Mating Habits at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

Written by Will Haynes

Published on: 31st December 2017 

Dreaded conjugal night: it was that time of the month yet again, stipulated in the pre-nup all those years ago by his aggressive team of lawyers. How she regretted that clause… It never got any easier although she had at least devised a system. She could make it fast, if not exactly tolerable, and he would be out of her quarters for another month. Luckily he didn’t take too long with just the right encouragement. While lying stiff as a board as he huffed and puffed away, his considerable bulk (a mass of orange tinted cellulite) jiggling away, at around two minutes fifty-nine she would lift her toned, bronzed, waxed pins heavenwards (Louboutins on all the way through) and utter the magic words:

“You… are… vinning.”

She would purr these into his ear in her thick, Transylvanian-esque brogue and, like Pavlovian conditioning, it often seemed to do the trick.

“Yeah! I win!” He would blurt out in passionate agreement and then make a little groan as he collapsed on top of her, often adding something along the lines of “I beat China too,” while burying his face into the silk pillows. She usually sighed, would roll him off her before he suffocated her, then shoo him out of her room before hotfooting it into the bathroom to heavily delouse. Sometimes he just lay there, snoring away on the bed, which was a pain as there hadn’t been a clear enough clause for that eventuality in the contract.

And so it was again tonight. He entered her chamber; his rusty, synthetically nicotine-stained hair bathed in the amber light reflected from the newly installed gold-plating everywhere, his thick frame silhouetted in the doorway, shaped like some glorious orang-utan gone to seed, while a noxious scent of mustard, ketchup and processed meat rode through the artificially conditioned airwaves like an airborne virus or chemical weapon. It forced its way through the tiger balm she’d stuffed up her nostrils. (She made a note to source the industrial strength stuff for the next time.) He’d obviously been sweating profusely, perhaps from his solid work out of three or four holes with whatever friendly Third World dictator he admired enough that week to play with, or through anticipation of contract night rolling round again. Or perhaps someone had contradicted him again on social media. He was the only person allowed to contradict himself on Twitter.

He lingered on persistently in the doorframe, unfastening his girdle.

She felt his lusty gaze. Pretended to be asleep.

“Ivaaaaaaanka” he growled, before realising what he’d let slip… Whoops. It wasn’t the first time.

“Mellllannnia. Mellaniaaaaaa,” he corrected himself. She snuck a peek through one half-open eye.

“Know what night it is?”

She let it hang in the air but he wasn’t going away.

“It’s the fourteenth.”

The date had been her choice. She had it stipulated on this day every month so he couldn’t try and wrangle a freebie on Valentines Day or his birthday (both of which fell on the fourteenth of separate months). Her tactical foresight with this matter of romantic legality during the negotiation stages of their budding courtship still pleased her as much as it displeased him. Admittedly this small victory had shaved a couple of million off the asking price of the lump sum payment, but still… was worth it in her mind.

“Iva-lllaaaania. It’s the fourteeeeenth…”

She considered pretending to be in a coma, wondering if she could pull it off until tomorrow. But in reality the fall-out probably wasn’t worth the refusal. She thought back to her last denial. Christ, he’d bombed Pyongyang and cut her pocket money the following day. Also, she never heard the end of it from his lawyers. Before too long she’d have the United Nations on her back while he pawed at her front.

“It’s the fourteeeeeeeeeeeeeeenth.” He repeated, and grabbed her by the pussy.

In surrender she opened both eyes and pretended to stir.

“Oh, boy.” She replied dispassionately.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, Big Boy.” She replied, again dispassionately, but with her best pleasure-model voice. So she shut her eyes again to do her national duty, to fulfil her contractual obligations, and thought not of the nation, or global stability, or even that hunky tennis pro, but mostly about where to source better legal counsel and a more effective brand of tiger balm.

 

© Will Haynes 2017

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