Nothing new about me procrastinating, I mean I look at duties, chores and otherwise as fucking asshole motherfuckers that are lucky I don't punch them in the face, let alone welcome them and tend to all their stupid faggy needs. So when I went to my front window and saw the Presidential motorcade pulling up in front of the house it was no surprise that I hadn't lifted one finger to clean the place up. Trouble at that point was that since there was so little time remaining before the President and his entourage and all the news people would be entering my house that I needed to decide if it was more important to change out of my pajamas or clean all the half empty (or half full if you're a faggot) cocktail glasses scattered around the house.
I took too long trying to decide because mere seconds later the first wave of the presidential entourage was coming through the front door scoping out the place for good backdrops for the photo opps and trying to figure out the best place to put the catering and banquet tables where I would sit as a representative of the type of awesome common folk who sympathize with the office of the president. I was surprised that rather than being mortified when they started moving my furniture and piles of dirty laundry out of the way to make room for the moving vans full of presidential luncheon furniture, I was relieved and even taken aback with the efficiency in their operation. The woman in charge was someone I know I had met some other time and she kept giving me glances as if to say "See, I told you I could hook this up". How lame am I that I couldn't remember the name of the woman who brought the President of The United States to my house for lunch? At any rate she was turning me on like nothing else. Every time she would pass me, she'd brush her breasts across the back of my arm or whisper something into my ear making sure that I felf the wetness of the inside of her lip on my earlobe. She didn't seem to mind that I kept referring to her as "fancypants" and she even seemed slightly turned on by the fact that I showed no respect for her obvious authority in the situation. Mostly it was because I had no idea what her name was.
Still, there I was still in my pajamas.
With everyone milling about my house, there was really nowhere I could go for privacy to change into something more appropriate for the occasion. The Secret Service dudes had pretty much taken over my gigantic underground parking lot, they moved all of my cars out of the way, they didn't even ask me permission. Normally that kind of thing would piss me off but holy fuck, they were so precise and decisive with their plans, I couldn't help but sit back and admire the entire operation.
I remembered that I had a new suit stashed in the trunk of my Cadillac but when I went to change into it, it occurred to me that maybe the biggest balls move would be to stay in my fucking pajamas -- I mean, the President was coming in as the most powerful man on earth, what better way to show that I was the most powerful man in my own home than to remain just as I am -- in my fucking pajamas? I was proud for making that decision fairly quickly. It took significantly longer for me to decide whether I was going to wear the bright orange SUEDE house shoes or the bright orange PATENT LEATHER house shoes. I ended up going for the shiny ones, they are some awesome fucking shoes. They'd make George Bush cooler just for knowing someone who would wear them. I could do him that favor.
When I went back upstairs they had the whole place transformed. My bedroom and adjoining workroom were now where the long dining table was set up. I could see that they set it up so that George would be sitting right at the head of the table and I could only assume that they were planning on seating me to his right because they placed my special chair there. I pulled the sexy woman organizer aside and suggested that it would be more appropriate to give me the head of the table seat and once cameras were rolling I would of course, as a measure of respect, offer my seat to the President. She agreed with me and the changes happened in an instant. Her nipples were erect and they brushed across the back of my hands as I stroked my beard pretending to be in deep thought -- jokingly so, I was really looking down her shirt. She knew it. She lingered.
When the President did finally make his appearance, it all went as smooth as could have possibly gone. I was witty and charming, he was witty and charming. He did nothing to belittle or embarrass me and I did the same for him even though for a minute or two I was sitting there thinking about all the zingers I could zing him with to land me on every talkshow on earth. Truthfully I wasn't paying any attention to all the press conferency shit he was saying about foreign or domestic policy because I couldn't keep my eyes off the sexy organizer chick. I really wanted to see her naked and I knew I could make it happen. She kept drawing attention to her crotch. We made eye contact 5 billion times. She kept her lips moist.
Later, after almost everyone left -- we fucked all over the house. She was awesome. I hope I don't forget about her and lose interest like I do with everyone else.
2 comments:
you have orange shoes??? i thought you preferred the white sneaky ones? or maybe it was just in the dream??
i'm confused. which is nothing new really.
i wear orange shoes in the house. I paid very close attention to mister rogers.
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