Fucking finance - American Psycho in London

Let us start… Bank of America?

Yeah done that, the guy I dated for six months still works there. We still fuck occasionally, too even though he has a girlfriend.

Merrill Lynch?

Yeah, remember the Irish guy that we met at a club, who then became our threesome buddy? That was hot.

HSBC?

Sure, many times. The regular guy worked there at some point.

Deutsche Bank?

Of course, I used to work there! Met the regular guy there and had a couple of one night stands. Including one guy that must be the worst lay on the planet. He was so good looking, too, what a waste!

BNP Paribas?

Yeah that French guy… Ok that was not intentional, of course he was French!

JP Morgan?

Not sure I’ve ticked that one, do we know anyone who works at JP? I kissed somebody once I think, but that doesn’t count, it’s a fuck game!

Morgan Stanley?

Yeah there was someone there, nice guy, great in bed, wanted to get serious. Didn’t happen.

Barclays?

Done that, again the regular guy, I think that’s where he works now.

RBS?

Yes come to think of it, it was a colleague’s flatmate! Remember the one who considerately left his business card on my coffee table the morning after?

Goldman Sachs?

Not really interested in Goldman guys. Though come to think of it, there was someone from their IT department. He was quite good, actually. So that’s a yes.

We call it the bank fuck roulette. After the countries and nationalities, this was the game we played most often. The checklist was pretty much complete, I’ve fucked someone at almost every big bank in the City.

It’s almost too easy. On any given night, we can go to any random bar in the city and pick up. Sometimes we go to the ones near our work places, our usual spots where we could get recognized, but that doesn’t matter, there will be some guys there who haven’t met us yet, they could come from one of the buildings around the bar, or they could come from the other side of town. Sometimes we like to switch it up and go somewhere different, new places, new faces, new guys to fuck and check off the list. They buy us drinks, they chat us up, and then we pair off. The mating ritual that has nothing to do with romance and dating.

I’m more the quiet type who stands there and smiles occasionally, making a witty comment or answering some basic questions about myself while I let the girls do most of the talking. One of them can be counted on to chat up any group, that’s just her style. The other one is a heavy flirt. I’m the mystery. Gets them every time, I can pretty much take my pick of the best looking one there, smile at him a couple of times, and eventually after he’s well lubricated with drinks, suggest quietly that we get out of there.

Not looking for a relationship, or anything serious. Not looking for romance, either. The idea of spending a couple of hours over dinner with someone I could care less about would probably make the food stick in my throat. Another meeting? Though they always suggest it, I don’t particularly care. All I want is a man for the night, another notch on my bedpost, a bit of fun and some satisfaction, then I never have to see him again. Sometimes I don’t even bother exchanging numbers; if he insists, I take his as well so I know to ignore the calls. It’s almost too easy, this fucking game.

Some days it takes a bit more than a random bar, maybe we migrate to another place if there are no fine choices at our current spot, and on occasion we would end up in one of those late night places that collected the refuse of the evening. Those too drunk to go home, the out of town business visitors away from families or girlfriends looking too party, the ones looking or hoping to pick up all end up there. An easy place to get picked up, almost guaranteed. While my friends get involved in drunken conversations and intense debates, I generally just stand to the side and scanned the dance floor for anyone potentially interesting. So did everyone else looking specifically to pick up. After establishing eye contact, I could dance to a good tune, or invariably the men would come to me and buy me drinks. A bit of conversation, the prerequisite chemistry check, maybe a kiss, and back to mine again. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Not looking for a relationship. Not looking for romance. Don’t care about feelings. I just want a man for the night. Sure, there could be a repeat performance if the sex is especially good. I’d add the guy to my list and message him and a few others whenever I was out. He could join me at my bar of choice, or wait for me at the taxi stand our outside my place, with a bottle of wine please. All fun and games initially, usually these casual arrangements fizzled out on their own after a few weeks. Expiration date - three months.

Three days, three weeks, three months. Life comes in threes. Three different guys in a given week, three nights together before the failure to connect catches up with us and we are through.

No feelings, no emotions, no romance. Just alcohol-fueled sex, no intimacy, no connection, just the fulfillment of a basic need, like air, food, water. Not much recollection of the details the following day but I know how to handle it. A double espresso in the morning, followed by some fruit and water to detox, a cigarette just because it goes with the second coffee, another cigarette in an hour’s time and I can feel myself sobering up or my hangover getting worse conveniently just around lunchtime. A healthy lunch, a couple more smokes and another double espresso in the afternoon, and I’m ready to go back to the pub at five o’clock. In fact, do I even need to go to a pub? I could use the same tactics on the guys standing at the bus stop, checking me out with my friend when we’re outside the building for our final smoke break of the day. It’s easy, too easy.

So easy it gets boring. Just like drugs, after the initial thrill of the chase and fun of the game the comedown is inevitable. I feel empty, I feel nothing. I remember nights were wasted, names and faces blurred by the wine, no recollections of the sex, either. Not even a fleeting moment of intimacy or connection, just short term dopamine releases in the brain that fizzle out by the morning. Three years, gone.

The City. The capital of greed and money full of young assholes who can only assert themselves through casual encounters. They never liked me either, it was all about the ego. Theirs, mine too. I only feel disgusted at the thought. Stripped of all feelings, left with an emptiness within, a closed heart, a warped mind. I’m sure there are people out there right now, playing the bank fuck roulette all over again, guys, girls, all looking for the next adventure, the ego boost, the bragging rights the morning after. I could show them how it’s done, I think to myself for just a second before I realize that I’ve grown up.