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I returned from my semester abroad, determined to succeed at school. I followed Rudolf’s advice and switched my major to engineering physics. All the physics foundational courses I had done at Göttingen prepared me really well. I took a full load in both Summer I and Summer II, and then took an overload the following year. I was on track to graduate less than a year after I got back from Germany, in Spring 2013. All my professors, including Rudolf, encouraged me to consider graduate school in physics or engineering, and follow a career path that would lead me to becoming a professor.

“Engineering professors make more money than art history professors, Johanna,” was all that Mom said. “But you must make up your own mind as to what you want to do with your life.”

A chance event changed my career trajectory. I went to a talk on space law at the law school and talked to the speaker at the wine and cheese afterward. He was a dapper junior partner from one of the most prestigious law firms in Chicago and we had a long talk about the cutting-edge areas in law – areas like property rights over the oceans, in space, intellectual property issues in new technologies, and many others.

I took a flyer for the LSAT dates on my way out from the law school and took the test at the next sitting. When I told Mom I was going to apply to law school, she said, “It’s always good to have options, Johanna. Apply to graduate school in physics as well. Then you can choose.”

I did as Mom suggested. I got into the MIT and Carnegie-Mellon Physics Ph.D. programs. I didn’t get into Yale Law or Harvard Law, but I did get into an ivy league law school in New York. I talked to admissions counselors and professors at all the schools, and wrestled with the choice for weeks. Finally, I decided to go to law school, partly because I knew that as a successful lawyer, I’d probably make a lot of money than I would as a successful physics professor. My experiences in Switzerland had convinced me that I never wanted to be a poor girl again.

 I took my last set of courses in the summer of 2013, and graduated magna cum laude a year ahead of schedule. I was twenty-one. I had just a few weeks to pack, find a place and move to New York. Roberta came home for a couple weeks to help me pack and stay with Mom to ease her transition to becoming an empty-nester.

*

I started law school in the fall of 2013. I discovered that I was quite good at law. I enjoyed constructing arguments and linking evidence to precedent. I got along well with my professors and got great grades. At the end of my first year of law school, I got one of the rare paid internships at a prestigious New York law firm. The firm specialized in criminal law, and in the course of the summer, I got to meet the denizens of the criminal justice system – the assistant DA’s, police officers, parole officers, court clerks, and of course, the defendants.

I was assigned to a case defending a wealthy rap artist who had been involved in a nightclub shootout in which several people were killed and many more wounded, including a police officer. It was a high-profile case and was on the headlines every day. I was assigned to routine busywork – find a precedent for this, get a set of psychological articles that say that. As the case wound forward through the hot summer weeks, I became increasingly depressed with the work I was doing.

We had a meeting of an entire legal team every Monday chaired by Matthew O’Connor, the senior partner leading the case. As Monday followed Monday, we built our defense, but to me, it all seemed about the details. No one seemed to be asking the big question. So about a month into my internship, I put my hand up and asked it.

“We’re putting together this enormously complex defense with so many moving parts,” I said. “But we’ve never asked the root question.”

“And what is that?” asked O’Connor, glancing at the senior associate at his right. She was a sharply dressed, attractive woman named Emily Carlton. She whispered in his ear, and then he looked up and continued. “Johanna von Eschenbach, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I mean, don’t we want to know the facts? Whether he killed someone or not?”

“Johanna, it’s not your place –” began Emily Carlton.

“It’s alright, Emily,” O’Connor said. “It’s a good question. Johanna, what’s the foundational principle of the Western system of justice? As used in the United States?”

“Innocent until proven guilty, sir,” I said. “As established in Coffin v. United States (1895).”

“Good, good. So our client is innocent until the DA proves him guilty, is he not?”

“Yes, sir. But we’re talking about strategies to prevent the DA from presenting evidence of his prior violent behavior in court –”

“That evidence would be prejudicial to the interests of our client. In any event, establishing the inadmissibility of evidence is not strategy, it’s a clear case of the law.”

“Don’t we want to know if he’s actually guilty –?”

“It’s the DA’s job to prove he is guilty, Johanna. It is our job to show that there is reasonable doubt. Emily must have written all this into the preamble.”

“But, sir, there’s nothing in the preamble –”

“You’ve wasted quite enough time, Johanna,” said Emily Carlton, cutting me off. “See me in my office after the meeting.”

Emily Carlton was well known to be on the fast track for partner. She was in her early thirties, had gone to Yale Law, and done a clerkship at the Supreme Court. She was frosty when I went to her office after the meeting. She was working on her computer and did not ask me to sit down. She made me stand for a good fifteen minutes before she looked up.

“Are you stupid?” she asked. “Or just incredibly arrogant?”

I assumed it was a rhetorical question and did not answer.

“You waste the time of more than thirty people asking trivial questions that you should have asked in your first week in law school. I see that you have one of our paid internships. Those are normally reserved for students from Yale or Harvard. I don’t know how you got in but –”.

She left it hanging without completing her sentence. But her eyes traveled over my body indicating clearly what she meant. I blushed furiously and I saw from her expression that she took this to be confirmation of her supposition.

“I’m fining you one week’s pay for substandard performance.”

“But ma’am,” I protested. “I’ve received commendations for all my work so far. I’ve been working twelve to fourteen hours a day –”.

“Keep talking and I’ll double the fine. And any more such antics like today and I will recommend that the firm rescind your internship.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“Idiot girl,” I heard her mutter as I shut the door.

*

I couldn’t concentrate all afternoon. I closed my computer precisely at five and left the office, even though everyone else was still working. I wandered the streets aimlessly and found myself on Tenth Avenue. I went into a bar that had comforting Wild West style lettering on its signage. The interior decor was excessively Western to the point that it looked like a parody. The barmen all wore Hollywood style cowboy outfits and the wall hangings included things like wagon wheels. It didn’t look authentic at all, but at least it was trying to mimic the West that I loved. At this moment, I missed Montana and the simplicity of life on the ranch more than ever.

I went to the bar and took a stool. I noticed that all of the barmen were perfect physical specimens, and most were extremely good looking as well. They wore open leather vests without shirts to display their chiseled chests and abs. It was still early, and I watched patrons trickling in. I was a relative newcomer in New York and realization of the nature of the bar dawned slowly.

I looked around and saw a band setting up in a corner. One of the guys from the band walked toward me just as one of the barmen came up.

“A red Chimay,” I said to the barman.

“Bottle okay?” asked the barman, and I nodded.

“Make that two Chimays,” said the guy from the band, sliding a couple of bills to the barman. He had an accent, but it was so faint that I couldn’t place it.

“I hope you’re not buying me a drink,” I said.

“I am,” he said.

“I can afford my own beer.”

“Of course you can,” he said with a grin. He was quite good looking, though not as good looking as the barman. His face was a little too wide for perfection. “And you can take of yourself in bed as well. But it’s more fun with someone does it for you. You like Chimay?”

“Trappist beers are my favorite,” I said.

“Never heard of them. I’m a stout man myself, but I’ll take your word for it.”

The barman came with the beers and frosted glasses. I took a bill out of my purse and put it on the bar.

“He’s already paid for the beer, ma’am,” said the barman. “Is that a tip?”

“Whatever you want to call it,” I said, my tone truculent.

“Look,” said the guy from the band when the barman left. “I never come on to a strange girl. Especially not in a gay bar. But you don’t look like you’re looking for a girl.”

“Maybe I’m waiting for my girlfriend.”

“Are you?”

“I said maybe.”

“What’s your name?”

“Calamity Jane,” I said.

“That’s a famous name. Can I call you Cal?”

“Suit yourself.”

“Well hello, Cal. I’m Wild Bill Hickok. Just call me Bill.”

“I don’t want to call you anything,” I said. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“We’re all set up. We don’t start till seven. There’s plenty of time.” He took in my charcoal pantsuit and black two-inch heels. “Looks like you’ve come straight from an office. What’s your line of work?”

“I don’t work in an office,” I said.

“Then what do you do?”

“I’m a rodeo clown.”

“You don’t look like a clown.”

“Where I come from, this is considered funny.”

“A dark suit is considered funny? Where are you from?”

“Deadwood, South Dakota,” I said.

“No, no,” he said. “Where are you really from?”

I took a pull of my beer and didn’t answer. The bar was filling up. There were a lot of gay and lesbian couples, as well as groups of women. Some of the women were extremely beautiful.

“I need to hit the head,” I said to him. “Can keep my barstool warm till I get back?”

“As warm as you like,” he said.

I was relieved to find there was no line for the ladies’ room. When I emerged from the stall, I found two girls having sex. A pretty brunette sat on the sink counter with her skirt up around her waist, her panties hanging on one ankle, and her blouse unbuttoned. A dark blonde head was between her thighs, bobbing assiduously. The brunette had one hand buried in the blonde’s hair, pulling her into her crotch, and the other kneading one of her breasts through her yellow bra.

“Yes, yes, yes, oh yes!” she was saying through soft pants. “It’s good, it’s so good!”

I was frozen for a moment, mechanically washing my hands as I stared that them. My staring caught the attention of the brunette.

“Don’t stare, bitch! Help out or get out!”

The blonde head emerged from her crotch and I saw the brunette’s pink pussy with its coating of dripping saliva and sexual fluids.

“Yes,” said the blonde, with two fingers still stuck in the brunette’s pussy. “You can suck her tits while I get her off.”

I hurried out of the restroom without responding, and both of them glared at me. I found my way back to my barstool. My new ‘friend’ vacated it for me.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said. “Was there action in the restroom?”

“More than I wanted to see.”

“People who pair up here are often in a hurry and use the restrooms to get it on.”

“Speaking of pairing up, you’re wasting your time with me,” I said, gesturing around the bar. “You’re in the band, I’m sure you can find a groupie.”

“We’re just the warmup band. The real band comes on at nine.”

“Well, you’ve had your warmup girl. Now go and get the real one.”

“It hasn’t been a very promising warmup. I’ve used all my best lines on you and haven’t even got a smile.”

I gave him a toothy exaggerated faux smile. He laughed and I laughed with him.

“There!” he said. “You look much better when you laugh.”

“Better than what?” I asked.

“Better than when you scowl.”

“Well said, Captain Obvious.”

“We’re practically friends now,” he said. “You’ve got to at least tell me your name.”

“I already did.”

“Okay, Calamity Jane,” he said with a sigh. “What’s your birth sign?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I want to know everything about you, Cal. What’s your birthday? What’s your home town? What do you dream of doing? Do you make out on a first date?”

“You’re a persistent sonofabitch, aren’t you?”

“Did you just call me a sonofabitch?”

“A term of endearment,” I said.

“And you’re just being a bitch.” He saw my annoyed expression as I rose to his bait and echoed me, “A term of endearment.”

I laughed again and he smiled. I took a few pulls of my beer and I noticed a guy working his way along the bar patrons. He seemed to be selling something. When he got to us, I saw that he was selling temporary tattoos.

“Why don’t we get one?” my new friend asked. “Wrist tattoos?”

“What would you get?” I asked.

 “You decide for me,” he said. “And I’ll decide for you.”

“Depends on how long they last,” I said, cautiously.

“About a week,” said the tattooist. “Two at most.”

“Okay,” I said.

I got a cocktail napkin and drew a stylized clef in the shape of a heart.

“I like that for me,” he said. “I think you should have a unicorn.”

“Why?”

“You said you’re a rodeo clown. You need a funny horse to ride.”

I asked the tattooist to do mine on my left wrist. He was more skilled than I expected, and I quite liked my unicorn. He was still working on my friend when I saw the other members of the band gesturing to him.

“You better get to work,” I said, pointing to them.

“Just a few more minutes,” said the tattooist.

“Please stay and listen to us,” my friend said when the tattooist was done. “We’ll be done in about an hour and a half. Then we can talk some more.”

“You’re wasting your time with me,” I said again but he just smiled, undeterred.

He was the lead singer of the band and played the keyboards. He was quite good, especially as a singer. I felt bad for him, for the no one got on to the dance floor or even seemed to be listening. The buzz of conversation in the room only seemed to get louder. There was some desultory applause after each number. I clapped as hard as I could, and he looked at me gratefully. At the end of their second set, he took the mike and tapped it to get everyone’s attention.

“We’re about the sign off for the evening, and I’d like to close with a number I just wrote. It’s inspired by a very special lady I just met. I hope you like it.”

He picked up an acoustic guitar and tested a few strings, adjusting the tuning machines. Then he strummed a few bars and began to sing. The song had a very simple melody, but his warm voice made it sound very personal, almost intimate.

All your words are so untrue,

But there’s something about you,

Strange and wonderful and oh! So very dear.

It makes me want to hold you,

To caress you and love you,

For I sense that you are more than you appear.

You’re just playing a game,

Won’t even tell me your name,

As you hide behind an alias so clear.

But darling can’t you see,

Any name that you give me,

Can’t change you! It’s just veneer.

There is laughter in your eyes,

But it’s just a thin disguise,

To keep guys from getting serious or near.

But your true self is so real,

And you really can’t conceal,

Your inner beauty, for it has no peer.

All your words are so untrue,

But there’s something about you,

Strange and wonderful and oh! So very dear.

All my life I’ve waited,

I think you’re the one, it’s fated.

And to think it all started with a beer!

He looked at me as he sang. So much so, that several others also turned to look at me. I just sat there and stared at the floor. When he finished this song, he got the heartiest applause of the evening. Several people pounded the planked floor with their boots, and many hooted and hollered.

As he stepped off the dais, I went to the bar and took a barstool, hoping he would not follow. However, I could feel his eyes on my back, so eventually, I rotated the barstool. He just stood there, smiling.

“You just won’t take a hint, will you?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said.

He handed me a sheet of paper. Its upper edges were ragged, and it looked like it had been torn out of a pad. I skimmed it quickly. It was entitled ‘For you’ and it was the words to the song he had just sung.

“Who wrote these lyrics?” I asked.

“I did.”

“Is this what you sing to every girl you come on to?”

“I just wrote it today. During the break between our sets.”

I read it again and said, “I know a thing or two about music. There’s no way you wrote the lyrics and music for this in five minutes.”

“Okay, I was working on the melody for another project. And I had bits and pieces of the lyrics. But it all came together thinking of you.”

I handed the sheet back to him, but he wouldn’t take it.

“Keep it,” he said. “I wrote it for you.”

“You may want to sing it again,” I said. “To some girl you’re really interested in.”

“I’ve got it right up here,” he said, tapping his temple. He looked at me for a few moments before going on. “Why do you think I’m not really interested in you?”

“You don’t know me. I might be a psycho killer.”

“And I might be an ax murderer. So we’re even.”

I smiled, and that drew a grin from him.

“Well, when you put it that way, maybe I should buy you a beer,” I said. “I owe you one anyway. You want another Chimay?”

“If you’re giving me a choice, I’d prefer stout. They have Murphy’s here.”

I swiveled around again, got a barman’s attention, and ordered.

“Let’s get a table,” he said when I handed him his beer. “I see one in that corner by the dancefloor.”

“There’s another couple sitting there.”

“There’s two free chairs. Besides, that’s where I’ve hidden my ax.”

I laughed again as I slid off my barstool and followed him over.

We had scarcely taken our seats when someone began announcing something over the PA system. A large mass of people began moving toward the inner room of the bar through a set of large batwing doors. The PA system was a bit garbled and I couldn’t make out what was being said, so I asked him.

“There’s a bull-riding contest every Monday night,” he said. “To fill the time till the main band comes on at nine.”

“Bull riding? Here?”

“They have a mechanical bull in the back. Most folks just want to watch people getting bucked off. It’s fun. Let’s go watch.”

“Okay.”

 He was right about it being funny. The windup began with gentle rocking that grew increasingly quick and jerky. At the end of ten seconds, a buzzer sounded, and the actual ride began with the machine bucking full tilt. None of the first half a dozen “riders” managed to stay on for two seconds. Actually, most got bucked off during the windup and landed laughing in the surrounding inflated foam pad. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, there was a line of potential riders.

“If you can stay on for eight seconds, you win $50,” he said.

“How often does someone do that?”

“I’ve never seen anyone do it.” He looked over at me with a hint of a challenge. “But perhaps you can. You’re a rodeo clown, remember?”

“Hmmm,” I said, noncommittal.

We finished our beers and he went to the bar, returning with another round.

“These people are crap!” I said as we watched yet another rider unseated during the windup.

“So, are you going to try it?” he asked. “And show them how it’s done?”

“I’ll try it,” I replied. “If you go first.”

We got in line with our beers. We continued watching urban cowboys and cowgirls, many wearing Stetson hats and boots, getting unceremoniously pitched off the machine. It seemed that the machine bucked randomly, left, right, up, and down. However, continual observation suggested a pattern. I tried to keep track of it as we slowly moved forward. When we got to the head of the line, we both gulped down the dregs of our beers.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go first?” he asked, sounding nervous.

“No, I want to watch you,” I said. “Don’t worry, the foam’s soft. Just let go of the rope as soon as you feel yourself losing your balance.”

He nodded and got into the ring. He lasted through the windup and almost three seconds into the actual bucking before falling off. Only two others had lasted longer than him, so he was in third place. He waved to me triumphantly as he walked out the other side of the ring.

“We have a young lady next,” intoned the announcer. “Looks like she came straight from work. Let’s give her a big hand, ladies and gents!”

There was a girl standing by the machine helping people get on. She wore chaps, a plaid shirt, as well as a cowboy hat, and boots. I felt the buzz of the three Chimays as I approached the black beast.

“What’s it set on?” I asked her as I handed her my black jacket.

“Moderate,” she said,

She placed a small footstool to help me get on, but I put my hands on the machine’s rump and vaulted on. I settled myself and wrapped the rope around my right hand.

I looked around and saw the sea of eager faces around me. I’ll give them a show, I thought, visualizing Debra Winger in Urban Cowboy. I unbuttoned my white work blouse and pulled it out of my pants to expose my belly and my bra. As the machine began to rock gently in the first few seconds, I moved my crotch lasciviously along the top of the machine that was sculpted to resemble a bull’s spine. I closed my eyes and allowed my upper body to sway. I heard the packed crowd begin to roar and chant, “Ride him, ride him, RIDE HIM!”

The announcer counted down the seconds from ten. By the time he reached five, the machine was moving faster and more sharply, side to side, up and down. It got faster and bucked harder. I felt the jerk of the rope on my hand.

Then the buzzer went off and the machine went into full action mode. It corkscrewed to the right as I expected, and I moved with it. It dipped down and then straight up, exactly like a horse would do. My inner thighs were toned and strong from years of riding, and I used them to control my ascent. I held on, as the machine corkscrewed to the left at the top of the buck. Again, it was what I expected, and I moved my body with the machine, retaining my balance.

I dimly heard the count, “ … THREE, FOUR …” and knew I had the best time of the night thus far. The crowd continued to roar, “RIDE HIM, RIDE HIM!”

The buzz of the beer had me a bit looser than I would have liked, and the next right corkscrew nearly unseated me. I was thrown into the air but managed to hang on to the rope. Fortunately, the next buck was straight up. I was able to use my inner thighs to regain my balance. “ … SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT!”

The machine glided back to vertical and slowly settled back into its start position. The crowd erupted with cheering and I felt the rush of elation. I lay down on the smooth metal back of the beast for a moment to catch my breath, and heard the crowd, “SHOW US MORE! SHOW US MORE!” I slid off and took my jacket back from the girl.

“Where do I collect my winnings?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never seen anyone stay on before. Ask at the bar.”

I made my way out of the ring with my jacket over my arm and found myself grabbed and enveloped in a hug.

“You did it! You did it!” he said, excitedly. “You are a rodeo clown!”

‘Well, definitely a clown,” I said, feeling his hard chest against my breasts and realizing that my blouse was still completely unbuttoned. “You can let me go now.”

 “On that bull, you were the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, it’s over now.”

“No, it’s not,” he said. “It’s still going on.”

He pointed to the monitors all around the bar. They were replaying my ride over and over on a loop – in slow motion. It made everything look so much more sensual. Everyone seemed to be watching. We caught snatches of conversation as we pushed our way up to the bar.

“ … running her pussy along the bull’s spine …”, “… really getting off on it …”, “… bet she came …”, “ … best striptease I’ve ever seen …”

As soon as we got to the bar, one of the barmen came up to us and said, “Mr. Merlo would like to see you in his office.” He pointed to a door behind the bar.

“I just want to collect my fifty dollars and leave,” I said.

“You’ll have to talk to Mr. Merlo.”

I made my way through the crowd to the door. I tried to ignore the screens all around and the people who stared at me as I walked by. I entered the office without knocking. There was a flat-screen on the wall here as well and it was also looping my video. Merlo was a middle-aged, balding guy with a bit of a paunch and a hearty manner. He wore jeans, a wide belt with a heavy buckle, and cowboy boots. He rose when he saw me.

“I’m pleased to see you,” he said. He looked over my shoulder and went on. “What are you doing here, Duane?”

I looked back and saw my friend had followed me.

“I’m with her,” he said.

“I’ve already paid you, Duane. I don’t need you –”

“He’s with me,” I said.

“Okay,” said Merlo. “Sit down, sit down. That was quite a show you just put on.”

“I just want to get my money and leave,” I said.

“What’s the hurry?” He pulled some papers out of a drawer and gave them to me along with a pen. “Sign at the bottom on both the forms.”

“What are they?”

“One’s the standard release allowing us to use the video in the bar. It’s just boilerplate. We’ll run the videos whether you sign or not, it’ll cost you a fortune in legal fees to stop us. The second is a contract for a weekly appearance here. I’m prepared to pay you $100 a week to ride the bull every Monday.”

“No,” I said.

“One hundred fifty.” I shook my head, and he went on. “Two hundred.”

“No,” I repeated.

“Hey, that’s more than you pay us,” protested Duane. “And there’s four of us in the band.”

“People want to watch her, Duane,” said Merlo. “No one wants to watch you.” He turned back to me, “Two hundred fifty dollars, what do you say?”

 “The answer is still no, Mr. Merlo. Just give me my fifty dollars.”

“But why?”

“I’m not a stripper.”

I signed the top form, ‘Calamity Jane’. He pulled out his wallet, gave me the money and I walked out quickly.

I heard him say “If you change your mind, the offer still stands,” but I didn’t stop and walked right out of the bar. I stopped on the sidewalk to find Duane beside me.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Home,” I said.

“Come to my place. Please.”

“Why? I’m not going to have sex with you, Duane.”

“I just want to talk to you.”

“You don’t want to have sex with me?”

“Is that a trick question? Of course, I want to have sex with you. But only if you want to.”

“Good night, Duane,” I said, turning to go.

“Wait! At least give me some way to contact you.”

“Give me your number,” I said.

He pulled out his wallet and gave me a card. It read ‘Duane Byrne, Vocals, Guitar, Keyboards’ with his cell phone number, and social media accounts below it. I put it in my bag and started walking away.

“You’ll phone me?” he called out to my retreating back. “Or text me?”

I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t reply.

*

The next day I got to the office at my usual time, just before seven. I was working in my cubicle for about an hour when Emily Carlton called me into her office.

“Were you at a country-western bar last night?”

“Why do you ask?”

“One of my friends forwarded me a tweet of a girl who did a striptease on a mechanical bull. It’s been retweeted over 15,000 times since last night, #CalamityJanebullriding. The girl looks a lot like you.”

She had the bull riding video cued up on Twitter and played it without saying anything.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Carlton,” I said.

“Behavior like this does not reflect well on the firm.” She cued up another screen on her computer. “I’m fining you another week’s pay, and putting a reprimand in your file.”

“But, ma’am!” I protested. “You’ve already fined me a week’s pay! If you fine me another week, I won’t be able to pay my rent –”

“You should have thought of that before you started stripping.”

I ran my hand through my hair in my distress and my sleeve rode up. Emily was sharp-eyed and saw the unicorn tattoo on my wrist.

“When did you get that?” she asked.

“It’s temporary, I got it as a joke,” I said.

She looked disapproving.

“I’m watching you, Johanna,” she said. “One more mistake, just one, and you’re finished here. And at every major law firm in New York.”

“Yes, Ms. Carlton.” She went back to her computer screen, clearly dismissing me. I turned to leave but stopped at the door. “Why do you hate me, Ms. Carlton? Apart from the fact that I don’t go to Harvard or Yale, what did I do wrong?”

She looked at me expressionless with her cold, gray-green eyes. I knew she wanted to scare me, so I locked eyes with her and did not look down or away. I saw that it irritated her and that made me feel good. She hates me anyway, I thought. I’ve got nothing to lose.

“You don’t belong in a major law firm, Johanna. You’re cocky, unsophisticated, and insubordinate.”

“Do you have any complaints about my work?”

That took her by surprise.

“Well,” she said. She paused and looked at her computer screen and tapped a few keys. “A few routine commendations in your file. Nothing outstanding.”

“I work hard, Ms. Carlton. I’m almost always the first intern in and the last one out every day.”

I wanted to say that I was doing a lot of background work for several of the other interns, but I didn’t want to get anyone else in trouble. In any event, I couldn’t prove it.

“Good day to you,” she said.

*

I had lunch with Adriana, another of the interns. She was a Hispanic from Miami with dark hair and eyes and we were sharing a summer sublet together. We’d met at the interns’ orientation in the Spring, hit it off, and she’d invited me to share her sublet.

She went to Yale Law, and everything about her indicated that she came from money. The sublet we shared was in a very upscale building just west of Central Park, and the rent was incredibly low. Adriana said that it belonged to a friend of her father’s. She drove a brand-new BMW, and her clothes, purses, and shoes were all from very expensive designers.

She was undoubtedly the prettiest of our crop of interns, possibly the best-looking girl in the firm, and she dressed to emphasize her hot body. Her skirts were always short enough to display tantalizing glimpses of her stocking tops. She always wore colorful low-cut bras with white blouses translucent enough to provide an enticing exhibition.

We got along because she knew I was no competition looks-wise. I think what she really liked was that I looked just good enough to really emphasize how beautiful she was. She was sexually aggressive, and it was a rare weekend when she didn’t fuck a new man.

She liked talking about her sex life and began by telling me a few juicy tidbits. Once she learned that I never judged her or tattled, she rapidly opened up to me. She gave me long descriptions and relished going over the most salacious details – cock size, sexual positions, what she and her partner had on, every little detail. I think she enjoyed trying to shock me.

“Emily Carlton is just looking for an excuse to get rid of me,” I said at lunch.

“Yeah, she really doesn’t like you.”

“I don’t know why,” I said.

“It’s obvious, Johanna.”

“Not to me.”

“You’re too blunt, Johanna. You’re always finding little mistakes in her work, and then raising them in meetings. You make her look stupid. She’ll never forgive you for that.”

“What I am supposed to do? Let her mistakes pass? It would cost the firm a lot of money and I wouldn’t be doing my job!” I put down my fork and pushed away the remains of my salad. “She likes you. What’s your secret?”

“Flattery, Johanna. You have to make her look smart. But she’s an intelligent woman, so you can’t be too obvious about it. Remember the missing precedent you found in the brief I was doing for her?”

“Yes,” I said. “Didn’t you show it to her?”

“Well, of course. But I didn’t say there was a missing precedent. I said, ‘Ms. Carlton, I wonder if you know a good precedent for paragraph four. I really can’t think of one’. Then I let her give me the precedent. She gave me the same one you did, by the way, but I made it look like it was her idea.”

“That’s slimy,” I said. “You knew the precedent all along but made her think that you didn’t.”

“Not slimy, Johanna. Subtle. And political. That’s how you get ahead.” She smiled and tossed her hair, reminding me again how beautiful she was. “When I graduate next summer, I’ve got an associateship locked up at this firm. With a thirty-k signing bonus. O’Connor told me.”

“When did he tell you that?”

“Last night, when we were in bed.”

“You’re sleeping with O’Connor? He’s old enough to be your father! And it could get you both in trouble.”

“We’re very careful.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “If you tell, we’ll just deny it. You’ll be the one in trouble.”

“You know you can trust me, Adriana,” I said, hurt. “I would never rat on a friend.”

“You’re such a country girl, Johanna!” she said, laughing.

*

I was depressed all afternoon. Both Emily Carlton and Adriana had said the same thing to me in different ways – that I couldn’t make it in a major law firm. I was working so hard, sixty to seventy hours a week, and yet I was finishing far behind Adriana, who was working much less. She was bright – you don’t get into Yale Law unless you are – but she depended on me to do a lot of her research work. In my heart of hearts, I knew I was better than she was.

But of course, she was far better looking and sleeping with a senior partner. Was that what it took to get ahead? I thought of how I would sit on Dad’s lap whenever I had a problem. He always had an answer and a life lesson. At that moment, I missed him so terribly that I felt teary. I found myself daydreaming about him, moist-eyed. He was reassuring me, “You can do anything that you set your mind to do, Skipper.”

“But I can’t Dad,” I said. “I’m trying so hard. But I can’t do it, I just don’t know how.”

“What can’t you do?” asked Adriana.

She was walking by and I realized I had spoken out loud.

“Oh, nothing,” I said, embarrassed. I quickly wiped my eyes. “I was just thinking I need to get a coffee to jump-start my brain.”

I went to my regular coffee shop and got an espresso. Sitting on a high stool looking out the glass at the hurrying crowds, I felt very alone. On a whim, I pulled out Duane’s card and called him.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s me. The girl you met at the bar last night.”

“I’m so happy you called!”

He sounded enthusiastic, his accent was stronger and I recognized it – Irish.

“Did you tweet the video of me on the bull?”

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t me. But there must have been dozens of people who took videos of you and lots of them did tweet it. They’re getting thousands of retweets. #CalamityJanebullriding is really trending.”

“I really need this to quiet down, Duane. I might lose my internship.”

“I can’t do anything, Cal. I don’t even know your real name. But at least I’ve got your number now.”

I cut the line, but my phone rang within the minute.

“Don’t hang up on me,” he said. “Please.”

“Alright.”

“Come to my show tonight.”

“I don’t feel like going back to that bar on Tenth again.”

“I’m not playing there. We’re playing at a place on Second.”

“What sort of place?”

“An Irish pub.”

“I thought I heard Irish in your accent,” I said.

“I’m Irish,” he said. “Are you going to hold that against me?”

“No,” I said.

“So, you’ll come?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ll pick you up at half six. We can get a bite to eat before we go there. Just give me your address.” I gave him my address, and he whistled. “Whoa! That’s a ritzy address. Are you rich?”

“I don’t want my money to spoil our relationship,” I said, laughing.

“You can leave your purse at home. Everything’s on me – if you don’t mind slumming.”

I went back to the office and stacked up all the briefs I had left for the day. I worked steadily, knocking them off one after the other. Several interns came by to ask for research help during the afternoon, as they always did. But I turned everyone away, even Adriana.

“I have a date,” I told her. “I need to get home by six and get ready. He’s picking me up at six-thirty.”

“But this will only take a few minutes, you’re so good at it,” she persisted.

“I’ll help you tomorrow, Adriana. I really can’t today.”

*

I got home before six, showered, and spent half an hour trying on various outfits before settling on a pleated skirt that came to mid-thigh, black stockings, and a black silk choker ribbon. I wore high heels since Duane was very tall. I went back to wearing the silk blouse I had worn to work but changed into a black push-up bra to give myself a bit of cleavage. I undid the top two buttons to show it. I was still plumping my breasts when the doorbell rang.

“Wow, you look smashing,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

His sincere tone made me color a bit. I gave him a quick tour of our small place, and he ooh’ed and aah’ed about the view of the park.

“It’s my friend’s place,” I assured him. “I’m not rich.”

“So,” he said, as I pulled the door shut on the way out. “Are you going to tell me your name?”

“I was just getting used to Cal,” I said.

“Seriously. I’d like to introduce you to the guys in the band.”

“I already saw them.”

“No, this is a different band. An Irish one.”

“Oh. So they won’t like Calamity Jane?”

“Will you be serious for one minute?”

“Okay, okay. I’m Johanna.”

“Johanna what?”

“Johanna the bull rider.”

He made a face but took it in good spirit. We took the subway and had a quick dinner at a small bistro close to the bar he was playing at. He introduced me to his bandmates – a pair of guitarists, a girl who played the fiddle, and another girl who played the piano.

“I can play the tambourine,” I joked, as we drank Guinness.

“We can find you one,” said Duane, taking me at my word.

“I was joking,” I said.

“I’m sure you can do it,” he insisted, but his band members looked less convinced.

“What gives you that idea?”

“You look musical.”

I did not allow him to persuade me on to the stage with them. I did know some of the songs and sang in the audience, in what I hoped was a low voice. We drank more Guinness at the break, but I retained enough sense not to intrude into the band’s camaraderie. Even so, I had a great time.

The band played the last set, did some encores, and were done just after midnight. Duane suggested a walk, and we took leave of his bandmates. We walked down 2nd Avenue, talking. He was easy to talk to, and we compared our life experiences. He loved Ireland as much as I loved Montana, and we each insisted that we would like to show our land to the other. Before knew it, we had arrived at Columbus Circle. A few more blocks and we were at my building.

He put his arms around me on the sidewalk and I put my arms around his neck. He leaned forward and I kissed him, opening my mouth to him. He kissed me delightedly and didn’t want to stop. Eventually, we opened our eyes and looked at each other.

“I share a really small flat with my Irish band,” he said. “Or else I’d invite you over. For a nightcap or something.”

“Let me see what I can do,” I said.

I called Adriana and it rang and rang. When she finally picked up, she said, “Hello, Johanna!” in a breathless, but sharp tone that indicated she was not pleased.

“I was wondering if I could have a guy over,” I asked.

“Fine, fine,” she said, even more breathless, and cut the line abruptly.

She sounded like she was having sex. I wondered if she was with O’Connor.

“Who were you calling?” asked Duane.

“My apartment mate,” I said.

“Is she upstairs?”

“Fortunately, not.”

“Why, fortunately?”

“Because she’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

He stood back and looked at me with a mock appraisal.

“You’re not a raving beauty,” he said.

“I know,” I replied.

“But you’re cute.”

“Am I a raving cutie?”

He started laughing and kissed me again.

“Yes,” he said. “And in my book, ‘cutie’ beats ‘beauty’ every time.”

We made out in the elevator, and again at the front door to the apartment. He put his hand up my skirt, I did not deter him. As soon as we were inside the apartment, he was all over me. He got my skirt up around my waist and had fingers on my pussy. He was good with his fingers and my panties were soon wet.

He pulled my panties off right there in the entrance hallway of the apartment. He really had my motor running, and I was like a crazy woman, unbuttoning his shirt as he pulled my blouse up over my head. I still had my bra on when he hoisted up against the wall. I put my legs around his waist and felt his cockhead at my pussy lips. He was thick and spread my pussy so wide, it hurt when he first entered me.

“You’re tight, Johanna!” he panted when he was fully in me.

“I’m a bull rider, Duane,” I gasped. “Be my bull.”

He took me at my word and fucked me hard, pounding me into the wall. I rotated my hips and squished him in my pussy. He got really excited, moaning and groaning. I really didn’t care if he came before me or not, and rode him hard, rotating my hips. But he had good control and held back, his face contorting with the effort.

“I’m cumming, Duane!” I screamed as I hit the apex. “Omigod, I’m cumming so hard!”

He let go and pounded even harder in the throes of his release as we came together. I knew then that I wanted to spend the night with him.

We had sex twice more in the night. In the morning, I woke in the predawn, as I always did, and ran my hands over his body. He had a nice organ, smooth, not veiny and rough like a lot of guys. To give him a surprise, I went down on him. He was not super long, so I was able to engulf all of him. Even asleep, he soon got hard. His thickness a tight fit in my mouth, and almost choked me.

“Johanna, you delightful thing!” he groaned as he woke. His Irish accent was even stronger when he was aroused.

I sucked on him, using my tongue, and gave him a thorough blowjob. He swung me around to take my pussy to his face in a 69 and used his fingers and tongue on me. It took forever to get him to blow his load, especially as I was constantly distracted by his tongue in my pussy. He held on till he was sure I was cumming, and then flooded his jism down my throat. We cuddled in our post-orgasmic high. I finally snapped awake to realize I was running late.

“That was the best night of my life, Johanna,” he said, as I was shooing him out the door. “Now you’ve really got to tell me your surname.”

“Von Eschenbach,” I said. “Johanna von Eschenbach.”

“Are you German?”

“I can’t talk now, Duane, I have ten minutes to shower, get ready, and out the door to work. I can’t be late, my boss is just looking for an excuse to fire me.”

“I want to see you again. Soon. Tonight.”

“Okay,” I said. “But I can’t leave the office early like yesterday. It’ll be late.”

“Any time,” he said. “We’re playing the Irish bar again. Just come there whenever you get off work.”

I went to see Duane that night. And the following night and the night after that.

At the end of the summer, when my internship and sublet ended, I said goodbye to Adriana and she went back to Yale. Duane and I got a small apartment together in Jersey City.

*

This was the first time in my life that I’d lived with a man. It took some getting used to – especially the masculine feel and smell around the house. He was five years older than me and had had serious girlfriends before, so it was easier for him.

My memories of those times are mostly happy ones. Of course, we had the occasional fight, but Duane was easygoing and didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Even when I was a bitch, he always wore me down with his resilient good humor. It was impossible to be mean to him for long.

Duane stayed fit with yoga, and I joined him sometimes. While I couldn’t get him to run with me, he was invariably supportive, and always gave me a post-run massage. But was really central to our relationship was music.

Duane played a wide range of instruments. He owned a nice electronic keyboard, a guitar, and an accordion. The two of us often jammed together for fun, especially on weekends. He was particularly good on the accordion, but he was slightly embarrassed about his skill on that instrument.

When I told Mom about it on a video call, she said, “You can produce good music with any instrument.”

“See?” I said to him after we cut the video. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You should play the accordion in more of your shows.”

“You saw her disdainful expression. She was just being polite. Concert pianists like your mother think accordion players are performing monkeys.”

I really enjoyed being in the midst of music again. It was like being with Mom, except with a totally different musical flavor. Duane had a lovely voice and we enjoyed singing karaoke duets together. I was happier than I had ever been in my life before, and I think he was happy with me, too.

*

I did my second-year internship in the summer of 2015 at a corporate law firm where one of my professors served as a consultant. He introduced me to all the partners, and I got assigned to a major Wall Street merger deal. There were billions of dollars involved in the deal and I was one of a team of over a hundred led by one of the firm’s senior partners. It was tremendously exciting, and it made up my mind. I decided to specialize in corporate law.

When I returned for the fall semester of my third year, I pleased and delighted to be selected to the editorial board of my school’s law review. It was a highly sought-after position and brought one into contact with the best law professors in the country. However, it also involved a significant time commitment, and I found I was working harder than ever.

In spite of my hectic work schedule, I found time to go to almost all of Duane’s performances. He was now concentrating exclusively on his Irish band. They were busy and had constant bookings, but the money they made did not amount to much, especially when it was split amongst all the band members.

He constantly pressed me to play with his band, but I always refused. I was afraid that I was not good enough, and it would lead to strife within the band. I talked to Mom about it, and she agreed that I was doing the right thing.

*

By the end of my 3rd year at law school, Duane and I had been together for almost two years. Like any couple, we’d had our share of tiffs and tensions. However, we’d never gone to bed without making up and having hard sex. Duane could get me in the mood no matter how tired or upset I was. I had long taken his good nature for granted, so when we had our first and only serious fight, I didn’t know how to handle it.

It was a Saturday night, and I had gone with Duane’s Irish band when they played a private party in the West Village. The hosts prevailed on us to stay afterward and it was 2 AM by the time we headed out. It was a nice night and the two of us decided to walk to 6th Avenue to get a rideshare home. We were both slightly tipsy, engrossed in talking to each other, and were making out in the dark street as we walked.

It was shock when we heard rough voice, “Give me your phones, and wallets! And I want the babe to step forward with me.”

I looked up to see a slight black boy – he looked fifteen or younger – brandishing a small twenty-two caliber. I instinctively stepped forward, putting myself between Duane and the gun.

“We’ll give you what you want, man!” Duane’s voice was high pitched. “Just let us go! Johanna, give him your purse!”

“Yeah, Johanna,” said the boy. “Give me your purse. Then you’re coming with me into the alley for a bit. I want a bit of what you’ve got between those long legs of yours.”

I reached into my purse as though I was reaching for my wallet and pulled out Dad’s old Ruger that I always carried. It was a 2002 model, caliber 380 auto. I dropped the purse, and pointed the Ruger at our assailant in a sidelong firing stance.

“Your popgun may hurt me,” I said. “But if you shoot, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes. At this range, I’ll blow your head off.”

“You don’t scare me, bitch!” he shouted, but I could see that he was rattled.

I wanted to calm him down, not scare him into shooting. I took the tone Dad used all those years ago in the bar in Billings. My accent unconsciously slipped back to the Western drawl of my youth.

“Let’s talk this over,” I said. “Lower your weapon, and I’ll lower mine.”

“I ain’t goin’ to talk to no honky bitch!” he shouted. “I’m goin’ to make you mine, ho! I’m goin’ to fuck you in the ass!”

“That’s not going to happen,” I said, keeping my voice level, and my tone kind. I was trying to sound like an older sister. “Listen, no one will know how this went down. I’ll give you forty dollars, you can tell your buddies anything you want. How you took my money and fucked me, how I begged for your cock.”

That got him thinking. I clicked off the safety on the Ruger to help him make up his mind.

“Fifty dollars,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “Lower your gun. I’m reaching down to get my wallet.”

He lowered his gun, and I pulled my wallet out of my purse. I counted out two twenties and a ten and handed him the bills, left hand to left hand.

“How do I know you won’t shoot me in the back? You honkies do that all the time to us black folk, I’ve seen lots of stuff on Youtube.”

“I don’t know about folk here in the east,” I said. “But I’m from Montana. If we want to shoot someone, we shoot ‘em face to face.”

“You’re weird,” he said, as he backed away.

He kept his eyes on me till he got to the alley he’d come out, and dived back into it. I heard the sound of his running feet. I let out a deep breath and looked around at Duane.

“What the hell, Johanna!” he shouted. “You carry a gun? You could have got us both killed! Are you crazy?”

“Let’s go home, Duane,” I said. The tension of the stand-off on top of the long day had exhausted me. “We can talk then.”

Duane said nothing on the ride home, but his lips were set in a straight line. I could see that he was furious. Once we were in our apartment, I put my arms around him, but he pushed me away.

“Who are you?” he asked. “You turned into a totally different person, someone I don’t like at all. Even your voice changed.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Did I even exist for you? You were dealing with that mugger like I wasn’t even there!”

“He had a gun, Duane. You didn’t.”

“This isn’t the Wild West, Johanna! This isn’t a movie! This is real life in New York!”

“What did you expect me to do?”

“What any civilized person would do! Just give him your money and valuables! That’s what all the police advisories say.”

“Did want him to fuck me, too? Would that have given you a hardon?”

“How dare you, Johanna! Take that back!”

“You heard him. He wanted to drag me into the alley and fuck me in the ass.”

“I’m sure that was just talk. He was trying to scare us.”

“Were you willing to bet my ass on it?”

He didn’t answer, but pounded the table with his fist in frustration.

“A gun in your purse! I can’t believe it! Who are you?”

“Calamity Jane,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Remember?”

It didn’t work and he wasn’t amused. When he went on, his accent went into a thicker Irish brogue.

“You made me look a right Nancy boy.”

“I’m sorry, Duane. I really am. Let’s go to bed.”

“I can’t bear to touch you right now, Johanna. I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“Please don’t do that, Duane,” I begged. “Please.”

“I don’t know this new Johanna. I’ve got to get my head round where we are. To see if we even belong together.”

“I’m what I’ve always been, Duane. I can’t help what you chose not to see.”

“Would you have shot that mugger? Would you have killed him?”

I knew what he wanted me to say, but I couldn’t lie.

“I didn’t want to. But he’d fired at us, I would have killed him.”

“My God, Johanna! You say it so matter-of-factly. Like you have ice water in your veins. Are you even human?” He covered his face. “Right now, I can’t even look at you.”

We slept apart for the first time in our relationship. I got up early on Sunday and made a big breakfast. The smells from the kitchen woke him, and as he stirred, I went down on the couch and gave him a morning blowjob. He came hard and copiously. I swallowed it all. He lay back on the couch with a sheen of sweat on his face.

“Will you get rid of your gun?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

It was like a thin, invisible barrier had formed between us. I wanted to tear it down, but didn’t know how.