Home > Royer's Madcap Experiences > Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Political Scientist

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Political Scientist

By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

The first time I spotted the political scientist was at a conference on Immigrant Identity in Outer Lankville that I snuck into for the free meats. She gave a short speech and I was immediately transfixed by her huge, cat-like eyes, her supple, slightly bronzed skin, and her ever-so-slightly aged but still voluptuous figure hidden only by a mere chemise of the finest fabrics.

Later, I approached her. She was surrounded by a gaggle of fading academics and I slowly but meticulously shoved each one out of the way until it was just us.

She parted her lips and looked at me over her glass as she took a slow drink of soda. She was wearing a pin in her lapel that depicted a bear playing with balloons.

“Do you like my pin?” she said, noticing.
“I don’t understand it,” I said, truthfully. “I didn’t understand your speech either. But, then again, I wasn’t listening.”
“Oh? Why not?” There was something slightly scholastic about the question.
“Because I don’t give a shit about Immigrant Identity in Outer Lankville. What I care about is pressing up against your back as I slowly unbutton that chemise, cupping your breasts as the shirt falls away, kissing the bra straps off your shoulders and then finding your secret crevice and…”

“And…then what?” she asked. She was practically melting against the wall.
“Well, then I would bang you, you little squirrel.”

She dropped her glass of soda and it stained the orange carpet.

We got a hotel room near a Burger Duke. I found the nearness of the two structures a miracle but the political scientist didn’t seem impressed. “Why don’t you take me to a nice country inn?” she suggested. I ignored her.

And then moments later I had her.

Afterwards, I cracked a window.

“You’re not like my husband,” she commented. “He has a Ph.D in Economics.”
“Fuck that shit.”
“You’re so…so coarse,” she said.
“The only economics you need to worry about is how much it’s gonna’ cost to dry clean that suit of yours.”
“That doesn’t really make any sense,” she said, a flummoxed look crossing her face.
“Skip it.”

Later, we had burgers. I got us a booth in the back.

  1. Mikhail Goberman
    April 8, 2014 at 12:29 pm

    I think I may have read that one before. Fucking classic. TITS.

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