Pussy and Coffee

I happen to have a valuable “assistant.” A woman by chance. You may be wondering what is it I do to need an assistant. Well, I don’t do much and I’m not important. I’m an ordinary guy who needs help. You know, help with basic things. I haven’t been successful at managing my own life. Therefore I’m grateful to have come about a fantastic, willing, well to do, witty, and intelligent person, that helps me with the task of life. The fact she rocks a short bob haircut like nobody’s business is besides the point. It also doesn’t matter that her ankles are the place bracelets call home. I’m not gonna mention what her light brown eyes do to me. Oh, and I don’t share this with just anyone but when she’s walking away from me, I zoom in on her duffle bags. Okay, I’ll reveal this also. I usually don’t but….. When she walks toward me, my eyes follow her lines from the clash of cleavage, to her middle earth, and, I guess you get the point? Yes, so like I was originally trying to say, we have such a professional relationship. Truth be told, she is the brains of the outfit. The label of assistant may diminish her a bit. She assists and manages. She coordinates but listens. She gives orders and takes them. I do what she tells me to do. She does what I tell her to do. See how beneficial our relationship is? It will always be interesting because of the built in role play-professionally speaking of course. Why do I even mention that? I mean, why would we be anything other than, proper, businesslike, professional? I love the weekends best. Our together time has picked up. She manages her personal life while being there for me. Sometimes I get Friday evening thru Monday morning depending on her schedule. I don’t even ask her to stay with me for an entire weekend. She just shows up at my door. Actually she lets herself in. Convenient but embarrassing when I’m pretending to be a member of Mumford & Sons and we’re shooting a video and she walks in on me in ecstasy playing my air guitar. She’s a fun person to be around. People have asked if we’re a couple. I laugh and say no, she’s just my life-manager. “How do I get one of those?” someone asked. I wasn’t able to answer that question. I’m fortunate I guess. All I did was scream “I need help!” from a crying, kneeling, depressive position. Like seriously, I was like, on the floor yelling for help. Not the “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” help, but the, “I’m so fucking overwhelmed I’m about to faint, right after I try to ball up my iPhone like its paper but it isn’t, help.” I guess when you put out your needs to the universe, provision and answers come back. I had a need. She heard about it. We got to know one another over Starbucks refreshers. Actually she used me for my rewards discounts. But anyway. We decided to become partners. Professionally speaking of course. One month ago, exactly a month, she decided to take on an additional client. I stared at her with a slight frown and head tilt. She immediately threw that idea in the trash. I remain her first, only and last client. Being around me drives her crazy. She compared working with me to reading Atlas Shrugged. Saying it’s the “biggest challenge” she’s ever faced. She often wants to ” walk away from it” but she can’t. I took it as a compliment and then I didn’t. She has really helped me to deprogram from my past life. I feel a lot more healthy and centered. Could be the yoga. I don’t know if it’s more fun doing yoga by myself because I can blend it with hip-hop river dance arm movements, or with her, where I can watch her demonstrate positions over and over again because I just can’t seem to get it right. I’m not a good yoga student. I hate when she’s sitting on the floor, with her palms together, finger tips almost at her chin, as if praying. Yeah, I hate it because she’s blocking her boobs. Seeing the way her breasts come together, helps me to gain focus so I can workout. My life manager is so regimented. Such a perfect fit for me. Her modus be like ummm, lets see, okay, I know-It’s part basic training, but with a caring instructor who brings a soft touch. I get discipline and get on track. The more I listen to her the better my life gets. The more she helps me, the better she feels, which in turn makes me feel better. She goes with me to see my therapist and takes notes. Can you believe this? She sits there and listens patiently and takes it all in. Sometimes she offers to drive me where I need to go. Once a week she reassures and reminds me that she is here to make sure all of my needs are met. Some weeks I hear old stuff and sometimes she adds to her services. I normally don’t pay attention to her weekly speeches. Please don’t tell her that. Her most recent visit was like show and tell, or more like show and prove. She made a bold and risky move. Knowing I love Starbucks she took it upon herself to show up at my studio with a coffee press, a black bag of coffee, with coffee written on it in handwritten silver sharpie letters, and the sexiest coffee cups I’ve ever seen in my coffee life. Paranoid, yes. Thoughts of “this is moving way too fast” crowded my mind. She started her visit as if this was any old, rainy, stormy, Saturday morning with the tv on mute watching Josh Temple wild out on “House Crashers.” I acted as if I had full confidence in her because I do, although I like her to think I question what she does sometimes so she doesn’t get her head all up in the cumulusphere. As the coffee press pressed, a special Saturday edition of “Meet the Press” was on. I’m confused, but anyway. We talked. I watched her go upstairs. I heard noise. She came back. We talked. She said she had a revelation to reveal to me. Or, in normal people speak, she had something to tell me. “Ready?” she asked. Oh shit I thought to me. Evident because of the “I.” As she explained, I saw her right shoulder, then left. My coach just removed her tee shirt and bra. She continued to talk like we were on the phone with one another, but we were only separated by the urban rustic mobile island (found it on the Knoll website, Independence Day sale). I looked around my apartment to see if I was being filmed. I would direct me that way if this was a short film. I would get a shot of me looking into the camera in disbelief at her removing her top. The vibe was still professional of course. Of course. She rambled on and on and on. Out of the hundreds of words she rattled off I only caught two. Something like, umm, surrogate maybe, and the other word was sex. Still, baffled but following her words, because she is my life-assistant person, she stood there naturally natural. Coffee ready, and poured, she grabbed a tray and made for the stairs. I wanted to follow but I had to know what happened on “House Crashers” so I turned from David Gregory’s Hair to Josh’s constant yelling. My manager looked from the upper loft, cleared her throat and motioned for me to come aboard. I looked back as if someone else was behind me, like Josh or David. I looked at her again and pointed to my chest and asked “who me?” She nodded in the silent language of yes. On my arrival I actually took in the view of how professional she looked standing before me. We sat on the bed and she informed me that she is also my sex surrogate and new barista. Wow this tastes so good. I hope the coffee taste just as good!
Written by Michael Moss for Escape Indie

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