Foreword

   This is the fifth in a series of narratives concerning a research
project done by the author for his Master's Program.  If you've read the
preceding narratives, you're fully up to speed about what this project was
all about.  If you haven't, you really should, because once in a while what
happened before will help you understand why the author reacted in one way
or another.

   This family was a high profile family, so I have had to be very
circumspect about providing details that usually wouldn't matter.  Where
they actually lived, for example, would tend to help identify them to the
reader, and that wouldn't be good at all.  So, for all you detectives out
there, be advised that I have taken great pains to throw in all kinds of
false clues as to who these people might be.  While their story is
interesting, I wouldn't want to cause them ...  difficulties.  You'll
understand when you read it.

   So don't try to figure out who they are.  It won't work.  I'm lying
about everything ...  except the things I'm not lying about ...  and you
won't know which is which.

   A nod of thanks to Norm for providing the philosophy lesson for this
story: Divorce: It's a little like suicide - it's a permanent solution to a
temporary problem.

   Bob

   =====================================================



   The Master's Project - John and Jane

   By Beating Off Bob (beatingoffbob@yahoo.com)

   CHAPTER ONE

   I received a letter from Jane, asking that I meet her at a coffee shop
in the city, to "discuss whether or not our involvement in the research
project would be appropriate".  She didn't say who the 'we', in 'our
involvement', was.  It was on expensive stationary, and was hand written in
flowing beautiful script.  Hardly anyone writes longhand any more, and her
letters were both legible and feminine.  I was interested immediately.  I
was drawn in even more when she set a time and date and then described how
she would be dressed.

   No phone number.

   No last name.

   She just signed it, "Jane".

   It all seemed very mysterious, and of course, I went.

   "Bodiglio's", where the letter had said she would be waiting, was a
high-end kind of place, where a cup of coffee costs as much as a meal at
the Sirloin Stockade or some other buffet type place.  It wasn't the kind
of place I hung out in, or even entered, for that matter.  I was
immediately cognizant of my longish and ragged hair, and my beard, which I
hadn't trimmed in a month or so.

   Actually, the last time either my hair or beard had been trimmed was at
Kent and Lisa's house.  You'll remember them from narrative number three in
this series - the nudist couple.  Their daughter, Nikki had taken it upon
herself to "clean me up".  She cut my hair and trimmed my beard ...  while
sitting on my lap.  Remember ...  they're nudists ...

   Let me tell you something.  Letting a naked girl straddle your naked lap
while she's cutting your hair is NOT the wisest thing in the world to do. I
hadn't wanted to go out in public for a week or two after that.  But hair
grows back eventually, and maybe it was worth it in the end.

   Anyway, that's what I was thinking about when I walked in to Bodiglio's
and looked around for a woman wearing "a fawn colored frock" and pearl
necklace with matching earrings.

   It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the discrete darkness inside
the establishment, which could have been any of a number of high class
bars. The smells in the air, though, were all coffee, with a hint of
something else delicious wafting past my nose.  I surveyed the place and,
in a back booth, saw her.

   It wasn't her 'frock' or jewelry that tipped me.  It was that she wasn't
very good at making, or should I say keeping, clandestine assignations. 
She was sitting up, ramrod straight, with an anxious look on her face,
staring right at me.  Then she slumped back and her eyes went to a napkin
on the table in front of her, beside a steaming cup of coffee.  I saw the
pearls then, and a dress that looked almost like some kind of high-fashion
camouflage, all browns and tans and greens.  It really DID look like what
I'd expect a fawn to look like.

   It was obvious, though, that I wasn't the one she was looking for.  That
dejected slump of hers told me that much.  Maybe she was expecting a man in
a coat and tie, or a cardigan or something, with argyle socks and loafers
and a pipe clamped between his teeth.  A lot of people think that's what an
academic dresses like.  Some do.  If you ever have one of those for a
professor, by the way, drop the class.

   There wasn't anything to be done about it though.  I walked over and
stood by the table.

   "Jane?"

   She looked up, startled.  By some trick of illumination, there was a
beam of light on her face that lit up her eyes.  Either she was wearing
colored contacts, or she had wolf's eyes.  They were those
blue-with-silver-in-them eyes that looked feral ...  dangerous.  The rest
of her looked harmless though.  She jerked, obviously uncomfortable, and
pushed back into the soft seat like she was trying to get away from me.

   "I'm Bob, " I said.  "You wrote to me?"

   "Oh my!  You're Bob?  Oh!" Her eyes might have said 'wolf', but the rest
of her was saying 'scared puppy'.  She looked down again.

   "Is everything OK?" I asked.  I was almost afraid she'd bolt screaming
for the door.

   Then the most amazing thing happened.  Her shoulders gave a little shake
and she straightened up.  Her head came back up and those eyes said the
wolf was back, and that the wolf wasn't afraid of anything.

   "Please," she said, lifting a hand that flashed in the light.  It had a
huge diamond on it.  "Forgive me.  I think I already owe you an apology."

   I sat.

   It was a horseshoe shaped booth, with a round table.  She was sitting in
the heel of the shoe, and I sat to her left.  Her body moved, almost like
she thought of scooting over, but then stilled.  If she was as nervous as I
thought she was, she had iron control over it.

   "You don't owe me anything," I said.  "Except maybe a cup of coffee. 
This isn't the kind of place I usually drink coffee in."

   I was trying to set her at ease, but she tensed up again.  All I had
done was draw more attention to the difference in our stations in life. 
This woman ran with the big dogs - anybody could see that - and I was a
scruffy mutt that did its best not to get in the way when the big dogs were
out and about.

   She had control though, and she asserted it.  She raised that flashing
hand and a young man was beside our table instantly.  His "How may I be of
assistance?" sounded suspiciously like he wasn't asking what kind of coffee
might be needed.  She heard it too and waved her hand again, negligently.

   "Please bring ...  whatever he wants ...  and some pastries too."

   He relaxed.  I did too, surprised that my 'fight or flight' instinct had
kicked in.

   "What may I get you ...  sir?" he asked.

   You notice I didn't capitalize the 'sir'.  He didn't either.

   "Coffee," I said as smoothly as I could.

   What else might he bring me in a coffee bar?

   "Coffee," he repeated.  He had that knack of obnoxious waiters, that
allows them to communicate just how out of place you are in their little
establishment.

   Jane spoke again.  "Flavia sidamo gold," she said, looking at me
calculatingly with those wolf eyes.  "Bring organic cream and raw sugar
too."

   He actually bowed.  "Very good Madam, right away." He knew who he had to
be polite to ...  who had the money.  She did too.  It was obvious there
was pretty big money behind this girl.

   Well, not girl, per se.  She looked to be in her mid thirties, in that
late twenties kind of way that money will buy you.  It wasn't that she had
plastic surgery scars or anything gauche like that.  She was just pampered
and it kept her skin young and tight.  The rest of her looked pretty young
and tight too, what I could see.  That fawn colored dress fit her like a
glove, with puffy fly-away sleeves that balanced it, making it a dress
rather than an 'outfit'.  It showed just enough cleavage for those pearls
to lie on the swells of her inner breasts, but not enough to cause a man's
gaze to linger there.  It made it obvious that she had a fully feminine set
of breasts, but didn't put them on display.  I couldn't see her feet, but I
would have bet the price of the coffee I was going to drink that she had on
three or four inch heels with panty hose that were almost invisible.  There
was something about her eyes that made me think she could also be wearing a
garter belt with thigh-highs, and whatever undergarments she had on were
probably lacy in the extreme and another impossibly-named color.

   Her makeup was flawless, the kind that takes hours to put on if someone
else doesn't do it for you.  She could have 'personal assistants', though.
It wouldn't surprise me if she had a dozen servants.  There was a shopping
bag on the seat between us, from one of the stores downtown that I also
never went into.  When the cheapest thing in the store is a twenty-five
dollar handkerchief, I don't shop there.  Her hair was also flawless, a
wreath of honey-blond hair that floated around her head like a force field.
It had intricate whorls and what appeared to be streaks of subtly different
colors in it, a little darker than the rest, with a hint of red, like a
pale red ale with the sun shining through it.

   A plate of something golden brown with frosting on it appeared at my
elbow, along with a cup of coffee that steamed and almost assaulted my
nasal cavities.  I decided I'd rather look at Jane than Bruno, or whatever
he called himself.

   "Thank you Jacques," said Jane, looking up, like any normal person would
do.  She used the French pronunciation, ending with a hard 'K'.

   I found myself looking at the ring on her left finger.  It was the size
of a marble.

   "Would you please pass the tea cakes?" she asked.

   I came alive and grabbed the plate, sliding it across the table towards
her.  The pastries on the plate looked like a cross between a cookie and a
brownie, round, but thick, with streaks of chocolate in them, and both
white and chocolate icing drizzled across them in little lines.  She picked
one up, holding her pinky finger out, and took a nibble.  Her lips made me
think of strawberries.  She put the cookie down on the napkin.

   "So, you're doing research on marriage," she said.

   I came alive again and blushed.  I wasn't used to being in such rarified
air and I was a bit breathless.  My canned speech came to mind, which was
good, because without it I have no idea what I'd have babbled about.  It
wasn't that she was a raving beauty, though she was quite beautiful in a
girl-next-door-raised-to-the-nth-level kind of way.  I think rather it was
that I felt completely and totally outclassed by her, like I was with
someone who spoke a foreign language that I didn't know how to communicate
in.  That was a singularly odd feeling.  I speak four languages fluently.

   But I tumbled into my canned speech and was doing just fine until I
realized that she wasn't really listening to me.  I'm sure she caught the
gist of it, but it was odd.  Remember the Evelyn Wood speed reading course
that was so popular back when?  It was like she could speed hear, just
picking up on the critical words that transferred the meaning.  But her
mind was somewhere else while she did it.

   I suddenly felt impish.

   "So I thought that if I could find the transaxle of the average marriage
and whelp the relationship, I could find a way to improve the average cross
section." It was a version of one of my favorite phrases.  I try to throw
in 'transaxle', 'whelp', and 'cross section' when I think someone isn't
listening.  It's more fun if there is somebody else present who IS
listening.  It gets a cool reaction out of them to hear gibberish and think
it is supposed to mean something.

   Her eyes swung to mine and locked.  Wolf eyes.

   "You're playing with me." she said.  "Why are you playing with me?"

   She was very direct.  I felt ashamed.  Apparently she could listen
closely and think of other things at the same time.

   "I'm sorry," I said meekly.  "Honest, I just thought you had other
things on your mind."

   "Honestly," she said.

   "Yes," I said.

   "No, I mean the proper word is that you 'honestly' thought I wasn't
listening ...  not honest." Her eyes just made chills run down my spine.

   "Of course," I mumbled.  "Honestly."

   "You're uncomfortable, aren't you?" she asked.

   "Honestly," I said.  Honestly, I didn't mean to.  It was just that it
was right there in my head.

   She smiled.

   "I don't bite," she said softly.

   "Maybe," I said back, "but if you did I bet it would hurt."

   "It's my eyes, isn't it?" she asked.  "They make everyone uncomfortable.

   "They're beautiful," I said for some stupid reason.  "And scary too," I
added inanely.

   She laughed again.

   "Tell me again about your project," she said.  "This time I'll listen. I
promise."

   I had a fleeting sense of curiosity as to why she would promise me
anything.  I ignored it, and told her my theory.

   "So that's why you wanted photographs," she said.

   "Uh ...  yes." I almost said 'honestly' again, but caught myself in
time.

   She reached into her purse, which was on the side away from me, and
pulled out an envelope.  She opened the flap and extracted four or five
photographs, five by sevens, and handed them to me.  I saw her in some of
them, and a woman who looked a lot like her in a couple of others.  In one
of those the woman had a pony tail and was wearing a checkered shirt.  I
suddenly realized it WAS her, but she wasn't 'fixed up' in those shots.

   There was a man in all the photographs with her, appropriately handsome
for a woman of her caliber, with wings of gray at his temples in the ones
where he looked a few years older.  He looked to be in his early forties,
and looked vaguely familiar.  In two of the pictures there was a boy who
looked like he could be anywhere from seven to ten.  I glanced up to ask
her if it was her son in the picture.  She was staring at me intently.

   "Your son?" I asked.

   Something flickered in her eyes and she nodded.  "He's away at school."

   'School' in this sense, I knew, meant a military academy, or some fancy
boarding school.

   I got down to looking at the faces of the man and woman in the
photographs.  There were similarities.  What was odd was that, beneath the
veneer I had overlaid by my pre-conceptions about what I would see, I saw
that he, too, looked like the boy next door who grew up and hit it big.  I
compared the two with the little boy in them.  In one, he appeared younger
and the setting was a back yard.  There was a grill there, in the
background, and a badminton net strung up on the grass behind them.  That
was the one where she had a pony tail.  The other was of her, sitting on a
short couch, with her son beside her, and the man standing behind them.  It
was more of an informal portrait.  Everyone had a silly smile on their
face, though.  Not the restrained and dignified kind of look you'd expect
from rich folks.

   Her finger pointed to that picture.  "That's when we found out my
husband had been elected the first time."

   I looked up at her.

   "My husband is in politics," she said needlessly.

   "I see," I said needlessly as well.

   "That's why I'm not sure this is a good idea," she explained.

   I couldn't tell if she meant meeting me in a dark coffee bar wasn't a
good idea, or them participating in the study wasn't a good idea.

   "He's very sensitive to ...  publicity," she added.

   OK, now I knew what she was worried about.

   "Well, the interviews for the study are confidential," I said.  "Nothing
pertaining to any individual couple will be published.  By that I mean that
the couples may be discussed, but not identified in the paper."

   "Could you give me an example?" she asked.

   "Sure." I was on more solid footing now.  I pulled out the two photos
with the child in them and put them side by side, angled so that we could
both see them.  She leaned toward me.  She smelled good.  I guess that's
why that perfume she was wearing probably cost as much as my monthly rent.

   "See here?" I pointed.  "The cheekbones are the same height above the
corners of the mouth.  Look at where the jaw bends and goes upward.  Same
angle.  The lips are about the same thickness from the bottom of the bottom
lip to the top of the top lip.  His forehead is a little taller than yours,
but the proportions between the top of the nose and the hairline are the
same.  Both faces are narrow.  In some couples one has a short, wide face,
and the other a long, narrow one.  There are all kinds of things that can
make people look completely different.  Even your skin tones are similar."

   "But how would you identify us as a couple when you wrote that up?" she
asked.

   "Oh!  That.  Every couple will have a number assigned.  I'm trying to
come up with a numerical matrix that will quantify how much alike they
look. I'm still working on that.  Let's say, for the sake of argument, that
each feature I mentioned got a one.  In your case, couple thirty-four would
have a numerical score of at least five.  Couple ...  oh ...  say sixteen
...  might have a numerical score of two.  That would mean couple
thirty-four looked more alike than couple sixteen did.  Couple six might
have a negative score because every feature is different.  Where the matrix
comes in is that couple six might be more happily married than couple
thirty-four.  Each couple will also have a numerical score for how well
they get along, and all that."'

   "And that's what the interviews are for." She was quick on her feet.

   "Honestly," I said, on purpose.

   It got me another smile.

   "I'm not sure my husband will want to participate," she said.

   "I'm sensing that you do, though," I said.  "Why, if you're concerned
about confidentiality, would you want to do that?" I was honestly curious.

   She sat there for a few seconds, mulling that over.  Then those wolf
eyes looked at me again.

   "I want to help." she said simply.

   I didn't quite believe her.  At least, I thought, she wasn't saying
everything on her mind.  It made me wonder why someone WOULD want to be in
a study about marriage.  So far, there had been three or four couples who
got into my study thinking it was for something entirely different than it
was actually intended to do.  Those had been my most ...  interesting ...
interviews.  So I guess I decided to string Jane along as long as she would
let herself be strung along, and just see what happened.  I had never met
any really wealthy or influential people in my life, at least none I could
sit down and talk to.  I was curious about her.

   "OK," I said.  "How about we just talk a little bit, and I'll ask you
some questions, and if you want to answer them you can, and if you don't,
you don't have to.  That will probably give you a better idea about whether
you really want to be in the study or not, and about whether your husband
will have a heart attack if I ask HIM the questions."

   "Sounds like a deal," she said simply.

   Now, I have to tell you ...  that simple sentence, coming from her
mouth, sounded all wrong.  That sentence was something one of my friends
might have come up with.  But wealthy, educated, sophisticated society
women just didn't talk like that.

   I found out the reason for that as we continued to talk for the next
three hours.

   That's right.  Three hours.

   I learned a lot about Jane in those three hours.  She really WAS the
girl next door.  She was born in Montana and grew up there, going to public
schools.  She went to college at the University of Washington and, while a
starry-eyed coed there, met John at a save-the-whales rally she went to
with a girlfriend for kicks.  He was, at that time, a wild-haired and
wild-eyed radical who thought nothing of driving spikes into trees to keep
them from being cut down, or putting on S.C.U.B.A gear and drilling holes
in the hulls of ships involved in the whaling trade.

   That was a whole new world for a girl from 'Hicktown, America'.  She was
attracted to his passion and sense of commitment to what he thought was
right and wrong.  She also felt deliciously naughty being around people who
were running from the law.  Whether the law was actually looking for them
or not didn't really matter.  It was the excitement of being involved with
demonstrations and people who screamed ranting speeches to the
already-converted, that fired her own thoroughly subdued passions.  The
only thing Jane had ever been passionate about, up to that point in her
life, was who would win the game under the Friday night lights back home.

   She managed to divest herself of her virginity after one of those games,
in which the team won the regional championship and was, therefore, slated
to go on to the state competition.  She described that moment of discovery
as "somewhat wet and painful", but then smiled as she remembered how both
teens had been terrified that she might become pregnant from that single
coupling.  That terror, along with the singularly unhappy physical
experience, convinced her that sex just wasn't all that it was cracked up
to be, and she kept it at arms length after that.

   Until she met John.  Her voice got softer, more 'confidential', as she
leaned toward me in that dark bar and told me: "In fact, I was the
aggressor the first time we had sex."

   It is important to understand something here, so it's worth stopping to
point it out.  Jane was (now) a cultured and educated woman.  Her husband
was in politics (on a national level, as it turned out), and she was quite
used to picking her words with great care when she spoke "in public".  I
had been listening to a more or less normal story of a more or less normal
girl going through more or less normal things.  But her characterization of
them "having sex" for the first time jarred something in my mind.  I would
have expected her to use the term "making love".  There is a cultural
difference between the two, at least in America.  That would become
important later in our interviews, because at various times she DID change
back and forth between the two phrases.  Whether she was aware of this or
not, I don't know, but I was aware of it, and it said momentous things
between the lines of her spoken sentences.  Saying that they "had sex" for
the first time suggested that there was no love involved in the
relationship yet.

   She went on to describe how, after a rally, she was fired up emotionally
and was searching for some way to maintain the high she was on.  There were
perhaps six or seven people in the room, and somebody was passing around a
joint.  When two other college students started kissing and groping each
other in front of the rest of the group, pretty soon there was a
cheerleading squad urging them on.

   "I went to stand behind John and just slid my hands around his waist and
cupped his package," she said, her eyes bright with remembrance.

   Again I was jarred by her characterization of his sexual equipment as
"his package."

   She went on to describe how he turned around, smiled, and the next thing
she knew they were having "hot and sweaty sex" in a bedroom.

   She stopped suddenly and looked startled, staring at me.

   "I shouldn't be telling you all this," she said.  "John would be furious
with me for telling someone about that."

   I pushed my clipboard around so she could see it.  All I had filled in
was some notes on demographics.  I hadn't even put anything where her name
and address went, and hadn't taken any notes on what she'd told me already.
To be truthful I was so interested in her story that I had forgotten to
take notes.  We had been talking for a couple of hours by this time and
both of us had only paused to take a potty break.

   "We won't tell John about what we talked about," I suggested.  "Besides,
didn't you say there were half a dozen other people in the room?"

   "Oh no," she said.  "Not then.  He took me into the bedroom and locked
the door.  I think even then he was being careful about what he did and who
saw it.  I think it was instinct, because he didn't get interested in
politics - running for office, I mean - until years later."

   "Still, though, those people knew what was going on in there," I said.

   She blinked.  "We still know most of them," she said.  "I won't tell you
who they are, but quite a few of them are involved in politics today."

   "So they can't tell on you ...  him ...  because he could tell on them?"
I asked.

   She didn't look happy about that.  "Something like that, I suppose." She
slumped a little bit in her seat.  "It's a dirty business, Bob."

   That is an example of where she talked between the lines.  Here was a
wealthy, successful woman, with a successful husband on the national stage.
As important and influential people go, she was right up there with the
best of them, or at least had the option to be.  Yet she was not happy with
that life.  You don't live life doing "dirty business" and be happy about
it.  Not if you're a person like Jane.

   During the remaining hour of that first interview we went on, and she
described how they finished school, and he got a job opportunity with his
uncle who, while he was "one of the establishment", was working for peace
and the environment on the inside.  They got married, and he did well in
his pursuits, which eventually got people urging him to run for office. 
His platform was successful and he got elected and did good things, in the
beginning, when he wasn't beholden to anyone for supporting his campaign
financially.

   When their son was born, other than "making love with John", she was
never happier than when she was just being a mother.  She was madly in
love, and life was good.  That was when the photograph of her with the pony
tail, in the back yard, was taken.

   Then he ran for the senate.

   That took serious money, and it poured in from all kinds of sources,
large and small.  Suddenly there were strangers on his campaign staff,
telling him what had to be done to "get the message out".  His movements
began to be scripted, and he spent less and less time at home.  It was
recommended that he have his son in a "good school", and people began to
"help" Jane "become" the wife of a senator.

   She became agitated during this part of her narrative, her hands moving
around, twisting the napkin until it tore, moving her coffee cup from one
place to another on the table, but not sipping from it.  Her brow furrowed.
But what was more interesting to me was that her voice took on that same
cultured tone that had been there when I first met her ...  when she'd
ordered my coffee.  It was almost like the change she was describing was
mimicked in the way she spoke, going from that easy Midwestern style to a
more clipped and polished way of speaking.  While telling me her story she
had reverted to that simple girl next door.  Remembering the changes she
had had to make when her husband became "successful" resulted in bringing
her back to the present ...  to the woman she now was.  She could have won
an Oscar if she'd been acting.

   What she said between the lines was that she didn't like the woman she
now was, and she wasn't all that hot on her husband being the man he was
either.  She remembered the past fondly, but was all too aware that she had
to live in the present, with an eye firmly on the future and the
"successes" it might bring.

   "Well!" she said suddenly.

   I realized neither of us had spoken for quite a while.  Both of us were
thinking about things.

   "The rest is history.  So what do you think?" she asked.

   "I think I'd like to talk to John," I said.

   She looked ...  hurt ...  or something close to that.  I suddenly
realized that I might have just done what would look like (to her) most
other people probably did.  I had dismissed her, and wanted to get access
to the "real" power in the family.

   I tried to put a bandage on the hurt.

   "But first I want to thank you," I said, reaching for her hand.  I saw
her arm tense, but when I laid my hand on top of hers it relaxed.  "Your
description of things has been fabulously helpful." I didn't think a little
flattery would hurt.  "You have a knack for describing things in a way most
people can't." I decided not to tell her what she said between the lines.
Not yet, anyway.  We had had a very comfortable talk, but we weren't
friends or anything.  I found it interesting that I wanted to BE her
friend.

   "I blathered," she said.

   Then she did something else very interesting.  She pulled her hand out
from under mine ...  and laid it back on top of mine.  Her wolf eyes
pierced mine again.

   "Thank you for listening to me blather ...  and for being discreet.  You
will be discreet ...  won't you?"

   "Yes ma'am," I said, my voice a little dry.  When a woman like Jane
asked you to do something you wanted to comply.  She had come a long way
from being that small-town girl from the upper Midwest.  "But I hope you
don't think we're done," I added.

   "You want to talk more ...  with me?" she asked.

   "Definitely," I said.  "Talking to John is just part of the package. 
It's pretty hard to come to conclusions about scores unless I talk to both
members of a couple.  But I have lots more questions for both of you."

   "Oh!" She seemed surprised, but looked a lot happier too.  "Well, I've
really enjoyed our little talk.  I'll see if I can think of a way to broach
the subject with John, and encourage him to see that this isn't a
liability."

   Rather than ask for her number, I just gave her mine and said we'd set
something up whenever she was ready.

   She had a wonderful smile when it was real.  It was just like the smile
in that picture of her where she had the pony tail.

   CHAPTER TWO

   I got a call three days later.

   "Hello, Bob?" came that cultured voice.

   "Hi, Jane, it's good to hear from you again," I said.

   "I'm ready to make another appointment," she said.

   Then, instead of making the appointment, she went on to explain that the
time hadn't been right yet to talk to John about all this.  He had been
called away to Washington and she didn't want to talk to him on the phone.
It was late May, and she suggested we meet in a park.  Both the place and
the way she talked made it seem like she was sneaking around to do this,
but I agreed and we set the appointment.  I kept it the next day.

   That interview also lasted some three hours.  We picked a park bench
that was one of a dozen in a row.  The rest of them had mostly young
mothers sitting on them, watching their children play on the playground
equipment nearby.

   It was a lot more intimate in some ways, because I finally started
filling in the notes on my regular questions.  I'm not sure she was quite
prepared for it.  We spent half an hour talking about mundane things and
then I asked her the first personal question.

   "What is John's best sexual feature?"

   She looked startled for a moment, but then answered gamely.  "Well, I'm
not sure what you mean by 'feature', but what I like about him the most
when we make love is his passion.  He's very passionate."

   That didn't tell me a whole lot.  He was passionate about a lot of
things, according to what she had told me already.

   "How often do you make love?" I asked.

   I got another darted glance.  "Well, you know ...  about normal."

   "And your definition of normal is ...?"

   She was flustered now.  I had never seen her that way before, other than
that first time we met, when I wasn't what she expected.

   "He's very busy." She was making excuses already.  "He's gone so much,
and, despite what some people might think, politics is grueling work.  You
can't blame him for being tired most of the time."

   "Jane, calm down," I said softly.  "I'm not making any judgments.  It's
just a number.  I'm not going to grab my chest and fall off the bench if
it's only once a week."

   Now, you have to understand here, that I was all of twenty-four when
this interview took place.  I hadn't had a regular lover in years.  My
involvement with other couples I interviewed was anything but predictable,
and a lot of the couples I had interviewed had given numbers like 'once a
week'.  Some of the older ones said they made love a lot less frequently
than that even, and some younger ones fucked like bunnies every chance they
got.  So I really had no idea what "normal" was for a couple where the man
was forty-ish and the woman was thirty-ish.  I actually expected her to say
something along the lines of twice a week, but had no data to base that on.
If she'd have been my wife I'd have been chasing her around the bedroom at
least twice a week.

   But, of course, she wasn't, and I was only twenty-four.

   She colored up and I knew I had made a mistake.  But she gritted her
teeth for some reason, and answered the question.

   "Once every three or four months," she said tightly.

   "Oh," I said, thoroughly trashing my pledge that I wasn't going to judge
anything.

   "We go to church more often than we make love," she said.  I looked up
to see her blushing more furiously and realized she hadn't meant to say
that out loud.

   "Well, like you said," I tried to comfort her, "He IS very busy."

   "You're very kind," she said, a little acidly.

   I felt bad for her.  Here was a beautiful, smart woman in her sexual
prime, and she was being neglected.  It happened all too often.  It
suddenly occurred to me that she might not know that.

   "Hey," I said, waving a hand in what I hoped was a negligent manner. 
"It happens all the time.  People get on track with careers, and other
interests, and some things get pushed aside.  It's not your fault.  At
least you got to have children before that happened."

   "I know it's not my fault," she said, her eyes becoming more confident.
"And we had child ...  not children.  Our plan was to have two." She sat up
straight.  "And just because it happens all the time doesn't mean it SHOULD
happen all the time.  I want my husband back!"

   Wow.  There was a little repressed anxiety coming out all of sudden. 
The therapist in me wiggled to the surface.

   "Have you talked with him about it?"

   She slumped back against the bench.  "Of course I have.  He says it's
not the right time to have another child.  He has this stupid idea about
running for the Presidency and about how he'll get me pregnant so that he's
the first man in a Presidential race with a pregnant wife.  It's like I'm
some trophy he'll be able to hold up to talk about family values.  And
right how he's getting ready for a re-election campaign.  I'm stuck, Bob,
and I can't do anything about it.  He'll get re-elected, and who knows what
will happen after that.  By the time my son has a brother or sister there
will be more than a decade between them.  I feel like a widow sometimes."

   What I heard between the lines was that she was lonely.  Imagine that. A
beautiful successful woman, with a handsome successful husband, a bright
child, money, things ...  and what she wanted was something she couldn't
have.

   "Oh, just go on," she said disgustedly.  "What's your next question?"

   I looked at the form.  Masturbation was up next.

   Great.

   I stared at the word, and didn't say anything.  By now she felt
comfortable with me.  That much was obvious.  She had told me things that
would probably curl her husband's toes.  I felt a little like a spy who had
wormed his way into her confidence.  But I wasn't a spy.  I was just a guy
trying to get a good grade.

   It was about then that she apparently decided I was moving too slowly.
She reached out and plucked the clipboard out of my hands.  Those wolf eyes
flitted across it and then rose to grab mine.

   "Oh my," she said, her voice rising.  "Do you ask these questions to
everybody?"

   "Uh ...  usually," I mumbled.

   She giggled.  It was shocking to hear a giggle from a woman who looked
like her ...  who WAS her.  Women like Jane just did not giggle.

   "You're embarrassed!" She arched an eyebrow.  "It's a perfectly
appropriate question, Bob," she said.  "Especially for a woman in my
situation."

   She read on.  I knew she was reading about whether HE masturbated or
not, and whether they used toys, or did things with other people.

   "My goodness, but we're going to get personal, aren't we?"

   I looked up at her tone of voice.  She sounded ...  interested.

   "I'll make you a deal," she said, handing me back the clipboard.  "If
you'll tell me about what some of the other couples said when they answered
those questions, I'll answer them too."

   I mumbled something about confidentiality and she put one palm out to
face me in the classic "Stop!" sign.

   "I don't want to know who they are.  I just want you to tell ME
something that you shouldn't.  I've told YOU all kinds of things I
shouldn't have.  Call it tit for tat.  I'll feel better about you knowing
so much about me ...  us ...  if I have something to hold over your head."

   She had learned a thing or two from the politics she was embroiled in. I
felt a trap, of sorts, closing around me, but it was a trap with no real
teeth, because I knew her well enough by now to know she'd never do
anything to hurt me.  She wouldn't hurt a flea.  I'll admit that I had
developed some voyeuristic tendencies during this project, even if all I
did to feed them was mostly vicariously.  It would be titillating to hear
about this woman's most private moments.  And she needed somebody to talk
to.  I probably came up with ten reasons to close that trap around me.

   So we talked about the couples I had talked with, and, while I didn't
have hard numbers, I gave her estimates of how many couples I had
interviewed who did all the things I was going to ask her about.  She
listened without giving me a lot of feedback.  When I told her about the
couples who invited other people into their sex lives, I talked about the
reasons they did it.  I casually mentioned that one of the women had
enlisted me to get her pregnant.  That was the tit I was exchanging for her
tat, so to speak.

   "She actually let you have sex with her?" she said, her voice not
actually inflecting it as a question.  "Where was her husband?"

   "Well ...  actually ...  he was right there next to the bed." I looked
for reaction, but there wasn't anything visible.  "Most of the time," I
added.

   "You did it more than once?" This time it was a question.

   "I'm not super virile or anything," I joked.  "It usually takes more
than once to get the job done."

   She pursed her lips and gazed past my shoulder.  "Yes ...  there is
that," she agreed.

   Her eyes came back to lock on mine.  Wolf eyes.

   "I'm astonished," she said, not sounding astonished at all.  "There is
MUCH more to you than I imagined."

   "I don't' know about that," I said humbly.  "I'm just a guy, like any
other guy."

   "Oh no you're not," she said, those eyes still pinned on me.  "You're
nothing like you let on to be." She looked at me speculatively.  "You're a
dangerous man, Bob."

   "Nonsense," I tossed off.

   "There were others too ...  weren't there?  Others that ...  invited you
into the bedroom?"

   That didn't sound as much like a question as I would have wished.  That
trap was beginning to have more teeth than I had first felt.

   "You win their trust ...  and ask them intimate questions ...  and then
..." Those eyes were like steel spikes, nailing me to the bench.  "You're
not trying to seduce me, are you Bob?"

   Believe me, folks, that is NOT the question you want a woman like Jane
asking you.  She had the connections to make my life miserable, and I knew
it, even if I couldn't imagine what those connections might be.

   "Of course not," I said, trying to sound dignified.  "Things just ... 
happened." Her gaze didn't soften a bit.  "Really!" I said, a little panic
seeping into my voice.  "I didn't plan anything.  This is a real research
program!" I tried to sound earnest and honest.

   "We'll see about that."

   Now what kind of thing was THAT to say to a guy like me?  I felt the
need to smooth things over.

   "Look, if you're uncomfortable with this, or the way I'm doing it,
that's fine.  I don't ask anyone to do anything that makes them
uncomfortable.  You don't even have to be in the project.  I can toss all
my notes on you and you never have to think about me again."

   "Oh, you're good," she said maddeningly.  "I can see it now.  I just
thought you were Joe Normal, but you are a brilliantly devious young man."

   "Come on, Jane, it isn't like that at all!" I complained.  "You're
reading WAY too much into this."

   "Do you find me attractive?" she asked.

   This was getting worse and worse.  How do you answer that kind of
question from that kind of woman without burying yourself either way?

   "Of course I do, but that doesn't mean I'm trying to hit on you," I
said.

   "And you imagine me to be a lonely political widow, pining for some
affection while her hubby is off boffing interns and those impossibly
beautiful young women who volunteer to help win elections.  Is that it?"

   The analytical part of my mind was still working, and heard all her
fears and concerns about what went on in Washington bedrooms while her
husband was there.  But, I was in trouble here, and if I had a chance to
get out of it, it was worth a try.  I went on the offensive.

   "Well, isn't that true?" I asked.  "That's how you've described
yourself. Not about the interns and all that - I don't know about that -
but you ARE a political widow of sorts.  You even said so."

   Her eyes softened a bit.  I cannot tell you how glad I was to see that.

   "I suppose I did, didn't I?" Again, it wasn't a question, really.  "He
does that, you know," she went on.  "I'm not stupid.  I can smell their
perfume on his ties when he gets back.  He has his clothes laundered, but
not his ties.  Men are so foolish sometimes.  They think they can get away
with things, but they're wrong."

   "I'm not trying to seduce you," I said weakly.  "Please believe me."

   "I should hope not!" she said somewhat sternly.  Then, to my
astonishment, she grinned.  "Under these circumstances, in the roles we are
playing, it should be I who am doing the seducing, not you."

   My mouth dropped open and she laughed.

   "Don't take me seriously," she giggled.  "I'm not trying to seduce you
either.  All I want to do is get my husband back." Her face fell.  "But
that's not going to happen.  Maybe I SHOULD have an affair!" she said
forcefully.

   "You don't want to do that," I said, clearing my throat.  "It wouldn't
do what you want it to do.  You're not that kind of woman, Jane."

   She looked at me sharply.  "There WERE others, weren't there?" Once
again, she wasn't asking a question.

   She had trusted me.  She had been astonishingly candid.  I felt like I
could trust her.  I could be candid too.

   I nodded.

   "I can see why," she said, like she was talking about why someone would
buy a good set of tires.  "You're good."

   This wasn't getting us anywhere.  She had formed an opinion that I was
some kind of Lothario, and it wasn't likely I could disabuse her of that
notion.  All I could do was act professionally, or what I thought was
professionally.

   "So," I said, getting ready to stand.  "What do you want to do?"

   She knocked me off my heels by saying: "I think I'd like some ice cream.
Let's go get some ice cream."

   So, we went and had ice cream.

   Do you have any idea how erotic it is to talk about masturbation and
oral sex with a woman who is licking an ice cream cone?  No dish and spoon
for her.  No sirree.  She got two scoops on a waffle cone, and by the time
those scoops were down to that cone I had a major boner.

   Of course part of that was because of her comments while she did it.

   "Yes, I masturbate.  I masturbate frequently," she said.  "I don't use
any ...  aids ...  and I usually do it when I'm taking a shower before
bed."

   She licked her ice cream from the bottom to the top.

   "I don't know about John.  He's certainly ever done it in front of me,
nor I in front of him.  I don't fondle him much.  Not any more.  He likes
to get right down to business when we do make love, and he's usually ready
to go when I find out that's on his mind.  He used to be pretty good at
making me happy that way, back when we still indulged in foreplay, but not
so much any more."

   She licked all the way around her scoops, just above the cone.

   "How 'bout you?" she asked.

   I jerked a little.  "Me?  Not as much as I used to.  I've ...  uh ... 
been getting a little more sex than ...  in the past." I was trying not to
sound crude.

   She smiled.  "I'll bet you have."

   I did NOT understand all this.  I was just an average looking guy who
happened to run into some pretty kinky situations, and sex was a result. 
It wasn't like women were knocking down my door or anything.  Still, I knew
it wouldn't do any good to argue with her.

   "Now," she said.  "About oral sex."

   She licked from bottom to top again.  That was when my prick started to
stand up to be counted.

   "Back in college, and right after we were married, he LOVED oral sex. 
And I loved doing it to him.  He wasn't any good at doing it to me, but
made up for it with his fingers.  Anyway, I used to see how long I could
keep him going, getting hornier and hornier all the time, and then, just
before he was about to blow, I'd get him in me."

   There were pauses in that little paragraph, where she stopped to lick
her ice cream cone.  I didn't put them in there, because it would have been
as distracting to you, the reader, as it was distracting to me while she
did it.  She did this thing where she put the top of the cone into her
mouth and then sucked a pointy little tip to it as she pulled off of it. 
It left me weak back then.  I'm a little weak right now just trying to
describe it.

   "I have a pretty quick trigger myself," she said.  "I like to be played
with, but what I REALLY want is a nice hard penis inside me.  That always
gets me off, and it usually gets me off within seconds of getting it."

   I felt something cold on my hand and looked down at it.  My whole hand
was covered in Rocky Road drips.  I hadn't tasted my own ice cream for
probably three minutes.  It wouldn't have been any good to try anyway.  I
don't know whether the ice cream loosed her tongue, so to speak, or whether
she just felt much more comfortable talking about things, but she had
reverted to the girl next door who was just talking about sex with one of
her buddies.  Both her language and the freedom with which she spoke were
almost jolting.  I tried to clean up my hand a little, but felt stupid
licking my hand instead of my ice cream cone.

   "Once in a while he'd beg me to leave it in my mouth," she said calmly.
"If he'd been a very good boy I did.  I think he liked that almost better
than getting off inside me."

   She bit off the top of her ice cream cone.  I'm quite sure I winced.

   "Since he's been going to Washington, he doesn't seem to be interested
in oral sex any more.  Whenever we have sex we just sort of get it over
with.  More often than not I'm the aggressor."

   Both her words and her body displayed the undercurrent of irritation in
her voice.

   She took another bite.  It turned out to be a little too much and she
pressed two fingers against the bridge of her nose as the pain came and
went.

   "Don't you have a house in Washington?" I asked.  "Where you could stay
with him?"

   I already knew that, earlier in his career, they had bought an upscale
house, on a couple of acres, in a gated community outside the state
capitol, and that it was still their primary residence.

   "Yes, it's lovely," she said, going back to licking.  "But it's not
home. And the people there are so phony.  They all want something.  I get
hit on all the time when I'm up there with him."

   "You're kidding!" I gasped.

   "Not at all," she said, like it was completely normal for Senator's
wives to be stalked by sexual predators.  "Washington is full of men who
crave power.  What is more powerful than dominating a woman?  Especially a
woman who is the mate of a powerful man, or better yet, a rival.  And if
the man isn't already a mover and shaker, he wants to be, and what could be
more gratifying than having a mover and shaker's wife for dessert?"

   "Doesn't sound like you ever did anything about it," I commented.  I
couldn't just come out and ask her if she'd ever cheated on him.

   "Who wants to get into bed with a wolf?  Or a pig?"

   The Senator's cultured wife was back, but only briefly as it turned out.


   Her eyes took on a far away gaze and she continued softly, answering her
own question: "All those fucking little gold digging interns, with all
their fucking little hard breasts, and skinny thighs and tight butts ... 
that's who."

   The girl next door had made another appearance.  Her free hand slapped
over her mouth and she blushed beet red.

   "Forgive me, Bob, that was crude."

   I waved my hand nonchalantly.  "Hey, if it's true, then it's true."

   "Still, it was crude of me to curse."

   "Tell you what," I said, leaning toward her an lowering my voice. 
"Around me you can say whatever you want to say.  I like honesty.  All you
were doing was saying what you ...  honestly ...  feel."

   I grinned and she got it, grinning back.

   "I shouldn't have corrected you the other day," she said.  "That was
rude too."

   "It wasn't rude," I countered.  "Presumptuous, perhaps ...  maybe
snobbish ...  but not rude.  I WAS, after all, incorrect.  I'm in the world
of academia.  People expect me to speak well.  I should have thanked you
for correcting me.  In fact, if it will make you feel any better ...  thank
you."

   She stared at me for a few seconds and then her eyes went to her cone as
she flat-tongued it all the way around the little hump that was left above
the cone.  The wolf eyes came back to mine.

   "You really are good.  You could be swimming in women if you wanted to."
She smiled a little, tight smile.

   I had had about all I could take of that attitude.

   "Would you mind explaining that?" I asked her.

   "What?" she asked innocently.

   "Your almost constant comments about my cocksmanship ...  or whatever it
is that you're referring to," I said.

   "Oh that." She waved her free hand in the air again.  "You know how to
talk to a woman.  More importantly you know how to listen.  Your eyes are
polite and don't linger where they might offend, though I have to say that
you seem more interested in my ice cream than your own." She gave me a
little look of some kind through her lashes.  "When a man treats a woman
with respect, and cares about what she's thinking and feeling, that makes
him very attractive."

   "But I don't do ...  those things ...  intentionally," I objected.

   "Ahhh," she sighed.  "But THAT is what makes you irresistible.  It's not
an act.  You really DO care.  You just REEK honest interest and compassion,
and trustworthiness and all those things that make a woman's panties damp
when she's around you."

   I sat there, stupefied.  I felt more ice cream dripping on my hand.  To
do SOMETHING, I got up and went back inside the store.  We had been sitting
outside at a table.  I got a cup and a spoon and up-ended my ice cream cone
in the cup.  Then I got a fistful of napkins.  The counter girl saw what
had happened and handed me a kiddy cup with water in it without being asked
to.  She smiled at me like I was an idiot.

   I went back outside and sat down and started trying to clean myself up.

   I heard her take a bite of her cone before she spoke.  "Aren't you going
to ask?"

   I didn't look at her.  I wasn't ready for wolf eyes just yet.

   "Ask what?"

   "If my panties are damp," she said sweetly.

   "Of course not!" I growled.

   "See!" she barked.  "There it is again.  You, Bob, are just a nice guy,
and nice guys are few and far between.  Women lust after them.  Even more
if they have a brain in their heads."

   "You're a lady," I said, trying to rationalize in HER mind what I had
said.

   "I'm a woman first."

   She went back to licking.  Soon she would be biting again, into the
cone. I wasn't sure I was ready for that.  I tried to think of something
else.

   "So, are you going to ask?"

   She was incorrigible!

   I managed to look into the wolf eyes.

   "No."

   "Awww come on Bob, you have to ask," she said in a pleading voice that
didn't sound at ALL sincere.

   "Why do I ...  HAVE to ask?" I asked, wiping my fingers.

   She grinned at me.  "Because I'm a lady, and it wouldn't be proper for
me to just tell you."

   I looked at her.  She was still grinning.

   "OK, are your panties damp?" I asked.

   "Why, you CAD!  How DARE you ask me something like that!" She started
giggling.

   I slumped.  "I just do NOT understand women!" I muttered.

   "Welcome to politics, Bob ...  welcome to politics."

   ===================================================

   Later, when I thought about it, I realized she was right.  Relationships
between men and women really are a kind of politics.  There are promises
made and speeches given, as the man tries to get "elected", and the voter
has to sift through the rhetoric and outright lies, in an attempt to make a
decision about who to "elect".  There is usually money involved, quite
often in a bald-faced attempt to buy the vote.  Then, once the election is
over, whether it be a boyfriend-girlfriend or a wedded bliss kind of
relationship, or even just good friends, the voter is stuck, so to speak,
with who got elected.  We all know politicians who say one thing and mean
another, and who run for office for all the wrong reasons.  Sometimes they
run for the right reasons, but once there, they change ...  ARE changed ...
by the situations they get involved in.

   Lord Acton was a historian who gave lots of warnings about the dangers
of politics and political power.  He's the one who said: "Power corrupts,
and absolute power corrupts absolutely." And it can be that way in a
relationship too.  For the relationship not to be corrupted, both parties
have to share equally in the benefits and risks of the relationship.  When
one becomes too powerful, the other is diminished, and the relationship
suffers.

   I know you aren't interested in philosophy and all that crap, but what I
just said helps to explain Jane's relationship to me.  We were equal
partners in the thing we were doing.  We gave and took, and shared both the
benefits of friendship, and the risks of that friendship faltering.  In the
process of my interview of her, we became friends.  It's true that she was
lonely, and desperate for someone to talk to who didn't want anything from
her that her "power" could supply.  She had all KINDS of those "friends". I
was somebody she could be honest with, and who would return that honesty,
regardless of the subject at hand.  I accepted her as she was.

   It was for that reason that she made an appointment with me for a third
interview.  Both of us knew that most of the material had already been
covered, and that the friendship that resulted during the process was
probably a little more intense than a whole bunch of her ...  peers ... 
would approve of.  I knew things about her that a newspaper reporter would
almost kill to get.  I knew things about him too, for that matter, and I'd
never laid eyes on the guy.

   That third meeting also took place in a public area.  I didn't even take
the clipboard because she told me to wear walking shoes.  I met her at the
head of a beautiful walking trail that wound through the back yards of
people who lived in expensive houses.  I asked her about the 'public place'
aspect of things, and she said that her servants reported everything that
happened in the house to her husband's staff.

   "Bummer," I said.  "I'm surprised you don't have a personal assistant
who watches you all the time."

   "I do," she said frowning.  "Her name is Carla.  I didn't hire her. 
They wouldn't let me make my own choice.  They made it look like I was
choosing her, but they supplied all the interviewees.  As a matter of fact,
I think she's getting suspicious ...  about you and me."

   "She knows about me?" I asked.

   "You're an author." She grinned.  "Bet you didn't know that."

   We walked on.

   "I'm thinking about hiring you to write my memoirs," she said.

   "Really."

   "That's what I told her." Her stride lengthened a little as she got
tense.

   "She'll check me out," I warned her.

   "I haven't given her a name yet.  I'm still interviewing potential
candidates."

   "So I'm three different authors?" I panted.  I wasn't used to walking
this much.  She was.

   "No, just one," she said, her voice normal.  "The first time we met I
told her I was doing some volunteer work and didn't want any publicity.  It
drove her crazy when I wouldn't tell her where I was going.  That's why I
drove myself ...  so the chauffeur couldn't report back to her."

   "And last time?" I asked, panting harder.

   "That was when I came up with the memoir idea.  It's really stupid, but
she doesn't think so.  She's convinced I'll be a First Lady someday and
thinks it's wonderful.  She's a typical political hack, paying her dues. 
If she wasn't with me so much I'd think she was one of the cuties my
husband was fucking."

   She didn't apologize for being crude this time.  We were good enough
buddies that language wasn't a barrier any more.

   "You don't actually know that he's fucking any of them," I pointed out.

   She just snorted and ignored that.  "And I go walking all the time. 
They've been with me enough times that they draw lots now to see who has to
go.  I try to walk them into the ground.  I gave them a break this time and
told them I'd go it alone.  I'm not important enough just yet to require a
bodyguard."

   I might have made a sound about then, perhaps reminiscent of someone
choking to death, or maybe having an asthma attack, or even someone being
strangled to death.

   She suddenly stopped and faced me.  I stood there gasping for air.

   "Oh Bob, I'm so sorry.  I didn't mean to do that to you.  You need to do
this more often.  You're out of shape."

   I told you there was honesty between us.

   I bent over and felt a little better.  Finally I was able to stand up
and start walking again.  She matched her pace to mine this time.

   "You can't keep lying," I said, still breathing hard.  "That could hurt
you.  She really will check me out."

   "Well then, you'll just have to write my memoirs for me," she said
simply.

   "I'm not an author," I objected.

   "You're going to publish a paper when this project is done, aren't you?"

   "Well, yeah ...  but ..."

   "Then you're an author," she said firmly.  "Besides, I just found a new
friend and I'm not giving him up."

   I looked sideways at her.  "Aren't I a bit far from your normal group of
friends?"

   "Yes," she answered.  Her pace increases visibly.  "But you're the only
one who makes my panties wet."

   We didn't go into that particular little gem of information, mostly
because I was too out of breath to pursue it.

   But I heard it loud and clear.

   CHAPTER THREE

   I know you've waited a long time for the sex to get here.  You've been
very patient, and I appreciate it.

   Unfortunately, you have to wait just a little longer.  It's necessary,
and good things really do come to those who wait.

   What happened next was about three hours after she got back in her shiny
red sports car that her husband gave her for their last anniversary, and
drove off.  That would have made it two hours after I left the parking lot
where my beat up Toyota had sat next to her Mustang (Buy American!) in the
parking lot of the walking trail.  That was because it took my 22 year old
body an hour to recuperate from the last part of our walk, which left the
thirty-ish honey blond housewife barely breathing hard.  She tried to
apologize again, but I waved her off.  She had taken a hell of a risk
saying what she had said, and I didn't want to stress her out any more than
she was already stressed.  I did look at her ass as she walked away,
though. It was a nice ass, at least as nice as that of any tight-assed
intern.  If it was true that her husband wasn't hitting on that ass, he was
an idiot and had his priorities all wrong.

   Oh yeah ...  he was a politician.  When did you ever see a politician
that had the right priorities?

   Anyway, I returned to my apartment, and stood under the hot water for
another hour, during which I had my first fantasy about Jane and promptly
beat off.  Being told you make a woman's panties wet will do that to a guy.

   It was early afternoon about then, so I grabbed a bite and was getting
ready to take a little nap.  I had an interview with another couple that
evening.

   My door shook as something thudded repeatedly against it.  I thought
briefly of the duck and cover exercises I had practiced in grade school,
where you crawl under the desk to protect yourself from a nuclear
explosion. Yeah, I know how stupid that sounds, but that's what we did. 
The door shook like there had been a nuclear explosion, though, so I
thought of that.

   I was standing there in the gym shorts I take naps in, with a peanut
butter sandwich in my hand.  There was no flash of light, or boom, so I
went to the door and looked through the peephole.  There was the biggest,
blackest, meanest looking motherfucker out in the hall I had ever seen in
my life.  I had to look UP into the peephole to see his head.

   "Who is it?" I asked, like one of the three little pigs.

   "Mister Thompson?  May I have a few moments of your time?" came the deep
bass rumble I could feel in my bones.

   "What do you want?" I asked.  He looked like somebody Vito would send
over to collect a bad debt, if Vito was African American.  I didn't owe
Vito any money, though.

   "I'm with Senator Doe's office.  May I come in please?" The doorknob
rattled in sympathetic vibration with his voice.

   (Doe ...  get it?  John and Jane Doe?  I told you not to try to figure
out who they were.)

   I was almost peeing-in-my-shorts glad that Jane had told me about the
memoirs angle.  Otherwise I would have been worried.  I opened the door and
stood aside as King Kong stepped delicately into my apartment.

   If you ever see a really big guy who's really light on his feet, take
note of that.  It usually means he's got the kind of training that Uncle
Sam or the CIA give those guys to enable them to tiptoe in and out of the
killing fields, with none the wiser ...  except for the victim, of course.
I did some martial arts training in the past, and recognized the kind of
control he had about his body.  I thought it was high time I got back into
martial arts too.  Not only had a housewife almost walked me into the dirt,
but self defense skills erode without practice.

   The first thing he did was swivel that big head of his, taking in
everything and ignoring me.  How dangerous is a skinny guy in gym shorts
with a peanut butter sandwich in his hand?  It's pretty hard to do lots of
damage with a peanut butter sandwich.  He looked at the door to my bedroom,
which was open, and then into the kitchen, which was empty except for the
knife I had left there after making my sandwich.  The bathroom door was
closed, and he went and opened it to look inside.

   I admit I was feeling a little cocky, despite the fact that this guy
could crush me like a mosquito.

   "You got a warrant?" I asked him jokingly.

   He wasn't in the mood to laugh.

   "Sit down," he said.  He decided my furniture wouldn't hold him, and
stayed in the control position - standing.  "You've met Senator Doe's wife
twice, for about three hours each time.  Senator Doe wasn't aware that his
wife was conducting any ...  business with you," he said.  "He's asked me
to inquire."

   Now you might think that I'd be a simpering fool with King Kong looming
over me.  Call me crazy, but I hadn't done anything wrong.  I hadn't
touched a hair on Jane's beautiful body.  Nor could they have known that I
...  made her panties wet.  So I felt pretty comfortable about things, all
in all.

   "Shouldn't Senator Doe be the one ...  inquiring ...  of his wife?" I
asked smoothly.

   He looked down at me, sitting half naked in a ratty old arm chair that
someone else threw away years ago, the limp, half-eaten sandwich still in
my hand.

   "Look, Pal," he said.  "I don't know you, and I don't want to know you.
I solve problems for the Senator, and I have to decide whether or not
you're a problem.  Getting cute with me isn't going to make this any
easier. What do you want with the Senator's wife?"

   I heard the doorknob rattle again while he spoke.

   The better part of valor is discretion.  Shakespeare had Falstaff say
that in one of his plays, and anybody who has a beer named after him has my
confidence.  I decided to play dead, like Falstaff.

   "Nothing.  She asked me if I could write her memoirs and we've been
talking about that." I thought that was pretty smoothly delivered.

   He wasn't impressed with my literary expertise.

   "Nobody writes memoirs of a junior Senator's wife while he's still a
junior Senator," he growled.  "You're in college, so you can't be a
complete idiot.  What's going on?"

   It was time to stop acting like a bumpkin.

   "Mrs.  Doe must be the complete idiot then, because she's the one who
brought it up.  She even told me her personal assistant ...  Donna, or
something like that ...  said it was a great idea.  I know I'm not going to
publish anything in the next year, but what if her husband becomes a SENIOR
Senator, and goes on to become somebody actually important?  A lot of guys
would love to be writing her memoirs then, but I'll have the advantage of
already having been hired."

   "What's she paying you?" he asked.

   "That hasn't been negotiated yet," I said promptly.  Stay with the
truth. It's easier and you can't screw it up.

   "Where are your notes?" he asked.

   I did NOT look toward my clipboard, which was sitting beside my computer
on top of all the data I had gathered, thus far, for the study.  There
still wasn't anything in that pile with her name on it.  I had just put a
subject number on each group of data.  I had names and addresses and phone
numbers, but they were in a computer file that was password locked.

   "I haven't taken any yet," I said.

   "Why not?" he asked.

   "How long have you worked for the Senator?" I asked, instead of
answering his question.

   "Two years," came his reply.  I was actually surprised he answered.

   "In those two years have you learned anything about Mrs.  Doe that would
make for riveting reading in a Memoir?" I asked.

   "No."

   "Then you now know why I haven't kept any notes.  We're just talking
about things.  I'm getting to know her.  If it looks like her memoirs will
actually get written, then I'll sit down with her and start that process."

   "You spent a lot of time with her," he pointed out.

   "She's a woman." I took a bite.  The bread was getting all dry.  I hate
that.  "Women talk for hours and rarely say anything."

   I was banking that this man held the view that he was powerful and
important.  Such men quite often think that women talk for hours and say
little.  That's why men like that work for other men.  The time they spend
with women is for sex, not work.  I must have guessed correctly, because I
could actually see him get bored.

   "OK, here's how this works," he said.  "No money changes hands unless
the Senator approves it.  If you're going to be writing about her, you'll
have to be writing about him too.  Nothing gets written about either of
them without approval of the Senator.  He thinks this is a stupid idea, and
so do I, but it's making her happy.  If you tell her that either him or I
think it's a stupid idea I will personally make things difficult for you."

   He went on like that for another minute or so, laying down the rules.  I
was fascinated that he had been so quick on his feet to make the mistake of
telling me something he shouldn't have - that the Senator thought it was a
stupid idea - and then covering with an immediate threat of what would
happen if she found out her husband thought she was stupid.

   "Got that?" he asked.

   "Sure," I said easily.

   "We're going to do a criminal background check on you," he said, like he
expected me to jump and call the whole thing off.

   "Whatever." I took another bite of my sandwich.

   "One last thing," he said.  "She's a nice lady, and he's a good guy. 
Don't fuck things up."

   "She IS a nice lady," I agreed.  "I don't know about him.  I've never
met the man."

   "You will," he said.  "The next time you talk to her is at the house. 
We'll be in touch."

   The way he said "the house" made it clear there was only one house in
the whole state of Washington that counted, and it was the one the senator
and his wife lived in.

   I can't say I was sad to see King Kong go back out into the jungle.

   =======================================

   I got a call later that night.

   "Bob?" came Jane's voice.

   "Hi," I said back.  I wondered if my phone was tapped.

   "Sorry about Geoffrey," she said.  She pronounced it 'Jaw-free'.  "Carla
ratted me out after the first time and I didn't know it.  Geoffrey is an
ex-detective who works for John.  He put surveillance on me!  I'm so mad I
could just spit!"

   There was a moment of silence.  That's because I didn't know exactly
what to say to her.  If he'd pull surveillance on Jane without her knowing
it, he'd think nothing of tapping the phone.

   "Are you angry?" she asked.

   "No." I said it a little shortly.  I was suddenly cognizant of the fact
that if I didn't say anything at all, it would seem just as odd as if I
professed my undying love for her.  If all this was being recorded.

   "He's big," I added.

   "He's really a sweetheart under all that muscle," she said.  Maybe she
was worried about the phone being tapped too.  Only his mother would think
Geoffrey was a 'sweetheart'.

   "I guess I'm still writing your memoirs," I said.  That seemed like what
someone would expect to hear me say.

   "Yes, I had a talk with John.  He won't admit it, but he thinks I'm
being silly.  But I'm very excited about going on with our project."

   Now I hoped Geoffrey WAS listening.  It was important to me for him to
know I hadn't ratted him out, and that Jane wasn't as dumb as they thought
she was.

   She went on like a nattering woman.  Her tone of voice made me think she
was speaking that way because someone was in the room with her, listening.
"I've been thinking about the background information you mentioned.  I
think I can get my thoughts together and cover that in our next interview.
When are you free to come to the house?"

   It was obvious that the rules had been laid out for her too, and that
she was playing by them.  I didn't really care.  I liked being around her,
and if she needed a friend to talk to then I could make myself available
now and then.  It wasn't like I had a hundred other things to do.  It was
kind of strange, but I didn't really think of that comment she had made
about me making her panties wet.  I suppose I thought of that as teasing,
or a weird kind of compliment.  Besides, nothing could happen at her house,
with all her servants around, right?

  
==========================================================================

   I put on my best pullover and my khakis, and my dress tennis shoes to go
to the Senator's house.  I had to stop at the gate, where a no-nonsense
fellow in a starched uniform checked to see if my name was on his list.  It
was.  I had to surrender my license.  The guy kept checking the list and my
license, interspersed with doubtful looks at my Toyota, which was mostly
white, but had one red fender.  Finally he handed me back my license and
opened the gate.  Then he made quite sure that I knew how to find their
house, and politely asked me not to sightsee on the way there or back, and
reminded me that I had to check out when I left.

   I looked for machinegun nests in the bushes as I proceeded, trying to
make sure I didn't stray.  I didn't want to make a wrong turn and get
ambushed.

   A maid met me at the door.  She was wearing the outfit and everything,
even the little lacy cap.  I knew that John had made a fortune in business
before he got into politics, but I figured the maid was because he was a
Senator.  They have to put on airs.  Jane was waiting patiently in the
hallway that led off from the foyer.

   "Let's talk in the library," she said, her voice cultured and proper. 
"Daphne, would you bring us some refreshments please?"

   "Right away mum," said the maid.

   I have always loved books, and the smell of leather.  I've been in some
pretty nice libraries, both private and not.  Theirs would have stacked up
nicely.  Jane waved her hand at a pair of huge chairs covered in thick
maroon leather and gracefully settled into one of them.  She crossed her
ankles.  I sat down.  I had my clipboard, and some blank pages.

   "Well, here we are," she said airily.

   Daphne breezed into the room through another door, with a silver
platter. When she set it down the first thing I thought of was Kent and
Lisa, the nudists, who had served me squirrel food on a silver platter.  No
squirrels were permitted in the Doe residence.  There were little hot dogs,
and some kind of white stuff rolled in ham slices, with four different
kinds of cheese and six different kinds of crackers.  Everything was laid
out in a geometric pattern.  In the middle was a silver cup with steaming
meatballs in a sauce.  Each meatball was neatly skewered with a toothpick.
Daphne set the tray down and sidled over to a wet bar that was hidden
behind a shelf of books.

   "Fruit juice for me," said Jane.  She looked at me and arched one
eyebrow.

   "Uh ...  do you have Coke?" I asked.

   I was presented with four different kinds of Coke, and a glass filled
with ice cubes.

   Daphne backed out of the room and Jane relaxed.

   "This is my life," she moaned.

   "Seems kind of nice to a guy like me," I said, leaning forward to start
eating.

   "It's stifling," she said.  Daphne had placed her fruit juice on an end
table within reach, and she picked it up and sipped.  "I feel like a
prisoner."

   "In my world they call tenure 'the velvet prison'," I said.  She looked
up.  "When you finally get tenure, you have a job for life.  You are so
secure that you won't do anything to hazard it.  You can't leave, and go
someplace more interesting because you'll lose your tenure unless some
other institution will honor it.  You're stuck there.  A lot of professors
just fade away.  They don't do any more research, they don't teach much,
they just exist in the velvet prison." I waved my hand around the sumptuous
library.  "You're in a velvet prison of sorts too."

   She stared at me.  She didn't look all that happy.  It was then that the
door opened and Senator Doe made his entrance.

   "Good evening Darling." His voice was smooth and perfect.  "And you must
be Bob Thompson." I struggled up out of the chair.  My fingers had sauce on
them from the meatballs.  I couldn't offer my hand.  I held it out instead,
so he could see it.

   "Uh ...  sorry," I said.  There was a napkin lying right on the table
beside the tray.  I hadn't noticed Daphne put it there.  I felt pretty
stupid.

   "Don't worry about it," said the Senator expansively.  "So, you're going
to make my wife famous some day."

   He was pretty good.  He used his people skills to put me in his debt
within fifteen seconds of meeting me.  Then he told me what I was going to
do, and made it clear it wouldn't be happening for a while.  And all it
took him was fourteen words.

   It kind of pissed me off.  I mean I knew how he treated his wife.  I
wasn't the best guy in the world, but he didn't have much on me.  He had
more money.  He had more power.  He was better looking.

   But I ...  made his wife's panties wet.

   "I have no idea whether she'll be famous or not," I said, sitting back
down.  "I imagine that depends on you, not me.  You're the rising star. 
It's your coat tails that will carry her wherever she ends up."

   He had been about to sit down on the arm of the chair his wife was
sitting in, casually claiming his woman by looming over her.  It was
typical male behavior for a man who feels guilty or suspicious.  He exerts
his dominance, either to try to convince himself that whatever he has done
doesn't matter because she adores him, or to announce to a rival that she
already belongs to him.  If he did this in public, professionals would glam
onto it and talk about it between themselves around the water cooler.  They
wouldn't know which it was, but they might try to find out, and if he was
this loose around a complete stranger, he'd give them way more signals than
they ever needed to figure it out.  I had my first doubts about whether
John would ever be a senior senator.

   Of course I already knew what it was that made him act dominant.  I was
certainly no rival, at least not in his eyes.  And I was glad, in a way,
that he did it.  If he felt guilty, that meant he had a conscience, and if
he had a conscience, that meant he hadn't gone over to the dark side yet. I
wouldn't have cared, except I liked Jane, and he had the key to her velvet
prison.

   "You don't sound much like a literary cheerleader," he said, settling
onto the arm of the chair.

   "I told Mrs.  Doe that I would be honest with her," I said.  "I want her
to be honest with me as well."

   "How many memoirs have you written for other people?" he asked casually.

   "None," I said.

   "I understand you're a graduate student," he went on.  "How many papers
have you published?"

   "Six," I said promptly.  "Three made it into national review
publications.  The other three were regional."

   "That's not much of a track record," he said.

   He sounded like a prosecutor, setting up the witness to take a big fall.
It was obvious he didn't like me, and obvious that he intended to make
trouble.

   "John," said Jane softly.

   "Yes dear?" He took time from working on me to smile at her.

   "He's my lover, John.  Now you go on back to Washington, and play with
your little girls, and leave him to me.  I'll make sure something decent
gets written.  You won't be embarrassed.  But you're not going to chase him
off, John, because I'm not going to LET you chase him off."

   I was witness to something that every American ought to see at least
once in his or her life.  I saw a Senator taken down like he was hit by a
bus.

   He tried to rally.

   "What did you say?" he said, his voice low.

   "I said I have sex with Bob," she said calmly.  "But you needn't worry.
He's very discreet, and it's just recreational sex ...  you know ...  like
you have with Crystal, and Annette, and Julia and ...  what's her name? ...
Oh yes, Tamara.  It's just recreational sex.  Isn't that what you call it
dear?  Something to relieve all that stress?"

   Have you ever wondered what it might be like to look up and see an
atomic bomb falling through the sky, with the engines on the plane that
dropped it screaming, trying to get the hell out of Dodge before the thing
goes off?  There it is, falling straight toward you, in slow motion, and
you see it coming closer ...  and closer ...  and closer.  And you know
that the last thing you'll see is a bright light.  I know how that feels.
John had already claimed this woman, and that was BEFORE he thought I was a
direct rival.  Geoffrey worked for him, and while I had not seen the bulge
of a pistol under Geoff's tailored suit, he didn't need a pistol to kill
me. One punch and I'd be a bag of broken bones.  It hadn't even sunk in yet
that she had lied through her teeth, and was obviously trying to do ... 
something.  When I DID think of that, I had no idea what in the heck she
was trying to do.

   "You can't tell him that!" I gasped.

   Maybe I didn't phrase that as well as if I'd have thought about it. 
Perhaps "That's a lie!" might have been better.  Or maybe "Quit joking
around, Jane, he might take you seriously!" The way I phrased it could be
taken more as "Now Jane!  That was supposed to be our little secret!" As I
look back on it even "What the FUCK?!" might have worked better.

   That's what he said, by the way ...  "WHAT THE FUCK!?"

   "Don't curse, dear, it's vulgar," she said calmly.

   Well, things got a mite exciting there for the next ten minutes as they
had the "spat" to end all marital spats.  Accusations flew back and forth,
and pronouncements of doom.  One of the most interesting parts of it was
that they both appeared to forget I was even there.

   That and the fact that not once was the word "divorce" mentioned.

   She had names and dates and places - where she got them I don't know -
and his face got pale, and then bright red, sometimes from shame, and
sometimes from anger that another bull had gotten into his pasture somehow
while he wasn't looking.  If he'd have just sat down and thought about it
for a while, he'd have known she was running a scam on him.  He had her
watched, after all, and he'd known about our meetings within days.  But,
seeing as how nothing dangerous was flying through the air towards me, I
just sat there, content to be ignored, while I tried to figure out what the
hell she thought she was doing.

   Then it got down to the nasty stuff, like him wanting to know what she
saw in a twerp like me.  If I hadn't have been flat terrified, my feelings
might have been hurt.

   What did him in was when the door suddenly opened and a minion said that
he had an important meeting and would be late.  I wondered if the minion
had been listening at the door.  If so, things could get out of hand.  More
than one politician has been brought down by a disgruntled minion in the
ranks.

   "We'll discuss this later," he said heavily to her.  He turned to me. 
"Get out."

   "He'll leave when I'm ready for him to leave," said Jane, just as
forcefully.  "You just go on to your precious meeting."

   The senator was a smart man.  That one little sentence should have told
him everything he needed to know.  Her characterization of his reason for
walking out of the room as "your precious meeting" should have screamed at
him what the REAL issue was, and that she did NOT want him to leave.

   But he didn't pick up on that ...  didn't turn to his aid and say "Tell
them I couldn't make it ...  something important has come up." Instead, he
left, leaving his wife with her 'lover' in his house.

   And what THAT said to Jane was that he didn't care.  She burst into
tears and let out an anguished half scream of frustration while I sat
there, my eyes looking like a hoot owl's eyes in the middle of a dark
night.

   I didn't say anything for a few minutes.  She had never showed such
emotion before, though I had heard it in her voice.  When she had rattled
off her claim that he had affairs in Washington I had half assumed she was
just suspicious.  I don't know who her spy was, but he ...  or she ...  was
worth every penny, assuming there was even any money involved.

   Finally she wiped her eyes one last time with a napkin.  The uproar
hadn't brought any servants.  Nobody wants to step into the lion's den when
you don't know whether the lions are hungry or not.

   "I'm terribly sorry Bob," she said, finally looking at me.  "I seem to
have gotten you into a pickle of sorts."

   Pickle?  She called this a pickle?  My name was already on some
hit-man's list of honey-dos and she characterized it as a pickle?

   "You want to tell me what the heck you thought you were doing?" I asked.

   "I don't knoooooow," she moaned, dabbing at her eyes again.  She was a
pro.  She could bawl and not mess up her makeup.  "I thought if I said that
...  that he'd apologize or something ...  that he'd sit down with me and
we'd talk about things.  It was stupid.  STUPID!"

   "You get no argument from me on that," I said.

   "Oh, Bob, I'm so sorry!  I've ruined your life.  I meant to tell him it
was all a lie, but then he left and I got mad again.  He always leaves. 
He's married to politics now ...  not me." She sat back down, slumping in
the big leather chair.

   "He's a Senator, Jane," I pointed out unnecessarily.

   "Don't you take his side in this, Bob," she said looking up at me, her
eyes bright.

   "I'm not taking anybody's side in anything," I said holding up my hands.
"All I'm trying to do is get through school."

   I realized I had a little hot dog clutched, half mashed, in my fingers.
For lack of anything better to do with it, I popped it in my mouth.  Then I
tried to make her feel better.

   "Look, even HE recognizes I'm not the kind of guy a woman would have an
affair with.  When you both calm down, just tell him what you were trying
to do and everything will be fine."

   She looked at me like I was crazy.

   "No it won't.  He'll still go off and cheat on me and I'll still be here
alone, a prisoner in my own house.  He'll double the watch on me!  He put
surveillance on me, Bob!  He watched me like I was some kind of criminal!"

   "It sounds like you put surveillance on him too," I pointed out.

   "That was different!" she said.  "He WAS cheating on me."

   "But you didn't know that for sure when you had somebody watch him." I
really wasn't taking sides, so I said what was on my mind.

   She didn't like the way this conversation was going.  I could tell.  She
stood up, tense again.

   "You're wrong," she said.

   "You did NOT know he was cheating when you had him watched," I said
firmly.

   "Not about that.  Of course you're right about that.  You're wrong that
he'll believe me when I tell him I was lying about our affair."

   "Of course he will.  You're a classy lady, and I'm a college bum. 
Nobody would believe you could be attracted to me."

   She folded her arms across her stomach and went hipshot.  Her arms
framed her breasts.  I had tried really hard not to look at Jane the way I
looked at a lot of other women.  It just seemed wrong somehow, but those
arms were holding up some really impressive breasts.

   "Men are so stupid sometimes!" she said tersely.

   I misunderstood.  "He's not so stupid that he'll believe you and I did
the bump ugly together," I said.

   "I was referring to YOU, you idiot!" she snarled.  "I have never ... 
NEVER ...  even THOUGHT about cheating on my husband.  And now, all of a
sudden I tell him I had an affair with you.  Why do you think that
happened, Bob?  Tell me, Bob."

   She didn't tap her toe, though I expected her to start any second.  She
was mad at me.  That much was plain.  But all I had done was tell her the
truth, and I couldn't figure out what she was mad about, exactly, other
than the fact that things weren't going her way.

   "You wanted to make him jealous?" It was the only thing I could think
of. She had almost said as much.

   She kept glaring at me.

   "I believe you just pointed out how no one in their right mind would
believe that I could possibly find you attractive enough to have an affair
with," she said, her voice low.  It sounded menacing.

   "Uh huh," I agreed.  If I hadn't been sitting in that big overstuffed
chair I'd have been edging toward the door.

   "So that obviously means that when, for the first time in my life, I DID
think about cheating on my husband, and when I DID think about having an
affair with you, I must have just been an idiot, brainless blond, beyond
all hope of ever having a cohesive thought in my pretty little head."

   Now I have to say here, in my own defense, that I had been surprised
before during this project.  I was surprised when Tanya had asked me to get
her pregnant.  I was surprised when Lizzie asked me to deflower her
daughter.  I was surprised when Lisa suggested I get naked with her and her
husband.  I was absolutely floored when Millie stood practically naked and
watched me make love to her sister.

   But the thought of me ...  and a Senator's wife ...  Junior Senator or
not ...  well, that was just ludicrous.  It must have shown on my face.

   "I did, as you might recall, tell you that you made my panties wet," she
said.  Now she DID start tapping her toe.

   "No!" I blurted.

   She took a step closer to me and dropped her hands, putting them behind
her back.  She put one foot in front of the other, like she was walking a
straight line.

   "Oh, yes I did, Bob," she said, taking another step.  Her breasts seemed
to leap up toward me as she walked that awkward walk.  "And that was the
truth, Bob.  I DO find you attractive.  And now you tell me that makes me
an idiot?"

   "NO!" I gasped.

   "You just said so," she said, stopping just before the tips of her
breasts touched my chest.

   "We CAN'T have an affair!" I gasped.

   She smiled.  She actually smiled.  Then she took a step back.

   "No, of course not."

   She backed up, leaned over and picked up a Vienna sausage.  She ate it
in an exceedingly erotic manner, and despite my protestations to the
contrary, my prick perked up, ears lifted, interested in the extreme.

   "But I thought about it," she said, licking her fingers and then sucking
on each one.  I about had to sit down as all the blood left my brain and
started falling directly toward my groin.  "And I am NOT a brainless
hussy!" She almost shouted that last line.  Her arms folded up under her
breasts again and her face was mad again.

   She was good.  I mean she could handle her face and everything else like
a professional actress.  At that point I didn't know whether to believe her
or not.  Falstaff came to mind again.  Discretion might be the way out of
this.  I gave that a try.

   "Thank you." I meant it to be a statement, but my voice rose a little at
the end, almost like I was asking a question.

   "That's better," she said.

   "If you're that unhappy, why don't you just divorce him?" I asked. 
"You'd make a killing on the alimony."

   She waved a hand in the air like we were talking about something as
innocuous as which brand of laundry soap was the best.

   "Oh, believe me, I thought about that ...  in the beginning." She
shrugged.  "But I LOVE him Bob," she said heatedly." She slumped a little.
"At least I love the man he used to be."

   She leaned forward to pick up something else to snack on and then sat
back with it.

   "Divorce is quite often a permanent solution to a temporary problem,
Bob," she said softly.  "People get divorced in the heat of the moment. 
Their feelings are hurt, and they want to strike out and they think that's
a good way to do it.  But I have a lot invested in my marriage, and I'm
convinced that it's the job that has corrupted him.  He's gotten too big
for his britches.  I think that's why I said what I said.  I wanted him to
feel what I felt ...  that I might want someone else as much or more than I
wanted him." She slumped into the chair.  "But it was stupid.  Now we're
both mad."

   Then she wasn't mad any more ...  just like that.  She spent a few
minutes stressing out over what to do next, and got herself all worked up
again, but thankfully not about me.  In the end she decided that she would
keep inviting me over.

   "If I didn't have you to talk to Bob, I'd go stark raving mad," she said
at one point.

   "That might fuel ...  rumors," I said gently.

   "He's going to believe what he wants to believe.  We'll have it out
tonight, or tomorrow or whenever.  I have no idea what will happen then,
but until then I need to be able to vent, and I can vent with you.  I need
you, Bob."

   That was getting uncomfortably close to what she had confessed earlier,
which I still could not wrap my mind around.  I think I did more nodding
and smiling than anything else.  I was worried for both of us.  That must
have showed too.

   "Come on, Bob, nothing's going to happen," she said.  He and I will get
things sorted out.  You're probably right.  I'll tell him it was all a
ploy, and that you played along for a lark, to have something to tell your
grandkids about some day.  Nobody's going to murder you or anything.  It's
not done that way any more." She patted me on the shoulder.  "Besides, now
he knows that I know about him.  He'll have to stop.  We'll work it out."

   I hoped she was right.  I thought this had all the elements of an old
time cartoon, where the little shrimp (that's me) gets eaten by the big
shark (the Senator), while the mermaid (you know who) looks on clapping her
hands and smiling.

   CHAPTER FOUR

   If I'd have had friends, I'd have stayed with them for the next week. 
But I didn't have those kinds of friends.  Oh, there were people who would
let me bunk in with them for a night or two, but most of them would want to
know why, and I couldn't tell them.  Actually, if I'd have told the exact
truth.  It would have gone something like this: (Friend) "Sure you can
sleep in the couch.  What's up?  Your place getting fumigated?"

   (Me) "No, I'm afraid I'm going to be assassinated in my bed for sleeping
with Senator Doe's wife."

   (Friend, laughing) "Gee, Bob, if you didn't want to say why you need to
stay with me all you had to do was say so.  Hahahahahahahaha.  Senator
Doe's wife.  That's rich, Bob."

   The hardest thing I ever did in my life was drive up to that gate again
and announce myself.  But this time the guy remembered me from before.  He
shook his head, but punched the button and I went on in.

   Daphne let me in again, and her face was as expressionless, as a good
servant's face should always be.  This time she led me to the garden, where
Jane was wearing gloves and clipping roses.

   "THERE you are!" she said, smiling.  "I was beginning to wonder if you'd
actually come."

   "Any sane man wouldn't have," I said, putting my hands in my pockets.

   She was wearing slacks and a silk blouse ...  to do gardening.  She also
had on sandals.  I had never seen her this casual, except for her walking
getup, which looked like a thousand others and seemed right in place on the
walking trail.  She looked vibrant ...  healthy ...  delicious.

   "Ohhh, you!" she said dismissively.  "Everything's fine now.  He came
home after his meeting and we talked and I told him it was all just
something I said to shock him.  It's all over now."

   "What did he say?" I asked.

   "He threw himself on my mercy," she grinned.  "He promised never to even
look at another woman again."

   "And you believed him," I said.

   "Bob, don't be catty.  It's not like you." She frowned at me.

   We talked about other things after that.  I ended up sitting on the
ground while she pruned things.  It was odd to see Daphne serving us drinks
and snacks out there in the garden, but she did.  She never even looked at
me.

   =======================================

   I still had a bad feeling about things.  We had never done anything, and
the last two visits I had with her were at her own house, where
surveillance would be especially tight, so I knew there was no smoking gun.
But I also didn't believe a U.S.  Senator would tuck his tail between his
legs like that.  Especially not one with aspirations for the White House.

   It turned out I was right ...  in a way.  I was also wrong ...  in a
way.

   I happened to be standing by the window in my apartment, making a
grilled cheese sandwich one afternoon, when I saw one of those black
Government cars pull up and a tall man get out.  Couldn't mistake that
particular tall man.  The car drove off, and the Senator turned toward the
entrance to my apartment building.  Had Geoffrey been with him, I might
have used the fire escape.  But I didn't think the Senator was the kind of
guy to get his own clothing bloody, so I turned off the burner and set the
pan on another one.  I was in my nap shorts again, so I threw on a tank top
and went to the door.  I opened it and was standing there, waiting, when
the elevator opened and he got out.  I stepped into the hallway so he could
see me, and stood aside as, without a word, he walked to my door and went
in.

   I'm not a slob, and my furniture, while old and cast-off was at least
clean, but he didn't sully his suit by sitting on any of it.  He stood,
while I went back to the stove, shoveled my sandwich onto a plate and
grabbed my glass of water.  I didn't have anything against my furniture, so
I just sat down.  I didn't say anything.  He'd talk when he was ready.  I
just took a bite.

   "We have a problem," he said finally.

   I wanted to say "I don't have a problem," but I knew better than to do
that.  Instead, I took another bite.

   "You're still seeing her," he said.

   Now I did say something.  "Look, she told you she just popped off. 
We're not having an affair.  We never had an affair.  I met her doing an
interview for a paper I'm writing, and we became friends.  All we do is
talk."

   He stood there, just looking at me for a long time.  I couldn't read a
thing on his face.

   "My staff tells me all you do is talk," he finally said.

   "That's right."

   "I don't believe you," he said.  He said it in the same tone of voice as
everything else he had said, like it was just a fact.

   "I can't help that," I said, looking him eye to eye.

   Well, I was sitting and he was looming over me, but my eyes were locked
to his eyes.  I felt better since there had been no gunplay.  This guy was
hard headed, like a lot of Alpha males.  He was also guilty as sin of what
his wife suspected him of.  I knew that now, because he made the kind of
assumptions that a guilty man makes.

   A cheater looks at a woman and thinks "Hmmmm, nice ..." and then goes
after it.  He rationalizes it however he can think of to rationalize it
and, in the process, gets tainted by his own thought processes.  He begins
to think that he's no different than any other man; Ergo, other men do the
same thing he does.  Since I was a man, who had been in the frequent
company of his wife, he just assumed that I was prodding her like he would
have been if he wasn't married to her.

   Convoluted thinking, huh?  But they all do it that way.  It's kind of a
defense mechanism against having to admit that you're an alley cat with no
control, and little or no redeeming value to society ...  or your wife. 
The funny thing is that his convoluted thinking caused him to hear my
comment, "I can't help that", as me saying: "Tough shit, Senator.  She
likes what I'm doing and I'm going to keep doing it."

   I know this because he asked me a question.

   "Can I ask you a question?"

   "Sure," I said around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

   "What does she see in you?"

   He was the magnificent stallion, looking at the runty range mustang that
had mounted his mare, trying to figure out why in the hell she had raised
her tail.

   I bit off a retort.  Instead I asked HIM a question.  "You really want
to know?"

   He actually thought about it.  I expected him to get up, make some dire
threat and leave.  But he sat down instead.

   "Yeah, I do."

   I got this kind of chill down my spine.  It wasn't a bad chill, just a
premonition that something important was happening.  Here was a big
important politician, with a dozen important things to do, and he was
sitting in my non-matching recliner, spending more than two minutes with
nobody.

   So I told him.

   I told him most of what she had told me, about how they met, and what
that meant to her, and how she was so madly in love with him that she
hadn't ever been tempted to stray, and how he'd trashed her in her own
mind, choosing younger women over her and not paying her any attention.  I
reminded him of their eighth wedding anniversary, when he had his staff
send flowers, and then bedded some bimbo in Washington that night.  I told
him how busy he was, and how lonely she was, and how she missed their son
and didn't want to be paraded as proof of his virility in a Presidential
campaign.  I told him he was a fucking jerk, and that I wasn't, and that
was what made me attractive to her.

   I did not tell him I made her panties wet.

   He tried to get a word in edgewise a couple of times, but I just held up
my hand and told him he asked, and now he was going to hear it.

   The guy was good.  I'll tell you that.  By that I mean his face didn't
betray what was going on underneath.  When I finally let him talk, though,
his voice was a little shaky.

   "You know a hell of a lot about my life."

   "I told you we talked," I said.  I should have known he'd assume it was
pillow talk.

   "What are you going to do with all that knowledge?" he asked.  He
fiddled with his tie, but didn't go for a shoulder holster.

   "Nothing," I said.  "She's my friend.  Why would I want to mess up her
life?"

   "You fuck my wife, and then say that's NOT messing up her life?" he
tried.

   "That's what a jerk would say," I came back.  "All I did was treat her
the way you should have been treating her.  If you would have she'd never
have given me the time of day."

   He stood up.  Either he'd had enough, or he had somewhere to be.  It
could have been either.

   "This isn't over," he said.

   "You may be an important man, but you're also incredibly stupid," I
said, standing up myself.  "You had everything any man could want ... 
money ...  a gorgeous wife ...  probably a fine son ...  and you threw it
all away for power.  You used to do good things.  You used to make the
world a better place.  Now people own you and you're miserable.  If you ask
me it's YOUR life that's fucked up, and YOU'RE the one who made it that
way. And you're dragging her down with you."

   He was actually agitated now, closing and opening his fists.

   "I want you to stop ...  seeing her," he insisted.

   I had had it by now.  This guy just could not get past his own bias and
assumptions.

   "Senator, the last time I checked, this was a free country.  You,
yourself, serve in it's highest echelons, supposedly passing laws to
protect that freedom.  I'll do what every American is constitutionally
entitled to do - mutually choose my associates for whatever purpose we see
fit.  If you want to try to bully someone, try bullying your wife."

   He looked shocked.  I don't think he had ever contemplated the first and
fourteenth amendments to the constitution he was sworn to uphold in quite
the light that it meant another man could associate with his own wife any
damned time they pleased.

  
===========================================================================

   I did actually call a couple of people to see if they had a free couch
that night.  Wouldn't you know they'd all be out, or at least not answering
their phones.

   It's actually good, I think, that I was home though, because Jane called
me about nine-thirty.

   "Bob, what did you DO?" she whispered.  I knew it was her.

   "Your husband and I had a little talk today," I said.  I expected her to
be ticked off at me.

   "I am going to have to hear about that little talk some day, Bob.  Don't
come see me for a while, OK?  Things are happening around here."

   She hung up and I had visions of her being locked in her bedroom, or
guarded by dogs or something.  I even got a newspaper the next day to see
if there was some breaking news about any important people I was much too
familiar with.  But there wasn't.

   I didn't get any more visitors for three weeks.  During that time Jane
called me probably every other day, or maybe three days apart.  Almost
always it was just to chat about something she was interested in, or some
inconsequential thing.  It was the kind of talk that friends do, about
nothing much in particular, and everything in general.  She didn't talk
about her husband, though, and I didn't ask any questions.  She didn't say
she was being abused or held captive, and I thought she would if it was
happening that way.  She never suggested I come see her, and I didn't ask
to, of course.  I figured that whatever had happened had been really
upsetting, and she was taking the road that a lot of women take.  They
mollify the Alpha male, because life is usually a lot easier when he
doesn't snarl so much.  A lot of women live with a lot of crap because of
that.

   On the third Wednesday after Senator Doe graced my grubby little
apartment, I got a call from Jane.

   "What are you doing tonight?" she asked.

   "I was going to start trying to quantify data on the project," I said.
"But I'd be happy to do something else instead."

   "No, I just wanted to know if you'd be there tonight," she said.

   "Oh," I said back.

   "OK, bye!" came her cheery voice.

   What the heck was THAT all about?  Was she working for the enemy now? 
Setting me up for the coup de gras?  She had been acting almost giddy on
the phone lately, and I was beginning to worry that she was under a lot of
stress.

   Which was why, about eight in the evening, when there came a tapping at
my door, I was most surprised to find it was Jane who was tapping.  I
looked past her for her escort, but there wasn't one.

   "Well, do I get to come in or not?" she said, using an obviously false
gruff voice.

   I stood back and she came in.  I winced a little.  This woman was used
to nice things, and those kind of things didn't accumulate in my apartment.

   "I'm just surprised to see you here," I said.

   "Nobody is more surprised about me being here than I am," she said.

   "You CAME here," I pointed out.  "That means you knew you were coming
here.  How could you possibly be surprised?" I looked at her.

   She was ...  fidgety.  That's the best word for it.  She kept moving her
feet around, and her hands were moving too, in little useless jerks.  She
kept looking around, but I suspected she wasn't actually seeing anything.

   "I know THAT," she said, finally looking at me.  "It's just that I'm
surprised because of WHY I'm here."

   It occurred to me that I had never told her where I lived.  I asked her
how she found my place.

   "I told Geoffrey to bring me here," she said, looking around
distractedly again.

   "You're kidding!" I groaned.

   "No I'm not," she said, looking at me again.  "I couldn't tell him I
didn't even know where you lived.  That would have blown the whole thing!"

   "What 'thing' is that?  Where is old Geoffrey now?" I asked.

   "I'm supposed to call him when I'm ready to leave," she said.  Her eyes
cleared and she actually looked at my apartment.  "So this is how a
starving college student lives."

   I didn't understand most of this, so I went with that part I did
understand.

   "Yup, this is pretty much it.  I get by OK, I guess."

   "It's quaint," she pronounced.

   "You want to tell me what's going on?" I asked finally.

   Wolf eyes pinned on me.

   "No.  Not yet."

   "Come on Jane, this is crazy," I moaned.

   "I know," she sighed.  "I can't believe it myself."

   "You want tell me what it is you can't believe?" I asked.

   "Not yet.  Ohhh, I have SO much to tell you!  Let's call out for pizza
and I'll fill you in while we're waiting, OK?"

   So we called for a pizza to be delivered.  I lived in an area that had a
heavy student population, so pizza places were all over the place.  I knew
we'd have our pizza in fifteen minutes or so.  I dusted off the recliner
where the last Doe to visit my apartment had sat and gave it to her.

   She sat down, took a breath, and, instead of telling me anything, asked
a dozen questions about what had happened when John had come to visit me
three weeks before.  I filled her in as much as I could remember.  She
wanted to know exactly what he'd said, and exactly what I'd said.  I pulled
out the journal that I started way back in the beginning of the project,
when Tanya and Ralph had so changed my life.  I had put my notes in it. 
I'm ashamed to say that I figured if I ended up dead, at least somebody
might find out why if they read the journal.  So I had been pretty precise
on recording what I had said to him, if a little less precise on his words.
I did write down "This is not over" though.  I had to translate it for her,
though.  It was just a jumble of quotes and didn't make nearly as much
sense as I had intended it to make.  I cut myself some slack because I had
been REALLY nervous that night.  Still, it wouldn't have solved any crimes
the way it was.

   The pizza came and we took a few minutes to eat.

   "That explains a lot," she said between bites.  "I knew something
momentous had happened, but I couldn't imagine what it was.  I think I
understand now, though."

   Would you PLEASE tell me what's going on?" I begged.

   "This is the last time we'll see each other," she said by way of
answering my question.

   Isn't it great when a woman does that?  You ask one question and she
tells you the answer to another.  I sat there, resolved not to say another
word until she explained.  It worked too.  She got all antsy again and
uncomfortable with the silence and finally started talking.

   "When he got home that day he told the servants to leave, to take the
night off and not come back until the next day.  I didn't know what was
happening until he said he'd been to see you.  At first I was frightened.
I'm ashamed to say I thought he didn't want any witnesses.  He was beside
himself."

   I was itching to ask questions, but kept my mouth shut.

   "He broke down, Bob.  It was AWFUL!  He cried and begged me to forgive
him.  I couldn't imagine what was going on - what you'd said to him - but
he was pitiful.  He confessed everything.  He said he couldn't touch me any
more after his first affair because he felt dirty and unclean, like a
leper. He used that as an excuse to have the next affair.  I think the
pressure got to him.  People kept telling him he was being groomed for the
Presidency, and doing favors for him, and asking for things from him, and
he just got in too deep.  We talked until two in the morning, Bob.  The
phone rang four or five times and he just sat there ignoring it."

   "Wow." I couldn't keep it in.  I was pretty amazed.

   "I didn't know what to do.  He kept asking me questions about what I
wanted, and why I liked you so much and all kinds of things like that.  He
was still convinced we had an affair.  Bob, I think that's a lot of what
happened to him.  He couldn't believe I'd choose you over him.  Then he'd
start crying again and admitting that he deserved to lose me and things
like that.  It didn't matter what I said, he cried one minute and got mad
at you and me the next.  I thought a couple of times that I was going to
have to call an ambulance or something."

   She finally wound down.  I knew there was more.  She had only talked
about that first night, and it had been three weeks.

   "So what happened then?" I asked.

   "We fell asleep finally, together on the couch.  I woke up later and had
to pee, so I did that and then pulled him up and took him to bed.  We slept
in our clothes and didn't wake up until the servants came back the next
morning.  Daphne brought us coffee in bed, but it was very strange.  Since
then ...  Bob, he's changed."

   "Changed?" I asked.

   "You wouldn't believe it," she said.  "I'm still reeling from what's
happened."

   "Jane!" I scolded.

   "I'm sorry.  I'm just trying to figure out how to tell you everything,"
she moaned.

   "Just tell it.  Don't worry about the order, just say what happened," I
coached.

   "OK.  Well, he's dropped out of the race for re-election.  Actually,
he's going to announce that tomorrow, but the decision has been made.  He
left this morning to fly back there and make the announcement.  He hasn't
told anybody but me.  He swore to me that he made this decision all by
himself and hasn't told anyone.  We dug through all the stuff in boxes that
never got unpacked when we moved and I found my old phone book with all our
old friends' numbers in it.  He's been calling around to see if anybody in
the environmental industry needs anybody.  He hasn't been telling them who
the candidate is, just asking about jobs for a friend.  He's going to QUIT,
Bob!  You gave me my husband back!"

   "Now, now, let's not get carried away," I said.  She was so excited
though that she didn't even hear me.

   "He says it won't matter any more if anybody tries to use the women in
Washington against him, because if he lets his term run out then he won't
be important any more.  We're going to get Teddy back home and be a real
family again!"

   She stood up and came to stand in front of me.

   "And I have you to thank for it Bob." She had a strange look on her
face. "He said the same thing, Bob.  He said you were the cause of all
this.

   I have to admit she looked good up there.  I had to look past those
really nice breasts of hers to see her face, and that was just fine with
me, if you know what I mean.

   "Glad to help," I said.

   "There's more," she said softly.

   "How could there be more?" I asked.  "It sounds to me like you have
everything you wanted."

   "He's still a little upset about our affair."

   "We're not HAVING an affair Jane.  You know that." I wished she would
stand back just a little.

   "HE thinks we are," she said.  "He asked me to stop.  He sent me over
here to tell you goodbye."

   "We can't stop something that isn't happening," I pointed out.  "But I
understand why you came.  Now he'll think we're stopping, right?"

   "No, Bob, that's not quite why I came over here.  You gave us back
everything I had lost, and all because he thought we were lovers ...  and
because of the things you said to him.  I love my husband, Bob, you know
that."

   "Of course I do.  And I'm glad everything worked out." I was beginning
to wonder why she was still there.  She'd brought me up to date, and I'm
sure Geoff was waiting impatiently for her around the corner or something.

   "Bob?" came Jane's dulcet voice.  Her fingers went to the buttons on her
silk blouse.

   "Uh huh?" My eyes watched as a button popped loose ...  and then another
...  and then another.

   "You're right.  We can't stop doing something we aren't doing.  But he
told me to come see you, and that this had to be the last time.  We haven't
done anything, I know.  But if we DID do ...  something ...  we could then
stop.  He believes we do this Bob.  I haven't lied to him yet, and I don't
want to lie to him."

   "You lied about us having an affair," I said weakly.

   "That won't be a lie after tonight," she said.  She pulled the blouse
apart and out of her skirt.  She was wearing a beige bra.  It looked
expensive.  The breasts it was holding gently looked like they deserved
expensive.

   "But you promised to stop," I whined.

   "And I will," she said as her fingers went to the fastening of her
skirt. "Tomorrow morning I'm leaving here, and never coming back.  We won't
see each other again after that.  I will be only his, and he will be only
mine again."

   "This is silly," I gasped as she dropped her skirt carelessly to the
floor and stepped out of it.  I hadn't realized she was wearing high heeled
shoes, but she was.  The panties matched the bra.  Her legs were bare. 
With the treatments they got on a routine basis, they didn't need anything
to make them look any better.

   "I owe you, Bob," she husked, reaching behind her with both hands.  "I
always pay my debts."

   I closed my eyes.  If I saw those breasts naked I knew I'd stand up,
tear off my clothes and do my damndest to have sex with the Senator's wife.

   "You don't owe me anything," I whispered.

   "That is why I'm doing this, Bob.  All you've ever done is care about
me. I was a complete stranger, and you cared what I thought, and listened
to what I said, and now you've given me back what I lost.  You DO make my
panties wet, Bob, and I want you to open your eyes and do something about
that."

   I cracked one eye open a little.  Both eyes popped open wide.  There
they were, in all their glory.  Her breasts didn't look like I thought they
would.  I expected them to be big and round, flattened by gravity, like a
balloon you put your hand on and squash a little.  Instead they had large
round undersides that wrapped up to tips that spiked out into the air. 
From the neck her breast flesh made a gentle arc, sloping to the same
place. They looked like little ski slopes with a jump at the end in the
form of those hard, dark nipples.

   What she wanted me to do about her wet panties was take them off of her.
She stood closer and closer and closer until one of her shins was up
against the front of my chair, with her leg between mine.  I could smell
her arousal.  She finally badgered me into taking her panties off, and then
pulled me up and pulled me straight to the bedroom.  There were only two
doors, one to the bathroom, and the other to my bedroom.  She picked the
right one without even trying.  Then her fingers were flicking and pulling
and my own clothing was coming off.  I wasn't resisting, but I wasn't
helping much either.  I could NOT believe this was happening.

   But it did.

   Somehow I remembered that she had said she liked to be played with, and
that John had never been any good at pleasing her with oral sex.  Maybe it
was the competitive male in me, but I set about showing her what good oral
sex could be like.  I thought she'd just lie there and appreciate it.

   I was wrong.

   She bucked and thrashed and cursed like a sailor.  She begged me not to
stop and rocketed her way through two orgasms in a row that almost threw me
off the bed.  She made sounds that would have made any man proud, and that
made my dick as hard as steel.  When I crawled up and looked into those
wolf eyes, her teeth were bared to go with them.

   "It's a good thing I didn't meet you when I was single," she growled. 
"I would never have let you go."

   I'll never forget the sound she made when I slid into her.  It was a
banshee wail of lust, satisfaction and pure abandon that made me wish my
prick was ten feet long, so I could prolong that slow slide into her
buttery depths for ten minutes.  Then her nails, and her hands and her arms
and legs all insisted that I stay there and make her a happy woman.

   I did.  Of course it made me happy too.  She was right about the thrill
of taking an important man's woman like this.  It was a rush to know that I
was spurting into a mover and shaker's wife, and that she was urging me to
do so.  But that was only a tiny bit of the thrill of making love with
Jane. The best part was that she wanted me to be there, doing what I was
doing.  She welcomed my seed into her womb.  No man can be paid a higher
compliment.

   Later that night she said that was the first time she'd had anything in
her for almost a year, since right after he succumbed to one of his
mistresses the first time.  It was after that that he mysteriously
developed what, today, would be called erectile dysfunction, and would be
treated with Viagra or Cialis.  Except that he didn't have any trouble
getting it up.  He just felt so bad ...  so guilty ...  that he couldn't
get it up with his own wife.  He didn't want to, because he knew where that
errant penis had been, and he couldn't stand the thought of soiling the one
true love he had ever had.  It was an odd way of thinking about things, but
I could understand it, twisted logic and all.  It was the same, he had
confessed, when it came to oral sex.  The hungry young women who clamored
after him all loved to suck him dry, and the thought of Jane's mouth on his
cheating penis almost destroyed him.  She was convinced that, in one sense,
he had sent her here to do this with me, as a penance for all the cheating
he had done on her.  He had bawled like a baby, begging for her forgiveness
and making promises that, if he was intelligent, he would keep.

   And then he had told her that he had to go back to Washington, to
announce that he was backing out of the race.  While he was gone, he had
said, she had to tell me it was over.

   She spent all night telling me it was over.  Each time she got me deep
inside her and we lay spent after I flushed her full of my seed, she told
me that, when she left in the morning, she'd never be back.  We spent all
night talking and making love.  It wasn't hurried, or frenzied for either
of us.  Oh, I suppose the first time was, with a lot of panting and
grunting and all that, but then, as we lay there together, we talked. 
Eventually she started playing with me and, once I got hard, she climbed on
top for a horsy ride.

   It was this particular time that she described how he had wanted details
about our lovemaking.  She didn't want to lie to him, so she told him
truths that he could interpret however he wanted.  For example, he wanted
to know how big I was.  She told him she hadn't measured me.  That was
true. She hadn't even seen me at that time.  Then she told him that she
wasn't interested in me because of my size.

   "He wanted to know how I protected myself from pregnancy," she said,
rocking back and forth gently.  My prick was nice and snug in her pussy,
which was surprisingly tight for a woman in her mid thirties.  "I told him
I never made you wear anything."

   "I'll bet that went over like a lead balloon," I said, thrusting up
against her.

   "He almost begged me to tell him I was taking my pills," she said,
breathing a little faster and speeding up a little.

   "He was punishing himself for his infidelity," I said.  "Having you tell
him these things made him feel like he was getting what he deserved.

   "I was still mad at him right then," she said, rocking hard now.  "But I
told him I take a pill faithfully every morning."

   "That's good," I panted, "because I kind of got you all messy inside
last time ...  and I'm about to do it again."

   "Mmmmmmm" she moaned, thrusting hard and fast now, with her hands on my
chest to give her leverage.  "I do take a pill every morning.  My arthritis
would kill me if I didn't."

   I had reached for her breasts, in preparation for squeezing and rolling
her nipples while she came.  Her words broke through the haze of my almost
orgasm.

   "Arthritis?" I gasped.

   "Uh ..." she grunted.  Her pussy started quivering and milking my prick.
She leaned down for a kiss as her orgasm washed over her and I spurted her
full of semen.  We breathed deep long breaths and she teased my face with
her hanging hair.

   "Who needs birth control pills when your husband isn't fucking you?" she
whispered.  "I stopped taking them after three months of nothing."

   "But you started again ...  right?" I panted.

   "I didn't know I was going to do this until last night," she said, lying
down on top of me and rubbing her breasts against my chest.

   "Ohhh boy," I groaned.

   She nibbled my ear, speaking into it.

   "You just keep doing what a strong young man is supposed to do.  I only
get this one night with you, and I intend to thank you long and often for
what you've done for me, even if I'm probably ovulating right now."

   She did.  And I did.  My youth expressed itself a number of times, and
when she left the next morning she had definitely had an affair that she
could stop.  She called Geoffrey and ten minutes later the car pulled up
out front and sat there.

   "I'm leaving my panties here," she said, kissing me on the cheek.  "You
made them wet, so you get to keep them.  I'll never forget you Bob."

   I grinned.  "I really DO have a tale to tell my grandkids, huh?"

   "If you live long enough," she laughed.  "You can't tell them this tale
until they're twenty-one."

   And then she walked out the door.

   ==================================================================

   I heard about John Doe pretty regularly after that.  There was a
sensation when he announced that he was going back into the private sector
to try to bring about the kind of change there that he was frustrated about
and unable to do as a lawmaker.  An enterprising reporter with a good
sniffer for scandal asked if there were any skeletons in his senatorial
closet that he wanted to get off his chest before they tumbled out later.
John told the whole assembly that he had gotten off track while he was in
the Senate, and had made a lot of mistakes.  That's why he was leaving, to
correct them.

   I heard about how he joined one of the major ecological groups and began
lobbying Congress.  He knew how things worked, and he had a lot of dirt on
people, so he was actually quite effective.  He was in the news more as a
tree hugger than he had been as a Senator, but then that's not so strange.

   I attended a lecture he gave on campus, about six or seven months after
my one night with Jane.  He was there to recruit grads into his
organization, to make the world a better place.  During the speech he
talked about the importance of staying true to your values, and not selling
out to big money, because big money wouldn't save you when the planet fell
to pieces.  Stuff like that.  He was a good guy, doing good work, and I
wished him well.

   At the end everybody stood up and clapped.  He waved to the side of the
stage and his wife and son came out to be introduced.  I stared at Jane.  I
stared at the elegant swell of her abdomen, that pushed out the elegant
dress she was wearing like she was shoplifting a pumpkin.  Her husband
stood behind her and cupped the swollen belly of his wife.  It got quiet.

   "This," he said, "is what we need to save the world for.  Our children
...  YOUR children ...  will have to live in it, whether we save it or
not."

   I wondered, just for a second, whose child his hands were cupping, and
for whom he was tilting at windmills.

   She said they had changed.  And people DO change.  There's no doubt
about that, but it's just as likely that some things will stay the same. 
Jane had, as our stations required, seduced me to get what she wanted, or
needed.  And, while they had repaired the damage to their marriage, he
still felt compelled to display her swollen, pregnant belly to further his
ends.

   I suspect that, the small changes they had gone through outweighed the
things that had stayed the same, though, and that they were a little
happier than they had been when I met them.

   I felt pretty good about that.

   ======================================================================

   Oh yeah, I almost forgot.  I know a bunch of you out there forgot all
about what I said in the foreword ...  about how you shouldn't try to
figure out who these people are.  You're thinking all you have to do is
figure out what Senator stepped down and took up a position in the
environmental movement.

   Nice try.  Go read that foreword again.  I told you I'd lie about
things. Maybe he was an Ambassador or Cabinet member ...  and not a
Senator. Maybe he actually runs a high tech business with his son.  His
son, for that matter, might even actually be his daughter.

   So don't waste your time trying to figure out the impossible.  Go read
another of my stories instead.
   


  
the_masters_jane