I had just changed jobs to a company that was big on human resource-type training courses. Had I known this at the time of accepting employment, I probably would have run like Forrest Gump, but what the hell, the class was in Lake Mary, Florida, almost smack dab between Orlando and Daytona Beach, and that's not the worst place to spend three nights. Although this was the middle of August, and it was hot as Hades. But, fortunately I discovered something even more humid during my excursion to Central Florida: Myra's pussy.
My skepticism toward such training seminars, though, was reinforced when I walked into what would serve as our small classroom in a Hilton Garden Hotel conference room. There was a whiteboard. A whiteboard is exponentially scarier than any thrill ride or Halloween mask or Ludacris song.
I've been in the corporate world for over two decades and have the emotional scars to prove it, and I can attest that whenever you see a whiteboard in a conference room, it is not going to be a good experience for members of the audience. Some pompous so-called 'professional trainer' who couldn't make it in sales or operations is going to make inquires with the condescendingly nurturing tone of a dog whisperer training a puppy who is not yet house-broken, and then will scrawl the responses down with a Sharpie in crooked penmanship with a lot of arrows and swirly circles, all having the result of mind-numbing the audience into a coma-like state of intellectual surrender.
Perhaps you can see why I was chosen for Dale Carnegie training in the first place.
Even though I was early, I took a seat in the back row, ignored the lukewarm pitcher of water, my number two pencil and the obligatory note pad with the hotel logo on it that are staple items of the corporate trainer, and buried my face in the USA Today sports page, hoping against hope that I would blink and the clock could magically accelerate by about sixty hours or so. This was gonna be a looooong three days.
I smelled her before I saw her. The sweet, head-turning aroma of carnations or gardenias in the morning dew. Picking up the olfactory sensor, my nose instinctively sniffed and twitched like a Labrador Retriever near a gopher hole. Such a scent could only belong to someone equally intoxicating.
A binder slapped down on the table next to my seat; each table was wide enough to sit only two people, and my outlook on the seminar changed considerably when I saw my new partner.
The first words that entered my mind were 'hard body'. Now, normally, I'll readily admit, I'm not easily intimidated by all things female, but if there's one attribute that might sway me to the side of insecurity, it's a woman's body that has enough muscle definition to let me know she could not only arm-wrestle me into submission, but also pin me to the mat in no time flat.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, when you stop to think about it. We'd find something to do in that position, I'm sure. Hey, it's not my natural instinct, but I can role-play a submissive if the situation dictates. I'm very much a gentleman that way.
She hadn't sat down yet, and when I turned my head, she was reaching for something out of a shoulder bag and turned mostly away from me, such that my eyes were at the level of her hips and a beautiful steel-hard gluteus maximus, and a pair of perfectly tanned rippling hard thighs, contained snugly by a pair of tight, beige, pleated shorts. My eyes lingered downward to see that she had on a pair of three-inch gladiator sandal heels, which gave her lower legs a toned, yet less physically intimidating presence, her shapely calves and ankles hugging around the wedges of the sexy, though tasteful, shoes.
She had on a short-sleeve cranberry blouse, and as she bent down to extract her blackberry from her bag, her firm tits hung down, encased in the tight shirt, slightly obscured by a mane of straight, light brown hair that fell from her shoulders as she leaned over.
When she stood up, however, I saw her face for the first time, and it was nothing like I would have guessed. I was anticipating a botox-laden, plastic, craggy countenance for some reason, like a crossing guard who had spent too much time in the midday sun, which is what I had come to expect from watching too many late-night ESPN womens' body-building competitions, admittedly. (C'mon, 'fess up, you watch those shows, too, you know you do!)
Instead, I saw a fresh, freckled face with big light brown eyes that matched her hair, and she lit up the room with a Texas-sized friendly smile, since that is exactly where Myra turned out to be from, good ol' Lubbock, Texas.
"Your body language tells me that you're as excited to be here as I am," she said in that impossibly sexy drawl that is indigenous to West Texas, a twang that draws out each word so slowly and properly that even the word 'yes' turns into two syllables: "yay-ess".
From beneath the desk, at least one part of me was fast becoming VERY excited to be here. I groaned, holding my hands out in front of me like a criminal waiting to be cuffed, caught dead in the heinous crime of indifference. "Guilty. Is it that obvious?"
She grinned as she eased into her seat next to mine. "Yay-ess." There it was, my heart fluttered. Why can just the sound of a pretty girl's accent go right to a man's dick and evoke an involuntary penile reaction?
She held out an impeccably manicured hand, and I noticed how tiny it was. Sick fuck that I am, I always get instantly aroused when a woman has small hands, 'cause as an old sexual mentor once told me many years ago, "Always seek out a chick with tiny palms, because every dick seems enormous to them."
(Of course, I was about eleven at the time of that sagely advice offered by a much older gigolo in the SEVENTH grade, and didn't get a chance to try out the theory for about another seven years or so, but hey, I never forgot it. Wisdom is timeless.)
"Myra. Myra McIntyre." Her introduction was simple and humble, befitting of a Texas girl. From the neck up, she was a true angle. From the neck down, she looked as cut as a kickboxer or fitness model, which I was to learn she was indeed both. Five-feet two, one hundred and ten pounds of sheer, fit, feminine grace. A young steel magnolia.
I grasped her palm, expecting a death-grip in return, but instead was greeted by a warm, soft handshake that lingered a second or two longer than it needed to. "John, John Walters," I smiled deep into her sparkling fawn-brown eyes. "And that's Anais Anais you're wearing, isn't it? Your perfume?"
Her eyes sparkled in glee, and she lowered her turned-up pixie-like nose to her upturned wrist and sniffed. "Why, yay-ess, I guess you're right!" She slapped my thigh playfully, and I remember thinking that about six inches higher and Dale Carnegie himself would have been arrested for lewd and lascivious behavior, unable to contain his libido. "How did you know that?" she squealed happily, seemingly truly intrigued.
Just at that exact moment, the course administrator, a silver-haired man who resembled the prototype of everybody's cordial grandfather, cleared his throat, calling the class participant's attention to the podium. I leaned over and whispered in her ear, inhaling her flowery scent at closer range, my dick getting harder by the second. "I'll tell ya later, Myra. Over lunch, maybe?"
She winked and gave me a thumbs-up. "You got it, mystery man. Can't wait to find out what other tricks you may have."
Oh, maybe one or two, Myra.
As fate would have it, the instructor organized a group lunch for the class at a TGI Friday's across the street, so Myra and I didn't get a chance for some time alone, though we made small talk throughout the day, especially during our brief breaks.
In one such conversation, Myra revealed that she was married, but I was garnering from her own words and body language that she didn't seem to be all that enthralled about the whole situation. I was receiving subtle signals that maybe this might be worth pursuing, but intuition also told me that this was a woman who no doubt was hit upon constantly, and a very subtle approach might prove to be the most successful.
So, essentially, I had to walk that trepidatious tightrope between ambition and aggression, between not coming across as too eager to get into those skintight shorts of hers, while facing the reality that I'd be getting on a flight back home in three days and may never see her again. Fate had placed her next to me, I decided, so fate ultimately would determine whether or not Myra and I would be intimate.
Well, that, and my ever-trusty trump card. It's nice to have an eight-and-half-inch dick in such a situation, it's a very convenient ice-breaker when needed. A good ace in the hole, so to speak. Plus, life experiences and a keen attention to detail have shown me that a woman makes it known when she is willing to fuck; if the right sensors are aroused, the proper boundaries are maintained, and the correct buttons are pushed.
It could have been wishful thinking on my part, but I was getting discernible vibes from Myra that she just might be willing to seek an opportunity of her own for some playtime, since she was about fourteen hundred miles away from hubby for a few days.
Late in the afternoon, a session in the seminar gave me a chance to push the envelope a bit, a risk/reward type of game that I decided was a chance worth taking. If it backfired, in a worst-case scenario, I could easily see myself losing my job to a sexual harassment claim. True, Myra and I weren't co-workers, but if she blew the whistle on me to the Dale Carnegie group, my actions would get back to my new employer before I returned home, and I would be 'career toast'.
However, as Joan Rivers once said in perhaps the most accurate definition of what constitutes sexual harassment, "Sexual harassment depends entirely on how attractive the woman finds the man." I was getting enough cues from Myra to roll the dice. Hey, I can always get another job, right?
We were asked to break into pairs and describe a situation to your class partner that made one feel unappreciated in a workplace setting, and ask the partner's advice as to what counsel they could offer. Of course, Myra and I chose each other as partners.
I beseeched her to begin the exercise by telling her, "Please, you go first, consider me Ross Perot." She wrinkled her nose, not understanding my analogy. "All ears," I explained.
She giggled delightedly, responding, "You think a Texas girl would have gotten that one." The joke seemed to immediately put her even more at ease, and she leaned closer to me as she commenced on her story's journey.
I had heard somewhere that if a woman's toes are pointing straight at you, then she's sending signals that she's interested. Myra had curled her legs criss-crossed into a Lotus sitting position on her chair, and her toes were pointed directly at my crotch. I'll have to look up what that means, but I'm betting that it's good.
