==========================================

Amy,

Sorry I couldn't talk longer, big meeting at work today, here's what happened last night:

A few months ago, my firm passed out a list of holiday recruiting events. Attached to the list was a sign-up form. Though they did not say it explicitly, every associate was expected to sign-up and attend at least one of the events. Generally detesting these type of events, and on the assumption that no law student would ever show up to a holiday party on a Wednesday during the middle of exams, I signed up for last night's "holiday mixer".

Yesterday, in the mid-afternoon, a tubby, bland associate came by my office and asked if I was going to carpool with the rest of the firm's event attendees. I declined, claiming that I had a "very important memo" that I needed to finish before I could leave for the event. Not five minutes later, Sara, my most recent obsession, a pale, disarming, and exceedingly thin associate, swooped into my office and said, "What's this I hear about you not wanting to ride with me to the mixer." Obviously, I immediately changed my mind on the carpool idea.

Sara's new, unfortunately blue 335i served as the lead vehicle in the carpool caravan. I sat next to her in the front, while two other associates sat in the rear. We were followed by two other cars, each filled with four additional attorneys from the firm. During the drive over, I very nearly ruined my fledgling relationship with Sara when, in response to a question about why none of the support staff was attending the mixer, I said, "Because nobody cares about the staff." Fortunately, I righted the ship a bit by continuing, "At least, not law students."

Once we arrived at the hotel where the event was to be held, a middle-aged female partner name Diane, picture a slightly worn Monica from Friends, asked me to carry a box filled with the lame firm swag we were supposed to give at the event. Though I smiled and answered affirmatively, I was mildly upset at being impressed with such a duty.

I carried the box into the hotel ballroom and sat it on the front table near the door. The ballroom was surprisingly empty, only a few cocktail tables littered the open floor, which was straddled by two bars. Before anyone could ask me to assist in any other way, I walked to the nearest bar, where the bartender was still setting up. I ordered a bourbon on the rocks with a twist, which led to a five minute debate as to whether with a twist means lime or lemon juice. Obviously, lemon juice is the answer, though I did say that lime juice was a perfectly acceptable substitute in bourbon. Eventually he squeezed a little bit of both into the drink. I tipped him five dollars and told him I would take care of him at the end of the night if he prevented me from seeing the bottom of my glass. He nodded.

Sara found me shortly thereafter and asked if I wanted to work the swag table with her during the first thirty minutes of the event. Obviously, I was torn between my obsession with the girl and my steadfast desire to avoid as much work as possible during the event. As my dick nearly always wins such a struggle, I chose to sit next to Sara and dole out the swag and name-tags.

A few drinks and an hour later, the event started and Sara and I began our term at the swag table. Though I had expected barely a law student to attend, I would guess that more than one hundred law students entered during that first half hour. It would seem that I underestimated the desperation of today's modern law student - and while I won't wholesale dismiss or disparage these attendees, as I find the new bottom line approach far more appealing than the "perk talk" of yore, it would be an extreme stretch to say than any of the law students were notable in any way.

Fortunately, that didn't prevent Sara and I from enjoying our time together. Though I made up the majority of the things I told her about myself, I'm relatively confident that it was my authentic personality that Sara found captivating - not the fraudulent stories. Nevertheless, despite my seemingly successful wooing, once our time was up, Sara left me to enter the fray of law students. It seems that her desire to spend time with me was outweighed by her desire to be seen by the partners as an associate who takes recruiting seriously. Obviously, this made her less attractive to me.

Still, the rejection, and it was a rejection, stung. I tried with great vigor to quench the sting with drink, but that only seemed to push me towards belligerence, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Law students are so used to being treated like cretinous subhumans by the people that look up to - their professors, etc - that they really took a liking to me once I unleashed my sarcastic view on the legal profession. In fact, until I thought better of it, I nearly went home with a magnificently chested, though moderately chubby, first year law student.

But so went the event. After the third hour, my bartender closed up shop and the room emptied. Sara had already left with most of the other attorneys. As I gave the bartender twenty dollars, which I feel was fair, Diane tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that she was the last of the carpool drivers. "If you want a free ride back to the office, it's going to be with me," she said.

Given the lack of remaining alcohol, I followed Diane out of the hotel to her car, which was already loaded with two other associates and all of the leftover swag. I sat in the empty front passenger seat and Diane drove us back to our office building. As soon as the car came to a stop, each of the passengers, myself included, opened their respective door and began to climb out. My attempted escape though, was thwarted by Diane, who placed her hand on my shoulder and said, "I'm not letting you drive home like that." Thoroughly embarrassed, I turned and nodded, hoping to avoid making an issue out of the situation. The other two associates said their goodbyes and exited the car.

As we drove to my apartment, which is only a few minutes away from the office, I didn't say anything, which shouldn't suggest that the drive was awkward, it wasn't. I probably should not have been driving in my condition, and other than the embarrassment of having that aired in-front of the other associates, I didn't hold Diane's insistence against her. I truthfully believed she was just being protective of a firm asset.

At least, I believed that until she parked in my apartment's garage and she offered to walk me up to my apartment. It was then that I received my first hint that her intentions in driving me home might have been substantially more nefarious. Equally nefarious though, were my intentions in accepting her offer to escort me to my door.

Once at my door, I asked Diane if she would like to come in and have a drink. We spent the next thirty minutes in my kitchen, initially discussing a trial she has coming up in January but eventually working our way onto her failing marriage. She was very careful to limit the scope of our conversation to why she didn't like her marriage, only tangentially mentioning her husband. Actually, her demeanor in general was very careful, direct and unquestionably type A, which I suppose should be expected from any female partner at a large firm.

She finished the diatribe on her marriage with, "So I think it would be good for you and I to sleep together tonight."

I immediately laughed and said, in only a slightly sarcastic tone, "That sounds like a terrible idea."

"It's not. I've been working it out for a few hours. Neither of us would risk our career by talking about this with anyone else."

Slightly threatened, I deflected, "Things could get pretty awkward with us in the office." I hated myself more with every word.

But Diane shook her head. "No more awkward than they would be now that I've propositioned you."

I thought about it for a moment, shrugged and said, "Alright."

Within minutes, we were making out on my couch, the same couch that you stained last year, in only our underwear. Interestingly enough, though she was extremely aggressive in removing my clothing, once I began to reach my hand under her panties, which were surprisingly risqué, she pulled her body away. When I tried to brush the event off and continue kissing her, she pulled even further away.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out.

"No . . . I'm sorry," she replied, "What, what were you going to do?"

"Touch you?" I replied in my textbook wavering manner.

"Oh. One second," she said as she wiggled out from under me and jumped off the couch.

She ran into the kitchen and came back within moments carrying her extremely large purse. She sat the purse on an end table and reached her hand inside. As the hand probed the contents of the purse, both jingles and jangles filled the room, which was quite patently an extreme turnoff. After what felt like days, her hand stopped moving and a proud, devious smile flashed across her face. From the depths of the purse, Diane removed one of the cheesy, plastic gavels, fully emblazoned with our firm logo, that we were giving away at the mixer. She tossed it to me and laughed.

My confusion was apparent.

Once back on the couch, again lying under me, Diane pointed to the gavel and said, "Touch me with that."

Certainly not comfortable with the situation, but equally uncomfortable with displaying my uneasiness, I began kissing her and running the gavel up and down her right leg. This continued for some time. Whenever the gavel reached her crotch, Diane moaned. Eventually, without any real break in our kiss, we were able to remove the remainder of our clothing.

Now, this is probably a bad time to take a break from the story, but I assure you it's momentary. Whether it's rooted in insecurity or chivalry, I feel I must address Diane's looks. Though she is undoubtedly the oldest person I have slept with, she may be the most beautiful, which is absolutely not meant to be an insult to you. Objectively, you are more beautiful, but the raw confidence with which Diane behaved caused me to see her through a special shade of rose. Even now, only a day later, I cannot remember exactly how she looked, though I can't help but remember her as being beautiful.

But still, once naked, I wasn't sure how to proceed. It seemed presumptuous to attempt to initiate oral sex for my benefit and, given how she reacted when I tried to touch her, licking her seemed out of the question. Once again, my confusion must have been apparent because, at some point, Diane pointed back to the gavel and said, "Use that."

"Where?" I asked, not because I didn't know, but because I needed confirmation.

"In me."

I examined the gavel and assumed she meant she wanted the shaft and not the head. Accordingly, I rotated it in my hand, so that I was gripping the head of the gavel, and moved it close to her crotch. In anticipation, she arced her back and moaned. I then slowly moved the gavel inside of her and proceeded to fuck her with it. After a few minutes, presumably after she came, she grabbed the gavel, tossed it towards my fireplace, and worked herself on top of me. We then had sex that, while great, is not worth noting in detail in this letter.

Post-coitus, we returned to the kitchen and had another drink, after which we went to sleep in my bed. She left a few hours later. When I awoke, I could not find the gavel. I had to take a cab to work. I did not see Diane today.

I'm sure now, you are asking yourself, why would your ex-fiance write you this type of email? The answer to that question is assuredly exactly what you are thinking. I'm not over you. I still love you. I want this story to make you sick with envy. I want you back. Please call me.

Still yours,

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16768155)

basically everyone here thinks an it guy yanked the email from the server and it spread from there. google turned up no hits when i tried to find if it was just a copy paste job

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16768390)

She ran into the kitchen and came back within moments carrying her extremely large purse. She sat the purse on an end table and reached her hand inside. As the hand probed the contents of the purse, both jingles and jangles filled the room, which was quite patently an extreme turnoff. After what felt like days, her hand stopped moving and a proud, devious smile flashed across her face. From the depths of the purse, Diane removed one of the cheesy, plastic gavels, fully emblazoned with our firm logo, that we were giving away at the mixer. She tossed it to me and laughed.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16768281)

Jingles AND Jangles.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16768299)

I think it was really the jangles that killed the mood.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16776294)

and it needed to because it sucks

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16800866)

The entire gavel thing really makes you sexually active people look weird.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16768310)

*jams gavel in twat*

*is filled and fulfilled*

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16768353)

not very believable but extremely well executed otherwise, which is more than I can say for most of the recent shit on this site. if anything deserves encouragement, its this

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16770389)

180 (read it twice)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16770105)

therefore, flame

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16787497)

1) the point of view was very accurate. ie. insecure law guy trying to make ex jealous

2) the story was detailed to the point of visualization

3) there is no point in writing this story to post on the internet, since nobody is going to believe it. if this was supposed to be a flame, the writer wouldn't detail the gavel part.

4) spending hours trying to get an ex to feel jealous is far more likely than spending hours to write a borderline unbelievable story to post on xoxohth

5) this is not copy pasta and it's obviously written by someone with an education

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16773217)

basically put that story and a lifeat160 writing style in a blender and this pops out

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16776276)

http://www.tuckermax.com/stories/the-now-infamous-charity-auction-debacle/

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16776301)

Although, I've definitely pulled a few girls with my writing. Not to brag or anything like that.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16776959)

best evidence itt

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16776990)

This isn't really the issue though. The issue is that this supposedly happened at a very large law firm and this email is being passed around the whole firm. If it was real, one of those 1000 or more people would have forwarded it to ATL. Since it's not real, it's not on there.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16790377)

http://lifeat160.com/life/2011/01/01/the-above-the-law-bet-gavel-fucker/

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#17996637)

http://abovethelaw.com/2010/12/a-racy-email-about-an-associates-one-night-stand-with-a-married-female-partner/

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1504115&forum_id=2#16800145)