot water running on the back of your neck, which—okay—felt wonderful, breaking up the knotted muscles which had been giving you a headache, making you dizzy.

No, he did not need to be soaping you up, giving special, lingering attention to your asshole with his one hand and your cock and balls with the other.

But the hot water running down your back, along the crack of your ass and warming your balls, felt soooo good. Which made the head of your cock tingle all that much more from the slick sliding of his thumb just under the tip, and circling the head, polishing the nob.

You stood there and let him, because—honestly?— you were not ready to take over getting yourself showered and into bed.

It was New Year’s Eve, and you realized there was no way you’d make it to midnight, much less call your girlfriend like you’d absolutely, positively promised her so she’d let you go on a trip like this alone.

You were hired a few weeks before year-end, as one of several new entry-level admin assistants to department managers for a publishing house that specialized in trade magazines, industry journals, and house organs for major institutions.

Just in time—as it turned out—to be on the list of staffers invited to the New Year’s Eve party masquerading as a site visit hosted by the company’s biggest printing supplier. A thank-you for all the business, with a tour of the plant, then dinner, drinks, and dancing to ring in the new year among the locals at a mountain view lodge that’s legendary for smashing parties.

And—if you could believe the older guys—the chance for some epic hookups. Which, to be honest, was a feature you did not share with your girlfriend. Not that you planned to do any hooking up, but it would be one more reason for her to shoot down the whole trip for you and keep you home.

For the survivors who made it to New Year’s Day, there’d be skiing and snowboarding in the morning.

Hard duty, right?

When you first applied for the job, looking for ways to break into publishing, your girlfriend said it sounded like the kind of job for someone with perky tits, if you want to get noticed. You’re a 30-A, she’d said, so don’t get your hopes up.

Very funny, you said, and pointed out that she should be glad you were on the inside, getting started in a position that paid, rather than putting in time as an editorial intern with zero income.

She’d said she was joking, but you could tell it pissed her off, the idea of spending New Year’s alone while you were dancing and skiing on a business junket without her.

You tried to pass it off as dull, tedious business with a bunch of old sales guys buttering up a major client, but there was no way to spin a weekend of dancing, skiing, and snowboarding as dull.

She wanted to know if they’d make all you cute secretaries dance with the creepy old sales guys, and you said—without thinking—there’d be plenty of other women.

Like hookers, she’d asked.

No. Working women. Professional women. Women from the other departments.

What about wives, she’d wanted to know.

Okay, couldn’t spin that, and you had to admit none of the wives were invited.

That’s convenient, she’d said.

You could see there was no way to win her over. To weave your way out of this booby-trapped conversation, you promised not to dance, or ski, or make snow angels without her, and that you would call her at midnight.

The early morning ride upstate on Amtrak was mostly listening to the department heads and veterans replaying stories of epic embarrassments and misdeeds at vendor-client bashes like these.

Like the woman who’d stripped off her top and belly danced from table to table, then didn’t show up for work the following Monday. Sent her resignation in by mail and was never heard from again.

The tour of the plant started late morning, right after snacks and drinks which—looking back—was mostly a blur.

The plant manager walked everyone through the life cycle of a print job from the minute it came in the door to final wrapping and strapping for delivery to retailers. Typesetting, composition, color separation, printing presses fed by enormous rolls of paper, then on to the trimming and cutting, folding and binding.

It was mostly you and the other newbies who followed along, watching the whole process, trying to keep up with all the technical jargon.

You were standing with two other newbies on the catwalk overhead, trying to make sense of the binding process, when one of the older sales reps—that Abernathy guy—leaned in and pointed to a knot of women on the production floor.

“Get ‘em out of their work pants and safety gear, they clean up nice. But don’t think for a minute they’re pushovers, believe me. It’s nothing like the old days.”

You all slipped glances at each other, surprised at him making a comment out loud like that.

Then he leaned in close to you, the aroma of his after shave beating out the machine oil smell in your nostrils.

“You get one of them older girls for a little pussy on New Year’s Eve, you’ll be jacking off to the memory the next six months.”

Then he leaned in closer, his mouth to your ear.

“They won’t say, but they really love it in the ass.” He straightened up and said, “You did not hear that from me.”

He gave a click of his tongue and backed away.

You couldn’t tell if he was joking to get a rise out of you, or if he was checking for someone who’d appreciate his stories of chasing business trip tail.

Later that night, at the lodge, the evening started with drinks and appetizers off the trays circulating through the hunting-themed hall, and cocktails at the open bar dominated by deer, elk, and bear heads.

“Hey, free booze,” the old hands cheered, “drink up.”

Which you did. You tried to keep up with the big guys, but you were clearly out of your league, having to leave a couple of drinks unfinished, hidden in garland on window ledges, and under the branches of the potted Christmas trees.

Then at dinner, you ended up at the table with that Abernathy guy from the plant tour and others of their sales team, you being the lone newbie among them from the publishing house.