My partner in this crime was Scott, a vulgar man in his late 30’s. Scott was a former felon; I knew he’d served a few years in prison but was too afraid to ask what crime he had committed. There were many times when he drank so much vodka or tequila after work that he completely lost control, revealing his true self: a bitter, violent alcoholic. Then he’d grab his keys off the bar and stagger out the door, spewing vile obscenities at anyone who dared suggest he should take a cab. To further complicate the situation, he was engaged and had twin sons from a previous marriage. He was also my boss.
But in my loneliness, I felt I needed someone; although his flaws were monumental, Scott did have certain redeeming qualities. First, when he appeared before customers at the restaurant, he had a magnificent charisma; he could charm the skin off a snake with his smile. Next, because he had studied at several culinary schools around the country, he was a remarkable chef. And with his golden tanning-bed-skin and flowing Fabio hair, he was very attractive… he even modeled male lingerie at private parties. Finally, his attractiveness coupled with his adventuresome personality had resulted in a vast sexual knowledge. His wealth of erotic knowledge fused with my eager desire to learn, resulting in a dangerous union.
I was attracted to him from the very beginning. The chemistry between us was incredible, and after that first night, dancing and kissing in the parking lot, everything escalated. Physical desires erupted in displays of frantic sexual activities in places where we could have been easily discovered: leaning against shelves of Saran-wrapped raw beef and heads of fresh lettuce in the walk-in cooler, facing bottles of industrial-strength Windex and rolls of two-ply toilet paper in the supply closet, propped against the counter behind the bar while inhaling the stale odor of Marlboro cigarette butts swimming in ashtrays of spilled beer. The heightened suspense created by our semi-public displays made the interaction between us explosive. The involvement became even more dangerous when, staring at the ceiling unable to sleep after one of our erotic episodes, I identified the most crucial aspect of our relationship—a desperate struggle for power and control.
I had been working at the restaurant for over a year before Scott appeared, and I had been promoted to a position where I served as both a waitress and a manager. Then he arrived, bearing culinary credentials and promises of increased revenue. When the owners hired him, Scott insisted on complete creative control; he believed he had the right to oversee the presentation of his meals, and used his age and position to assert his newly-claimed power. Soon his image began to disintegrate, though, and as he showed up for work under the influence of alcohol or any number of drugs, the quality of his food and leadership skills suffered. As the flaws in his façade became more apparent, I learned that he was not nearly as talented or powerful as he pretended to be. I also realized that my young body was something he craved: I offered the fulfillment of an experience he’d fantasized about for years. In return, I reclaimed part of my power; my body was an illegal substance, more expensive and addictive than any drug, and by controlling my sexual availability, I controlled his entire world. He must have felt I was just one last vice on his list of dependencies—the first exposure to me transformed his life, and from that point onward, he was addicted.
Just as he needed me, I also needed him… or more specifically, I needed the power that naturally resulted from a relationship with him. At the time, I was finishing my senior year of high school, and though I knew I was caught in a dangerous situation, I enjoyed the rush. It seemed like an adult, workplace version of the head cheerleader and the captain of the football team—a partnership of show and status. But unlike a budding high school romance, our affair was secret. Through the entire course of our three-month involvement, no one knew.
“I want to fuck you.” He whispered this to me one night, his piercing mahogany eyes meeting my cold blue stare after I’d performed oral sex in the supply closet behind the bar. And he mumbled something else about me, about how beautiful and delicate I was, and instead of being mildly flattered as he’d expected, I felt a sudden flash of anger. It occurred to me then that I was beautiful and delicate, and a hundred other wonderful things, but that he didn’t know it; had never taken the time to see me as anything more than an unpaid prostitute, a cheap object that existed for the sole purpose of giving him pleasure. I was concerned by his phrasing—fuck, not sex, not make love—and though I tried to tell myself that his choice of words meant nothing, that it was merely an issue of semantics, my heart knew otherwise. I’d always had this elaborate fantasy of the first time I would make love to a man, being swept off my feet in a room filled with the aroma of roses and the resonance of sensual jazz music, and I decided then that I wouldn’t let Scott steal that beautiful ideal from me. Through the course of that dangerous affair, I kept the single most important element of myself: my innocence.
Near the end, the relationship was less whirlwind romance and more draining whirlpool—and our slow spiral accelerated rapidly as it neared its inevitable conclusion. I had become very unhappy with the relationship that revolved around lust and secrecy, and though I knew I wanted out of the situation, I wasn’t sure how to escape. Something finally clicked the evening I served dinner to his ex-wife and twin sons; it all became so real and frightening, and I called him into the walk-in cooler so we could talk without being overheard. I told him that what we had been doing was sick and unnatural, and stated that I could not be involved with him anymore. There had been very few times before that night when I had stood up to him about anything, but this time he saw the resolve in my rigid pose, heard the determination in my strong, clear voice. He refused to respond… just stared at me, but I knew he had heard and understood my words. I left him in the cooler and walked up to the front of the restaurant, feeling as if an enormous burden had been lifted from my mind. I crossed over to his ex-wife’s table, poured her a fresh cup of coffee and talked with his two sons. They were sixteen that summer… just one year younger than me.
After that night, the relationship with Scott was very strained. Working with him was nearly impossible; although everyone noticed a change in our interaction, they dismissed it quickly, assuming it was the result of one of many arguments over restaurant policy. When he realized he couldn’t continue to strike out at me personally, he verbally attacked my wait staff, snapping and erupting in fits of rage when any minute aspect of their behavior contradicted his lofty expectations. He knew he couldn’t fire me. I had been a reliable, talented employee, and the owners wouldn’t follow his recommendation, so he did everything within his power to try to punish me, hoping I’d quit voluntarily. He subjected me to an elaborate form of emotional torture, telling me the intimate details of his sex life with his fiancée and reinforcing the idea that while she was beautiful and admirable, I was nothing. So I was caught between the certain misery of being with him and the uncertainty of being without him, and I found myself pulled insistently in opposite directions until I felt my body would tear into congruent halves. Still, I stayed at the restaurant, determined not to allow him the satisfaction of victory.
A few weeks later, Bob and Tanya, the middle-aged couple that owned the restaurant, called me down to the office. My first thought was that they knew what had been going on… that they had discovered some crucial evidence and were going to render judgment, leaving me without a job and sending Scott back to prison for being involved with a minor. Instead, they told me they had decided to sell the restaurant. The pressure of operating the place coupled with the time demands of raising three children had put a strain on their marriage, and they had found a buyer who would take over almost immediately. It was late last summer, just a few weeks before I left for college, and I decided to leave with them. They invited me to come down to the bar at the end of my shift for a celebration. I joined them that night, and as they raised their glasses of Zinfandel (and I raised my virgin daiquiri) we proposed toasts to freedom and wishes for a happy future. Without a doubt, I realized those wishes after leaving the restaurant.
I learned a great deal about myself from the relationship with Scott. First, I recognized that I don’t have to rely on anyone else to validate my sense of self… I am beautiful, kind, and intelligent, and I no longer feel the need to search in others for qualities I once thought were missing in myself. Then I decided to view the relationship as a learning experience, an opportunity to discover the type of entanglement I should avoid. And finally, I realized that I am in control of my own destiny—I now firmly believe that my fate is what I make of it, and the future rests primarily within my hands.
