Nothing is less dignified than the portrait of a bank vice president, his pants and shirt muddled in a heap on the thickly-carpeted floor of an upscale hotel room, mentally preparing himself for a close encounter with the rented girl of his dreams when suddenly his manhood takes it into its little head to nod off. Now I admit I’m no Marilyn Monroe, but I have had my share of compliments on my feminine assets. So for this minor functionary of the finance industry to fiercely lay the blame squarely on my naked shoulders for his lack of firm resolve? On the other hand I learned a long time ago, back when I was waiting tables at the Oar and Spinnaker, that the customer is always right.
Here are three scenarios that won’t help this situation. Pointing to the unfortunate flag hoist at half-staff and snickering. Getting up off the bed and slipping back into your blouse, all the while humming the love theme from Dr. Zhivago. And third, pointedly glancing at the clock on the bedroom wall and hollering “Next!”
Here’s the dilemma in a nutshell. The banker has gotten himself caught up in a fantasy and he’s suddenly confronted with reality. The obvious solution is to gently coax Mr. Moneybags back into his dream world without bruising his delicate male ego. Fortunately, I am the go-to-girl for this solution. I grew up fifteen blocks south of a major overpriced family theme park, fantasy capital of the world. I can weave dreams that’ll make your head spin. I was happily deflowered by a lanky boy wearing a character costume in the faux forest glade on the port side of a boat inside a pirate-themed water ride. To this day I get hot when I hear the roar of cannon fire. In the bargain, I got a season pass to the park.
I learned a lot from that brief encounter, and that information forms the core of my personal Rules of Engagement.
- If you want to play with me, you wear a raincoat. I don’t know where that little rascal has been and I don’t want to share in the perils of his misadventures.
- Cleanliness is next to Godliness. The lanky boy perspired a lot inside that suit and I don’t find the taste of sweat to be even remotely erotic.
- The cash is in the coffer before the clothes come off. The lanky boy came through in the end but he was young and swell and grateful as Hell. And even then he took a lot of persuading.
So what about my righteously-indignant Banker Boy, daring me to fix his problem? Without going into a lot of salacious detail, let me point out that praise trumps scolding, a gentle touch in the right spot helps to firm the flaccid and there are techniques your mother never thought to teach you when she was showing you how to bake bread. Needless to say, Mr. Banker left with a smile on his face, I scored full marks on the SAT (Sexual Agility Testimonial) the banker would hopefully post on his bad boy review page and the world was a happier place. And they say I don’t earn my pay. Speaking of which my ten o’clock just texted me that he’s downstairs waiting. More later. Ciao.