Mistress has a chance to stop by my office yesterday. It was after lunch, around 2 pm.
I had stayed in during the lunch hour, focused on a project, while listening to our new Governor on the radio, braying in his State of the State Speech about his plans to turn our creaky if earnest old Midwestern state into a shiny mecca like Florida. You know, where, in his narrative, solely because of low taxes, old, retired people from our state want to move to places like Naples or Stillwater.
I mean, if only given the right tax incentive, who wouldn’t want to spend their golden years on the frozen shores of a Great polluted Lake, dodging washed up carp, rather than searching for Sand Dollars on a Gulf Beach.
Having spent some years down there – no offense to Florida readers – I tend to think of a place where kids go to schools in glorified trailers, there are acres of abandoned strip malls and mold infested, unsold McMansions, and the unemployment rate remains a whopping 12%.
But if you actually have a job, and don’t have kids to educate, I suppose it is nice to pay no state income taxes.
With one side of my brain focused on work, and the other sending out snotty tweets commenting on our Governor’s pompous presumptions, I probably was not in the best of moods when Mistress popped into my office to get her fair share of worship.
But there is something about seeing her breeze into my perch, high above River City that always lifts my spirits.
It’s on the cusp of Spring here, but she had not yet shed her winter costume: black tights and boots, a black jacket, and a black tie-dyeish skirt that settled a few inches above her knees.
And as I filled her in on the Governor’s pronouncements, I was simultaneously closing the door, sliding her throne into place, and spreading the blanket that would soon be absorbing her musky juices.
Her office visit brought to mind how Mistress and I finally broke the ice of our building sexual tension back in 1988, a story I was nipping at in some blogs last week.
It was about a week after our April primary here. For those of you who are political junkies, our candidate, the short former governor of Massachusetts, had eliminated most of the other “Seven Dwarfs” by then, with The Reverend Jackson still hanging on, gathering delegates for his curtain call in Atlanta.
I was undergoing a good bit of Molly withdrawal. My excuse to see her on a daily basis had gone away once the primary votes were counted. And, quite frankly, I had no idea whether she shared my attraction.
Maybe she just saw me as yet another dirty older man pining for her. After all, she was a young 24, and I was an ancient 37.
So I was a little surprised when she called me at home one evening, several days after “victory night” and asked if she could meet me in my office sometime soon.
I figured she wanted some help for her boss, a now prominent politico in his own right, or maybe advice on how to handle a work problem. We set up a time.
AS she waltzed into my office that day, a different building, but a similar view, she was the same glorious sight as she was yesterday afternoon. Dressed up in something stylish and work appropriate, but sexily short, showing off those glorious legs. It was spring, so I recall more opaque hose, and pumps, but I could be corrected.
Long hair. Perfectly made up. Alluring perfume to which I had become addicted.
It was more than enough to make a dirty older man swoon.
But in the preceding days, I had been trying my best to stifle my lust for her. I figured it was a one-way crush that would pass if I just focused on more mundane things.
I can’t recall whether we gave each other a perfunctory hug when she walked in. Maybe we just shook hands. She might recall….she has a great memory for these things. But I was trying to be very business like.
I offered her coffee, showed her a chair, then moved behind my desk.
“So what’s up, Molly…. “
That’s when, in a very business like fashion, she explained that she was calling my bluff…. That it was obvious that I was coming on to her these last few weeks, and that if I was ready, well, she was in….
I was stunned.
And also scared shitless.
I was ready for rejection. In fact, I had already resigned myself to rejection.
And now…. Well. The opportunity to take this step with the lovely Molly seemed almost too good to be true.
I was like a wide receiver, alone in the end zone, a tight spiral heading for my unencumbered hands for the winning touchdown.
And what did I do?
Well, of course, I dropped the ball.
I mumbled something like not being sure, and what about our spouses, and the primary created a false sense of connection, blah, blah. Blah.
And as I listened to myself, there was another voice screaming at me…. Are you crazy Mick, just stand up, go over there and kiss her!!!!! Isn’t that what you’ve been waiting for?
(Was it Bogie from “Play it Again Sam”?. Could be.)
Well, it’s probably time for me to wake Mistress…. All this typing about our early days has awoken certain appetites. And now that I’ve gotten started, I’m looking forward to hearing her memory on this subject, presumably while my mouth and tongue are suitably distracted.
Let us know if you want more details in this “Secret Origins of Molly and Mick” stuff.
And yes, I made sure Molly got off… twice in fact… during her visit yesterday afternoon.