It wasn’t so much that I was even attracted to that little twit at first; I’ll admit it was curiosity. This boy was relentless all those weeks – calling my office, demanding to speak to my boss, my superior. Senator Linda Blackwell was one of the most powerful women in her field. I was her aide and he was nothing but a half-bit “journalist” who probably wrote for Salon or HuffPo, or one of those degenerate liberal blog rags. His recidivist behavior was pathetic at best. It started out with a series of phone calls, and escalated into actual office visits. He managed to get in because he charmed the pants off those ladies up front and presented his fancy credentials that were probably printed at home and laminated at Staples. And after weeks of resistance from my boss, she finally agreed to an interview with “independent journalist” Evan Woodhouse.
And so it was on this Tuesday that he sat across from my desk, legs crossed, looking so self satisfied as he played with his smartphone. He was probably tweeting some inane BS about “infiltrating the system” or “occupying a financial institution”. What a tool. I pretended to ignore him when I felt his eyes burn a hole into my head. He wanted to ask me a question, I just knew it. Instead I acted like I was fascinated with the email I had just received from my friend Tracy. She had just forwarded me a story about a puppy that someone had found on the street with no legs and its amazing struggle for survival. Who fucking cares, I thought, that puppy was a waste of its own existence. I giggled for a bit and unfortunately Evan took that as an invitation to say something.
“What?” I snapped, tossing an icy glare in his direction.
“You… you were smiling. Just now. I was wondering if you had good news. Hope you don’t mind me asking.”
“I was laughing at a handicapped puppy,” I deadpanned.
Evan furnished me with a snarky half-grin. So he thought I was joking? I was dead serious; I hate disabled puppies.
“It’s almost as if they think they deserve love more,” Evan piped up.
Wait, I actually agreed with him.
“What did you say?”
“Well, so you have a disabled puppy and an able bodied puppy,” Evan said. “They’re both cute. Why should the disabled one get the most attention?”
“Exactly.” He had me. I was intrigued. I leaned in closer to admire his lips moving as he continued.
“But that’s why I also get socialism. We all help each other out. Both puppies are worth something in society.”
He lost me.
“Personally, I’m more of a cat guy,” Evan continued, as if I gave a damn.
I cleared my throat and focused my attention back to the computer. Evan was still staring at me. I had to admit it; I found him objectively attractive if he wasn’t such a weirdo. He looked like someone I would normally date. Broad, strong shoulders, a nice head of hair, and when he walked in I guessed he might be a little over 6 feet tall. To be honest, he looked like one of those gorgeous corn-fed marines you’d see in a YouTube video where the soldiers re-create the video to a popular song. Yes, those soldiers were hot. And creative and funny and…
“Well, are you?” Evan interrupted my delicious train of thought.
“Am I what?”
“Watching the debate tonight. The presidential debates.”
What for,” I snapped. “You see where I work. I know how I’m voting.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure though who I’m voting for.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Go on…” I motioned my hand towards him, encouraging him to lay on whatever BS he had for me.
“Well, I’m an Independent.”
“The FUCK does that mean?”
Evan chuckled. “While I think the party your senator votes with has some abhorrent views on women’s reproductive health, I am hesitant to support the other party which has questionable foreign policy techniques.”
I was so very, very confused, but I’ll admit, a touch curious. And to be fair, I agreed with him on both points.
We stared at each other inquisitively for what must have been a few seconds, but felt like hours, when my boss buzzed me.
“You can ring the young man in now,” Senator Blackwell chirped. She was always so friendly to any journalist that came to speak with her. And really, she didn’t have to see Evan Woodhouse. It’s not like he was with Fox or anything.
I stood up and brushed nonexistent wrinkles from my pencil skirt before addressing Evan.
“You can come with me now. The senator is ready for you.”
Evan stood up to grab his things. I was right about his physique. He was actually even a bit taller than I thought.
We walked together to the elevator and when the doors opened, Evan held it open for me. Interesting; most boys his age didn’t have the kind of manners my father taught me to expect from a man.
The doors closed and we stood, shoulder to shoulder, waiting to go the two flights up to the senator’s office when we felt a jolt. I instinctively grabbed Evan’s arm and he laughed.
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“I get a bit jumpy in elevators.”
Evan grinned at me with a comforting gaze. “I’ll ring the alarm, if it makes you feel any better.”
Two hours and several frantic calls with the building later, and Evan and I were still stuck in the small, stuffy elevator. I was sitting with my legs curled into my chest, and Evan was across from me, back to the wall, his long legs stretched out. His shoe was lazily grazing the edge of my left hip, as he checked his phone absentmindedly. I don’t think he realized even that little amount of contact was, for some strange reason, turning me on.
Evan looked up and said, “The building manager just texted me. Apparently the team that is on their way to help us out is stuck in traffic.”
“Damn lazy union government paid workers probably taking an extended lunch break,” I scoffed.
Evan laughed, then did something that both intimidated and excited me. He rolled onto his knees and leaned forward as he whispered in my ear, “Unions aren’t that bad. They’re the reason we have a 5 day work week, did you know that?”
I could barely breathe. I didn’t even care what nonsense he was spouting, I just wanted him to keep breathing hot into my ear.
“Go on,” I whispered.
Evan pulled his head away for a moment and shifted over slightly so he could place one arm against either side of my body. He leaned in again, closer, and said, “To be fair, I do understand how you want to eliminate inefficient spending and encourage lean government. But a lot of that can be done by decreasing military spending.”
He leaned in closer to my neck, and I involuntarily gasped as he traced his lips down to my shoulder.
“But,” I sputtered, trying to catch my breath as I felt his hands start to slowly unbutton my blouse, “If we cut military spending, how can we really be supportive of our troops?”
Evan was now caressing my bosom over my bra delicately as he lifted his lips back up to my ear.
“I served in the US Army for years. Became a First Lieutenant. And I can tell you, we don’t get nearly as much pay and respect as the contract workers, and don’t even get me started on Boeing and Halliburton’s share of the profits.” Evan’s hand was now trailing down to my skirt, underneath, over my panties…
Breathlessly I threw my head back and moaned, “No, do get started on all that…” Evan pulled his head from my ear and brushed his lips against my yielding mouth. His hand was now gently caressing my clit over my panties, and when I felt our lips touch, excitement rushed through my whole body.
Suddenly, we felt a quick jolt, and then the elevator began to move. I hastily brought my hands to my chest to fix my blouse while Evan jumped up and brushed his pants down.
We barely looked at each other a second later when the doors opened to a crowd of curious onlookers. A man in a greasy jumper holding a wrench smiled at us as we rushed out.
“All fixed,” he said, proudly.
I turned to face Evan.
“Well, here we are. Senator Blackwell’s office is right in there. I’ll… I’ll go check to see if she still has time to see you.”
As I turned, Evan placed his hand on my arm and drew me towards him.
“I know you said you weren’t interested, but… do you want to watch the debates with me tonight?”
I thought about it for a second. “Ok. But every time one of the candidate says ‘military’, you have to kiss my neck.”
“And every time one of them says Libya, Syria, Iran, Iraq or China, you kiss my neck.”
I smiled, and handed him my business card.
“There’s one more,” I said, taking on a serious tone, “Certainly there’s a word or phrase neither of them will say. But if they do, well, we may have to agree to go all the way…” I looked away dramatically.
“Let’s do two phrases,” Evan said, “Affordable contraception, and drone strikes.”
I have never been been more excited for a debate.