166. Investment Bankers

By The Betches

July 10, 2012

PR girls majored in him. He’s dead to at least a few people. You don’t need a JP Morgan access pass to find him, but you will need to prepare for a sense of entitlement that makes him the closest thing to husband material since Scott Disick came out as straight. Though we’ve already established that betches love a bro who went #62 pro, we’d like to take a moment to talk about a special kind of professional that’s near and dear to our bar tab: The Investment Banker (IB).

The IB we speak of is specific. He’s not a first year analyst, because that’s like the equivalent of fucking a college freshman. No betch wants to be seen next to a Men’s Warehouse summer sale. If the suit fits and is designer, it’s probably the kind of IB we’re entertaining. He’s a seasoned pro who's figured out how to spend his expendable income (on you) and only checks his watch to make sure it’s still a Rolex. His apartment is almost too organized to function, and his closet looks like it has items we might even borrow. They called him anal boy in college ‘cause he was neat aaaaand orderly'.

Though we’re not interested in what he does while he’s at work, we’ve accidentally internalized enough to know what’s going on. The IB works craaaaazy long hours cracking jokes about the Euro, trading his soul on the stock market, showing off his antique Blackberry, comparing the subtle differences between eggshell and bone business cards with other IBs, and expensing dates at Hakkasan. He usually takes on one or two summer interns... from places like Michael Kors. 

Everybody knows that the way to a betch’s heart is through the shady shadows of subtexts and coke-dicks. These pros wrote the fucking book on spinning major crises to make them seem like a minor blip on the radar. His second family in Westchester is about as big of a deal to him as the subprime mortgage crisis of 2007. I meannnn, these guys work for the assholes that casually privatized water in Bolivia. That’s hot.

Betches can get with the IB for a lot of reasons. Because he’s naturally competitive, he works out like he’s training for more than a lifetime desk job making tens of millions and obviously, he pursues us. He wouldn’t have been allowed to touch us six years ago, so he had plenty of time to perfect his mind game and keeps us interested. He’s 25 for at least ten years and parties like it by clubbing at Lavo with his IB besties, read: a mixed bag of inappropriately old/married men and the younger bros he does coke with. Plus, he's into the fact that we’re high maintenance because so is he. Like, he understands the importance of a 10-step skin routine and gets it when we say 600 fucking thread count, sateen weave or you can’t fucking sleep with us.

If we do sleep with him, he’ll probably thank us in the morning. And before we can be so over it we'll never be under it again, he offers to call us a car service to aid in our getting the fuck out.  We are attracted to the fact that he is as disinterested in us as we are in him. He really gets me. We like, don’t even talk in the morning.

The bottom line is that, just like actors are deep down just annoying fucking theater kids, when betches see past their tailored suits, SAB-like arrogance and black Amex, investment bankers are just nerds who can’t believe they’re finally talking to us. Cut to him refreshing his Facebook page, waiting for our friend confirmation to “Baby You’re A Rich Man” by The Beatles. It’s like that lawyer from The Office said to Zuck, IBs aren’t assholes. They’re just trying so hard to be.


<< 165. My Life is a Joke                                                   167. Forgetting Names >> 







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