CHAPTER FOUR
Thomas
Holy shit, who the fuck was that girl? She was amazing, curvy and lush exactly the way I like them. Even more importantly, when was I going to see her again?
Because it was clear that I was going to see her again. Shit, I’m the President of the United States. Commander-in-Chief and the leader of the free world. The Secret Service does as I say, not to mention the FBI and CIA. So of course I was gonna meet the hot stripper in person, someway, somehow.
But it would be a clandestine meeting for sure. After all, you can’t exactly do a press conference and say, Hey, our president is out there looking for a woman. And by the way, he’s hooking up with strippers along the way. But that’s where the beauty of this office comes in. Because my guys are at the top of the game, and they know exactly how to set these things up. Secret meetings in the Seychelles with African diplomats? Please, that was easy for them. So organizing a meeting with “Pearl Evanescence,” as she called, would be ten times easier.
Because I have needs like any other red-blooded man. This job is stressful and it ain’t easy being a single guy in D.C. You’d think that there are plenty of society debutantes who are dying for a date with the President, and yeah, sometimes I take one or another of them out. But it’s never right. First, these girls are social climbers. There’s no other way to put it. They want to see and be seen, and what better way than on the arm of the President of the United States?
Second, the society debutantes are practically inbred. I don’t mean that they’re dumb. Quite the opposite in fact. The females here have degrees up the wazoo, and probably got perfect scores on their SATs. It’s just that none of them are street smart, and that really turns me off. If I wanted to have a conversation about the literature and peoples of ancient Nova Scotia, that would be one thing. But if I wanted to talk about real things, like the price of a hammer or the cost of a cup of coffee at a local diner, it’d be impossible. They’re used to getting single origin roasts at places like Kounter Kulture or Wayville, and not Big Mike’s Munchbox over on Second and Northwest Avenue.
So it’s left me in a conundrum. On the one hand, I’m a red-blooded man who needs release to perform at the highest levels. But on the other, it’s hard to find a woman in this city. Isn’t that the problem that all guys have? I guess being the President hasn’t made things easier. If anything, it only means that I have to wade through more layers of muck before finding what I really want.
Plus, my office hasn’t exactly made it easy. Staffers set up some fake site called Gold Medallion, which believe or not, provides male escorts. Evidently, there’s a dummy profile for me that gets contacted non-stop. But the thing is, the women who want to date a dude like that are terrible in the exact way that I’ve been trying to avoid. They want someone who speaks five languages and travels all over the world. Sure, I’ve traveled a lot, but I’d like to slow down a little. It gets old when your bedroom is really the cabin on Air Force One. Plus, I only speak one language, and that’s American. It sounds so country-bumpkin and backwards, but it’s true for better or worse.
So yeah, sometimes I go rogue to find a woman. I have to leave the circles that form my usual stomping grounds, and look afield for fresh meat. It does no good to go to bars and restaurants around here, it’d just be the same old thing. It’d do no good to hit up Maryland or Virginia either, I’d be recognized there as well.
Thus, the anonymity of New York, although of course, anonymity is relative in my case. But you do the best you can, and no one expects to see a sitting American president at a place like the Flamingo on a Tuesday night.
After all, most high-class guys would head to some place like Scores or Elevated. They want to smoke cigars indoors while paying for over-priced liquor. But me? If I want to find a woman, I head to the Pink Flamingo or Booty Boots over on West Forty-Fourth. The guys there don’t care about top-shelf whiskey. They’re more likely to be downing PBR or Coors, and that’s fine. After all, no one’s expecting to see the American president at some downhome strip joint, and that’s why I go. People only see what they want to see.
So yeah, I was there when Pearl Evanescence came on stage, and shit, but the woman blew me away. Lush and curvy everywhere with tits and ass to spare. Exactly my type. The kind of girl who eats everything on her plate, before asking for seconds. And during that dance, when our eyes connected and my dick spurted involuntarily? Holy cow.
So I left without a trace, but that didn’t mean that it was the end of the road for us. In the limo, I called up Daniel, my trusty assistant.
“Hey boss,” came his merry voice. “What can I help you with?”
Daniel’s a twenty-five year old staffer whose primary purpose in life is to be my body man. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing, but at least he picks up on the first ring even when it’s 11 p.m.
“Hey Dan,” was my growl. “Can you help me find the name of a girl I just met?” Of course, I was taking some liberties here. “Her name is Pearl Evanescence, and I’m looking to get some intel on her.”
My assistant didn’t even blink an eye. I’ve done this before, and my loyal staffer’s familiar with the drill.
“Pearl Evanescence from where?” he asked in a business-like voice, probably already jotting things into his notepad. “Are you up in New York?”
“Yeah, at the Pink Flamingo over on West Thirty-Third. She did a set tonight and I’d like to get a work-up done.”
A few more scratches over the phone before Daniel came back on again.
“Sure thing, boss. We should have this ready for you Monday morning, no prob.”
And with that, we said our goodnights and clicked off. Because I can’t exactly date just anyone. It’s not good for national security. Who knows if there’s some Russian honeypot planted in order to get my secrets? So at the very least, we run a full background check on the girl to make sure she’s an American citizen, and kosher to boot. She’s gotta have credit history, no criminal record, and no obvious drug dependencies. That’s just to start. A much more thorough check goes on after Daniel hands off her file to the Secret Service, but for now, that was enough.
So I sat back in the limo, on my way to a hotel in Midtown. The city’s gorgeous at night, even with the high-rises empty and the occasional bum staggering down the sidewalk. There’s something about Manhattan that calls to me, and I plan on moving here after my four-year term is up.
But for tonight, there was nothing to do but wait. My assistant would do the preliminary background check, and then Pearl Evanescence would be brought to meet her newest client … the American President.