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jakebe
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writerrabbit, so sorry if this comes across twice.
At 16 E. Pennsylvania Avenue,
deep inside the labyrinthine maze
of the more recognizable mansion in the world
two people hold a secret meeting.
They don't discuss affairs of state
or pressing matters of domestic policy;
this historic, clandestine conference,
which will not be recorded by any cameras,
will focus solely on the blemish
contained inside her right thigh.
He investigates it thoroughly, through
scent, through touch and taste,
while she's sitting on the table,
framed between hands that have
signed countless laws, hands that
shake hands with foreign dignitaries.
He tells her that of course she can't speak
of this or any other affair, and in fact
she must say she's never met him personally.
Matter of the nation's security, he says.
"Shut up and fuck me," is her answer
and though the words sting slightly
that's precisely why he likes her, and so
he lets it slide; after all,
it would make a very nice story
for disbelieving grandchildren later on.
Besides, she's already paid for it
and she will again, because he wills it.
He tells her to take off her clothes
and kneel next to his expensive leather chair,
a task that she does with the same eagerness
that allows her to make excellent coffee.
He looks at her, naked and demure,
and sees a woman who simply wants him,
a nameless figure to desire and be taken,
her fate written in the arc of heaving breasts,
in the shiver of her cold body
in the air-conditioned room, in the way
the soft-white lights and thousand-dollar carpet
conspire to make her look foreign and beautiful.
As he fumbles with his zipper,
he realizes he must looks precisely the same to her,
a man who lets his hormones humble his fingers,
whose libido makes him just as nervous.
And yet still, as she hugs his legs and
brings her face against his stomach,
he lets her know she is just an intern
and he is still the leader of the free world.
writerrabbit, so sorry if this comes across twice. At 16 E. Pennsylvania Avenue,
deep inside the labyrinthine maze
of the more recognizable mansion in the world
two people hold a secret meeting.
They don't discuss affairs of state
or pressing matters of domestic policy;
this historic, clandestine conference,
which will not be recorded by any cameras,
will focus solely on the blemish
contained inside her right thigh.
He investigates it thoroughly, through
scent, through touch and taste,
while she's sitting on the table,
framed between hands that have
signed countless laws, hands that
shake hands with foreign dignitaries.
He tells her that of course she can't speak
of this or any other affair, and in fact
she must say she's never met him personally.
Matter of the nation's security, he says.
"Shut up and fuck me," is her answer
and though the words sting slightly
that's precisely why he likes her, and so
he lets it slide; after all,
it would make a very nice story
for disbelieving grandchildren later on.
Besides, she's already paid for it
and she will again, because he wills it.
He tells her to take off her clothes
and kneel next to his expensive leather chair,
a task that she does with the same eagerness
that allows her to make excellent coffee.
He looks at her, naked and demure,
and sees a woman who simply wants him,
a nameless figure to desire and be taken,
her fate written in the arc of heaving breasts,
in the shiver of her cold body
in the air-conditioned room, in the way
the soft-white lights and thousand-dollar carpet
conspire to make her look foreign and beautiful.
As he fumbles with his zipper,
he realizes he must looks precisely the same to her,
a man who lets his hormones humble his fingers,
whose libido makes him just as nervous.
And yet still, as she hugs his legs and
brings her face against his stomach,
he lets her know she is just an intern
and he is still the leader of the free world.
