Hey, big guy. I’m your vintage green desk lamp, and I see that look in your twitching eyes. Oh, I recognize it all too well with hot shots like you. The sun is going down. You’re exhausted. And you’ve got a fat load of work to do. The deadline is tomorrow, and you’ve only got tonight to get it done. Not to worry, toots. Pull my string, turn me on, and I’ll get you through the night.

So, handsome, what do you do? Are you a lawyer? A banker? A detective? Actually, it doesn’t matter who you are. I’ve been with men of all different kinds of careers. The only thing that matters is that people are counting on you. Jobs are on the line. And you won’t be finishing all this work you have to do until the sun rises after a night of ecstasy with me.

Shall we do it on the desk? I’m a bit old-fashioned, and if I’m going to escort you tonight, I need you to be 100% paper with me. Put the laptop riser away tonight, baby. I need those files spread out next to me all over this large mahogany desk while you crane your neck for 8 hours straight to the point that you mess up your posture permanently. I want you to get so naughty in those balance sheets that you get a paper cut. I want you to knock over your coffee cup and scream out an expletive. Oh, yes!

Since we’re spending the night together, let me tell you how I like it. I want you to slowly run your hand across the inside of my shade to wipe the dust away and burn your fingers from the heat–anything to jolt yourself awake to keep you working.

I want you to yank my gold chain over and over again, turning me on and off, because you can’t decide whether sacrificing one night’s sleep is enough to save your father’s company from the big merger.

Oh, god, yes!

You seem a little nervous, sweetheart. It’s probably just from being around such a pretty lady like myself, and not that your entire reputation is dependent on if you get this work done tonight. Go and pour yourself a scotch. Or a brandy. Or a whiskey. Any choice is good, because they’re all top shelf labels conveniently located in a bar cart next to me. They’ll definitely keep your mind on your work and not at all make you tired to the point that you fall asleep at your desk and nearly miss The Big Meeting tomorrow.

Not feeling a drink? How about a cigar? I know you’ve just begun the night’s work, but you really need to take the edge off. You might as well enjoy those Cubans while you can, too, because if tonight doesn’t go well between us—well, you’ll be out of a job, your investments will be drained, and all of your assets will be seized by the IRS. So puff away, angel. You need your strength.

“When can you see me again?” I love a little pillow talk while you’re crying and regretting procrastinating doing the literal bare minimum of your job. Well, pet, you’ll see me everywhere. Baby, I’m gonna make you never want to see green again. You thought I was a sweet slice of pie? Think again, darling. Cutting the grass? You’re not gonna want to do that anymore, in fear of being reminded of me. But lucky for you, the amount of money you’re making from this deal, or case, or contract, or whatever you’re doing, is gonna be insane. You’ll be able to rehire the lawn guy.

So what actually happens between us after tonight? You’ll move to an upscale apartment in the city. Your wife will miss the greenery and take a liking to plants. Those plants will be green, and they’ll remind you of me. You’ll get rid of the plants and you’ll be asked to sleep in separate beds that night. You’ll end up driving three and half hours back here and sleeping on the firm and uncomfortable brown leather couch in the study with me. You’ll lose a lot of money in the divorce, and you’ll be driven right back to me, trying to do it all again, to make more money. It’s the cycle of life.

Well would you look at that, toots, the sun’s starting to come up. How do you like your eggs?