How do I get myself into these things? Because I'm a sucker for men who beg, that's how. Look on my forehead, see the big "S"? It magically appears whenever a man gets down on his knees, clasps his hands together, and says "Please, please, oh pretty please?" It must be some sort of motherly instinct. I never had any kids, and I always thought I transferred my need for raising children to my dogs. But I'm beginning to think this female weakness of mine is somehow connected to my hormones; it's imbedded in my DNA. I know other childless women who don't seem to have this flaw. Not counting lesbians, what's their secret?
Whenever a man begs me for something, it triggers a synapse in my brain, and I have an uncontrollable urge to take him into my arms, to stroke his hair, to hold him to my bare bosom and offer him an engorged nipple on which to suckle, and to tell him everything will be alright. And if two men beg at once, or three, or four; hell, who cares, they're all my children at that moment. Soon a fuckfest of incestuous proportions takes place. Be it one or one hundred, I can't resist men who beg.
Recently I was offered a temporary position as Classified Information Liaison Officer, CILO for short. The information I was privy to was not for general release to the media or the public. My job was to keep certain VIP's updated on the shuttle's progress, to answer technical questions about the mission, to relay their opinions, concerns, whatever, to the appropriate agency brass, to wine and dine them if necessary, to be smart and witty and charming and attractive all the time. I had to call the 10 members of my assigned group, or one of their designees, every hour, every day of the mission, unless they were with me in person, or were in Mission Control, or with another space agency official.
This one particular veep from Germany was accompanied by a research scientist from the European Space Agency (ESA). His name was Maximillian von Eiff, and he and his boss were staying at the same hotel as me. His boss was a bigwig with ESA, an astrophysicist by the name of Dr. Karl Reichman. Dr. Reichman reminded me of a circa 1940 Nazi Schutzstaffel officer. He was about 60 years old, but looked strong and healthy. He had to be 6'4", well built from what I could tell, a full head of steel gray hair, piercing ice blue eyes, and a serious attitude, all the time. He never once cracked a smile. He reminded me of the Germanic version of Clint Eastwood, with the chiseled, rugged good looks of the Marlboro man. He was going to be a tough nut to crack, even for me, the charming and gorgeous Cat.
Dr. Reichman's wife was traveling with them as well. She was a tall, statuesque blond, much younger than the doctor. She reminded me of that tennis player, Maria Sharapova. She had perfect features, perfect skin, perfect teeth, perfect boobs, perfect butt, a perfect tan (no visible tan lines), and well-toned muscles. She was very friendly and outgoing, almost the exact opposite of her husband. I don't easily make friends with women, but I had the feeling Eva Reichman and I would get along just fine.
Max took an instant liking to me from the moment we met. In fact, he asked me to dinner almost every night of our mutual stay at the hotel. I hate mixing business with pleasure, it always gets me into trouble. My boss warned me to behave myself. After the first three politely refused invitations, I thought he'd given up. Then it happened; one afternoon, when the shuttle mission wasn't going as well as expected, and the agency had just publicly announced the post-liftoff breakaway foam incident, Max said, in his heavy German accent, "Please Frau Cat, please have dinner with me, I beg of you!"
Shit! The dreaded "B" word. My nipples had already started to engorge, how could I resist? We had our first of several dinners together, drank some wine, chatted for a couple of hours, and I soon uncovered a wealth of information about Max. He is 36 years old, married to the same woman for 16 years, they have three children, ages 7, 10, and 12, they live in a modest home in Düsseldorf, he has a master's degree in theoretical physics, he keeps in shape by playing tennis and handball, his wife doesn't understand him and they never have sex anymore. How many times have I heard that??!! Its odd how so many married men I've met are not getting laid at home. All you wives should be ashamed of yourselves for not doing your wifely duties and keeping your men happy and satisfied. Yeah, right!
As we got more comfortable with each other our conversations turned more intimate. Max began to ask me a lot of personal questions. The second bottle of wine loosened my tongue, and I told him all about my life, including some of my sexual adventures. He listened with a polite intensity, he interjected appropriate responses, he questioned timelines and asked for clarification of minute details. Max seemed truly interested in every aspect of my life; it felt like we had been friends for years.
Men, take note: if you want a woman to become attracted to you, instead of talking about yourselves, ask her questions, keep the conversation revolving around her, her life, her interests, her career, her likes and dislikes, her family, etc. She'll think you find her fascinating, and nothing will get her out of her Calvin Klein's faster than that. Okay, maybe toss some flowers and a steak dinner in just to be safe. Alcohol couldn't hurt.
Anyway, I found I liked Max. He's a good listener, he seemed interested in everything about me, he's intelligent, funny, and sensitive, he keeps himself in fairly good shape, and most importantly, he loves dogs! When the restaurant manager was ready to close down and throw us out, we went for a walk on the beach, talked some more, then headed back to the hotel for some much-needed rest. Max walked me back to my room, he kissed me on the lips, then headed back to his own room to sleep. Such a gentleman!
We occasionally had some downtime and since the entire mission was nerve-wracking, to say the least, I sought stress reducing activities, such as running and exercise. On one such day, I ran into Max as I was about to exit the hotel to go for a morning jog. I was wearing my usual outfit: a low cut, tight-fitting jog bra and little nylon running shorts. More of my skin was uncovered than covered. My nipples are perky and poke out most of the time no matter what I'm wearing, but the rather cool a/c in the lobby was increasing the effect. The bra material was stretched so thin over my large breasts you could see the areolas. When Max saw me his jaw dropped down onto his chest, and he just stared.
"Hi Max, are you having a seizure, or are you just glad to see me?"
When he recovered, Max mumbled something like, "I'm always glad to see you Cat. Where are you going?"
"I thought I'd go to church this morning, and then maybe visit that nursing home down the street."
"But, but, you have almost no clothes on!"
The German people are so cute, they make great beer, but they need to work on their sense of humor.
"Max, I'm kidding. I'm going for a run; I need to get rid of some stress."
"Oh I see. I don't run much, but I like to do other things for stress relief."
"Like . . .?"
"I play handball!"
Damn, that wasn't what I was expecting him to say. So I said, "Hey Max, you ever play racquetball? It's kind of like handball, only you use a racquet."
"No, I never play."
"Well, c'mon, I'll teach you. Let's get you changed into something more appropriate."
