It happens. You show up to one of these sex clubs, Viagra’ed to the gills, looking to physically express yourself in a way that requires a throng of non-judgmental, like-minded hedonists. Then, just as all the pieces fall into place for a night of taboo pleasure, you lock eyes across the room with a client for whom you finagled a fat tax refund last year—despite her ill-advised sale of stock that incurred short-term capital gains—and before you have a chance to saunter over to make things not weird, she flees into the dark night.
You should’ve stayed. Not because I have a penchant for redheads, but because I could’ve casually mentioned that you seeing me naked, oiled, and fully aroused in no way precludes me from fulfilling my fiduciary responsibility. I would’ve said I actually do a ton of work for people in the lifestyle, and I’ve never had a problem separating penises from pro forma financial statements. And as long as I had your ear, I would’ve reminded you to save all your medical expense receipts (think STI testing) so I can deduct them on your state return.
My clients entrust me with secrets that go way beyond sexual proclivities. In fact, I’m privy to so many morally ambiguous activities that I can’t keep straight who’s financing human organ trafficking, who has their money in Central American drug running, and who just likes to watch. Your kinks will stay between you, me, and the two dozen folks in that sweaty, steamy club—an establishment that, if I had to guess, is miscategorizing its lube and towel boys as independent contractors who, I guarantee, don’t report their tips.
Maybe you’re freaked out to think of accountants as sexual creatures. You want us always hunched over the ledgers, never over your sweet, pliable body. I get that society wants certain segments of society to remain chaste: bean counters, Buddhist monks, middle school band directors. Better for all involved to reserve carnal pleasures for the models and athletes and international airline pilots of the world, right?
But I have stirrings, and they’re the type that only my jumping into a writhing mass of oily bodies undulating in sweet unison can satisfy. That’s precisely what my Dionysian yearnings scream out for after a day of dissecting amortization tables. It’s as right and natural as assets equals liabilities plus equity.
I propose we do what’s fiscally and physically prudent. I want to retain you as a client, and you should keep going to the club. After all, it’s almost as difficult to find a tax professional who’ll shelter money in an offshore account as it is to find a group of folks you can wear a latex bondage suit in front of.
And if there ever comes a night when things are swinging and we find ourselves on that circular bed in the center of the group sex room, I hope you see me not just as the tax professional you trust with your financial future, but as a man whose soft, white-collar hands can run up and down your body like it was a goddamn abacus. Sound good? Okay, let’s put the other night behind us. Oh, and make sure you max out your child care credit this year.