42

We got some amused and confused comments about Mistress’s encounter with #42 (aka Bubba), back in the summer of 1988.

And while I know Sin and many others out there would have happily succumbed to his importuning, well, you had to be there.

First, keep in mind that this was the Bubba with out all the rough edges smoothed off. He’s the guy who had bored the crowd at the Democratic National Convention in Atlanta that summer with an endless homily to his own achievements, while supposedly nominating the Governor of Massachusetts for President. When he finally got to that last paragraph and proclaimed, “in conclusion”, the delegates erupted in spontaneous cheers.

He tried to redeem himself later that summer by appearing with Leno, and deploying his high school band saxophone skills for a national TV audience.

The man was no Clarence Clemons, god rest his soul.

So when Mistress, I and a good friend who was River City Mayor at the time encountered him here in River City at a reception for a group of other Democratic Governors, he was not exactly a celebrity in our eyes. More of a buffoon.

He was about 42 at the time. Molly was 25. I was 38.

His southern accent was far more pronounced than it was during his Presidential years, oozing unctuous ambition untempered with even a smidgen of humility.

As he deployed his folksy “charm”, a friend and I figured a way to sidle away from this boor, leaving poor Molly to appear interested as he droned on.



Later I got an earful at abandoning her to this redneck lothario.

.She described his assurance that while it was “Albert’s turn” (Gore) to be the “southern candidate” in 1988, he already was gearing up for 1992. Wouldn’t she like to be part of his vanguard of supporters here in the heartland?

That’s when he handed her that “Governor of Arkansas” card, scrawling his room number on the back with that little wink and broad smile we know so well all these years later.

Afterwards, we all got a laugh over his presumption. It was not until the Jennifer Flowers episode unfolded during the 1992 primary season that we realized that this was his typical modus operandi , and that in approaching the far more polished Molly, Bubba was clearly trying to extend his reach beyond the déclassé types that the Arkansas State Police helped deliver to hotel suites back in Little Rock.

AS Suzanne commented, I suspect Bubba went through quite a few business cards in his day. In fact, if Mistress had taken up the invitation that night, you have to wonder if there would have been a crowd control problem in the hotel hallway.

Of course, I realized then, and know all the more now, that I was the lucky one who got the girl that night.

Orgasm Amnesia and the Agony of Defeat.

Yesterday was a particularly hectic Monday for Molly and Mick.

By 8 am I had to drop Mistress of at an ancient old downtown Club where she was meeting a local captain of media industry for a power breakfast …. It’s the type of place that would not have allowed women  in it’s  high ceiled dining room a generation ago. She was nicely gussied up for the occasion, black suit of course, but I was too bleary eyed to make the most of her available naked thighs on the drive downtown.

From breakfast she was scrambling off to another meeting.

And soon I was off to my own meeting at a local Tribunal, to wheedle for the interests of my clients.

But we did have a chance to talk by phone briefly before yet more meetings for both of us over lunch.

“I did get to talk to the Western Correspondent as I was walking back form that meeting at the Museum, Slave….”

“Oh….and how is he doing.”

“He was a bit whiney about his lack of sex these last 24 hours. I told him not to feel so bad…that I hadn’t gotten any since Sunday evening either.”

“Hmmm…. What about this morning, Mistress?”

“What?”

“You know, in the shower.”

She was rinsing her hair, I was embracing her from the front, the warm water running down her lovely breasts, her nipples hard, probing my chest, my fingers sliding ever so earnestly through those wet folds until she came with a little shudder and moan, burying her head against my shoulder.

“Oh yeah…. It seems so long ago.”

“And then, afterwards, in bed, as you read the blog.”

I had come up a little after the earlier than normal alarm had gone off. So she was already up and heading to the shower. But as she was letting her hair dry, she asked for my laptop to read the blog. As I gave it to her, I picked up the morning paper.

I presumed that her shower orgasm was sufficient. How silly of a Slave to presume.

“Uhhhh….what about the tongue. Slave.” 

She indicated where the tongue was to be placed. I had blown off an important part of her morning  blog reading ritual.

“Oops. Sorry, Mistress.”

I promptly dropped the paper, and deployed my tongue, lips and a few nips with my teeth. Her second, but so quickly forgotten, orgasm of the morning came with a nice little hip thrust and wiggle just as she completed reading my morning homework assignment.

“Excellent, Slave.”

I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the blog or the come I had so efficiently delivered.

Where were we….

“Oh, that’s right Slave….how could I have forgotten?”

That faux innocent giggle of hers is always endearing, and disarming.

Maybe she was just trying to empathize with our Western Correspondent. Feeling his pain, so to speak, as Bubba would have done. Or, speaking of Bubba,  maybe it depends on how one defines “sex”.

When it comes to feeling pain, I had a rough weekend myself,  with my college and NFL teams going down to double ignominious defeats.

And there were some stakes on the line for Sunday’s contest between ‘Nilla’s home state Heros and River City’s Lame-o’s.

When the dust settled….well, by the end of the first quarter if you want me to be honest …  it was clear that my team had fully submitted to those insufferable Doms of the eastern seaboard. And  ‘Nilla was lording over me, big time.

Our bet had been that the winner would dictate the terms of some suitable fiction to be written by the loser.

So Sunday afternoon I got some pointed texts from da ‘Nilla.

“Mwahahaha, does that make me da boss of you? You’re writing anyway? Mountains. Nape. Hair. Colored leaves. Vibe. Go for it!”

Now I am not a man with the sort of free flowing imagination of ‘Nilla. While you may have seen some fiction a few times on these pages, just about every entry is based on our kinky form of reality. So I begged for a little more guidance.

“Don’t I get any more direction than that?”

“Boobs – cock – handcuffs – autumn walk . Dom . Sub. You won’t be graded on this Mick! Giggle!

And yet, I pressed for more.

“Characters?”

“Yes!”

OK, I get it.  She’s not gonna write the story for me.

So let a thousand thorned flowers bloom.  My mind has been churning with too many potential story lines. But I promise something to her (and you dear readers) before my sad team takes the field at home next weekend.