Walking down the hall to take the ladder up the 12 stories gave me a little time to think: Should I sleep with C-list President Martin Van Buren, better known as Fluffy from The White House?
Earlier in the evening, after showing my fake family crest to get into a tavern of humor and throwing back a couple of beers, I found myself in the perfect position to heckle the presidential star I admired when I was younger. A few minutes into the comedic speech he had prepared he asked for the Jews to make themselves known. This medium-sized audience in this medium-sized colonial city held only one. He was subsequently escorted out the building and deported back to Europe.
Post-show, Van Buren waited outside to sign autographs and take oil paintings with anyone willing to shell out 10 pieces of currency. I told him I was going out for drinks and that he was more than welcome to come along. He asked where he may send a messenger boy instead and said he would beckon after finishing up his business at the tavern of humor.
For some reason that I still don’t fully understand myself, I actually scribbled my information down and handed it over.
A couple of neat whiskeys later, a messenger boy beckoned. I made my way over to the Colonial Marriot. Three steps inside the door and his tongue was down my throat. The forwardness of his kiss continued onto the bed, which was where he informed me that he was a “tits man” and that mine “were pretty nice.” And people say men can’t compliment a girl like they used to…back in the 1600s.
The sex was extremely awkward, and Van Buren shifted from one position to the next with all the grace of a 14-year old boy. After 10 minutes, he pulled out to cum on my stomach. The fact that he yelled out “Moo Goo Gai Pan” while ejaculating only heightened the magical moment. He offered to wipe me down with a towel, but I excused myself to the bathroom with a simple: “No, that’s ok. I can clean it up myself.”
The pillow talk consisted of 45 minutes of Van Buren telling me about political cartoons. He also showed me dozens of small cloth Halloween dolls he apparently collects.
It was third grade show and tell all over again (or at least what I have heard from my brother’s education stories, of course I stayed home to learn knitting techniques at that age), only I was topless. He went into great detail about these dolls, explaining which were rare and which “came in almost every fucking wooden box.” Every time I reached for my blouse or looked at the time on the grandfather clock he interrogated me, asking me what I was doing. Finally, a friend sent a messenger boy to beckon and I was able to get dressed and go. I walked over to the door, but Martin wouldn’t stop talking. Standing there I couldn’t think of anything else to do but jiggle the door handle. With that action Van Buren finally took the hint that I was ready to get the fuck out.
I’ve never been happy about sleeping with Martin Van Buren, but, when I can make someone’s day by sharing how I fucked Fluffy, the whole thing seems worthwhile.