Sleepover with Michelle Obama Pt. 2

Pt.1

I arrived at the White House reception at 9.54pm, and asked for 'David'.

I couldn't be late for my rendezvous with Michelle Obama. Something about her voice, her aura.

Yes, I know. Barack Obama.

Anyways, I was sure she'd intended for our meeting to be strictly platonic, but a divorcee can hope right?

A slender metro sexual approached me.

"You called for Davide?" he spat.

His French-tinged accent me feel inferior. Or perhaps that was his perfect locks and radiant skin. If any man was ever on a vegan diet it was him.

"Yes, Michelle Obama told me to ca-"

"Yes! Okay, okay. Follow." he responded abruptly.

Was I experiencing my first man-crush? I'd never felt such joy at being interrupted before.

At that moment, if he'd asked me to jump off a cliff, I'd have given it some serious thought...

Walking through obscure tunnels, and zig-zagging staircases, I finally arrived at what seemed to be a pseudo-roman bathhouse.

Observing the faux marble walls, I noticed Michelle Obama in a Terry-cloth robe.

To be honest, she was curvier than I had originally thought. But in a motherly, non-sexual way.

"Hiya! So...what's your name?" she asked, innocently.

"@positive" I replied.

"Well, why don't you go on over to the changing-rooms and get all comfortable! I've got a nice robe laid out just for you!"

I must say her enthusiasm irked me. Though I guess I was accustomed to heartless sluts that left me in '76 for Mike Camden!!

Breathe out

I slid out of my formal clothes, and into a Terry-cloth robe identical to Michelle's.

I returned to the bath house to find Michelle bathing in a silver bathtub. A small stool was placed beside upon which a marble plate rested holding four fudge-squares.

I glanced at a similar tub positioned on the other side of that small stool.

"Yes, honey. That's for you. Slide on out of your robe, I'll close my eyes!" she assured me.

To be honest I was pushing my late 50s, and was feeling a little insecure about my body.

I'd once been a stud, or so I thought. Surely my mother wouldn't lie?

Stop being a pussy!

I threw off my robes, and bomb-dived into the tub. Water splashed upwards.

"Mind the fudge!" Michelle exclaimed.

After a deep soak and 15 minutes of silence. Michelle rose up from a nested positon and turned towards me-

"What's really bothering you?"

I couldn't really process the question, my mind was focused on trying to get the chocolaty fudge down my throat.

Gums exhausted, I accelerated the digestive process, and force-gulped the assorted chunks.

GULP

"Ouch. That must've hurt" she noted. And rightly so.

My throat burned with chocolaty splendor.

I reconsidered her question. Did I really care about kids being kids?

"I guess. I miss my wife." I confessed.

"No. I miss settling for second best with a whiny money-vacuum, to fill the gap Annabelle had left in '76."

She paused to consider my words.

"There's many fish in the sea @positive, you've gotta get back in the game, or your situation won't improve!" she advised.

She was right. I'd completely shut myself off after the last divorce.

Not that I didn't want to get rid of that nuisance, but she left me $200,000 poorer, and I'd been saving for a Lamborghini!

"B-but. My game is rusty?" I explained.

"No buts! Do you think Barack said 'but' in '08? I told him to get up on that podium. And preach his skinny-butt all the way to the White House!" she recounted.

Perhaps I was reacting to the pungent Chamomile bath salts, or simply lamenting my lost loves, but I suddenly burst into tears.

"She was MINE! Not Mike Camden's! Waaahh. I told him I had dibssss on her first waaaa" I wailed, snot dripping everywhere. Oblivious to everything but my regret.

Michelle Obama sprung out of her tub, in her sheer nakedness, and cuddled me from the borders of my tub.

And for a fleeting moment, just for a moment I felt something.

Something of unfathomable profundity.

A truly human moment.