Elevator Man

Why I have sex at work

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Suffering through hours upon days of the foolishness of residents and their guests can get under your skin.

Playing games on my cell or browsing the Internet isn’t enough of a distraction. Cursing at residents could cost me my job, and as frustrating as this job is, it is a good paycheck. 

So, the way I see it, sex at work is a great alternative to actually saying “screw you” and getting fired.

And I have been fortunate enough to date some pretty fun women who don’t need a lot of convincing to accept my invitation to fool around at work.

(Note to my fellow building workers:  First tell your date what you really do for a living, because the saying “every girl wants a man in a uniform” does not exactly apply to ours.)

You are probably wondering: Where? Though the women I invite over seem to love the idea of the elevator--and who am I to say no if that’s what she wants?--it is my least favorite location.

In the elevator, we can easily be heard by residents.  It gets too hot in the box, and if I get a ring, we both have to scramble to get dressed.  When the door slides open before a resident, there’s me standing there beaded with sweat. No one ever says anything, but I can tell people are wondering.

Better choices, with less chance of being caught, are the shower in the break room, the stairs leading to the roof (they offer nicer leverage than the elevator walls), or one of the co-op’s vacant apartments that are emptied of stuff and waiting to be sold.

I’ve only been caught twice, both times by coworkers—guys—who just joked about it later.  

Although a lot of my friends and family are elevator men and doormen, I’ve heard very few other sex-at-work stories—usually from guys who did it impulsively once or twice.  

They worry about losing their job, but for me it’s a way of saving mine.  

The next time 35-year-old Mrs. Smith asks me to carry her five-pound bag 50 feet, or Mr. Smith bawls me out because I took “too long” to pick him up, or my boss snaps at the five o’clock shadow on my face, I just agree, flash them the smile that sex at work is all about, and think about who is really screwing who around here.

After all, I have only a few hours of work left, and the memory of what I did a little while ago makes the time pass more bearably.

And it doesn’t hurt to remind myself that, technically, I get paid for having sex.

More from Elevator Man:

Introducing Elevator Man

Going down: Confessions of an Elevator Man

How I became an elevator jockey

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