Burning Desire (reprise)

Burning Desire By Gary Cruse

It was hot in the Oval. Summertime DC.

You know, like when the crawdads clumb onto the mangrove roots just to keep from being gumboed alive. Or was that mandrake? No, that was Lasater's deal.

I was thinking about Gore and wishing he would give me a key to the thermostat covers when she walked in.

"Mr. President, do you remember me? Mrs. Edward Willey?"

Remember her? Legs going up like a Roman candle; a rack to shame the 24-pointer I wasted at Camp David, even if the SS had to tether it first. Yeah, I remembered the dame, like Bennett remembers San Francisco, Sacco remembers Vanzetti, like Hillary remembers...every gall-danged thing. Like how nervous Vince wa...

"Mr. President?"

"Huh? Yes. Yes, Mrs. Willey. Sit down. Sit down."

Her dress was sultry and clingy, like a hot intern. Her knees stayed tight until she was seated. Then she crossed her legs in one practiced motion, her hose making a slithery sound.

Out of all the broke down, multi-colored rug, sweaty hot Oval Offices in the world, she had to pick mine.

I thumbed the intercom and told Betty to hold all calls. Then I asked Willey why she came.

"My husband has embezzled a lot of money that we have to pay back, Mr. President. And I need something more than the volunteer job I have. I mean, Easter Egg rolls...."

I wanted to feel her pain, but she was across the desk. How could I get into her...pantry. That was it. The pantry.

"Mrs. Willey, would you like a cup of coffee?"

She couldn't turn it down. I stood and gestured toward the galley just off the Oval and motioned for her to go in ahead of me. It was like little animals when she walked.

I asked her how many lumps she wanted, but I was thinking about how many lumps I was getting...one in the throat and one down at the Y.

As much as I hate carpet burns, I suggested that we adjourn into the study. Groans I make in the galley ricochet like singing in the shower, and I felt an aria coming on.

The difference between the flourescent lights in the galley and the warm tungsten lamps in the study was startling. Her hair went from copper to a warm auburn and I went for a hug.

As I held her tense frame up close, her warmth began to spread to me, rapidly getting hotter and wetter. I backed up and took her squashed coffee cup from between us and sat it on the end table.

"Mr. President, aren't you afraid someone will walk in here?"

"No, no," I told her how sorry I was for her troubles and pulled her against me again, my lips finding hers before she turned her head sharply, leaving my tongue to dart into her earring.

That was when I realized I was being set up. Women could not resist me. Brother Graham told me so himself.I slid a finger into her breast pocket looking for an West Wing pass in case Hillary had sent her.

There was none.

I would have to threaten her to buy her silence.

I took her hand and made sure she felt the hard barrel of my thigh-holstered snub nose. It's a repeater.

"It's not that I'm glad to see you. It's just something I've wanted to do for a long time," I hissed.

That did it. She paled and backed away, "I have to be going. It would kill my husband if I did this."

More than you ever knew, Sister. More than you ever knew.