Yes, Mr. President

I spent the next few days replaying what had happened in the Vermeil Room, trying to make sense of it. I broke the encounter down into pieces - largely ignoring the parts I couldn't bear to think about - and attempted to use them to create the narrative that best worked for me. In the end, I'd told myself that what had happened hadn't beenthatbizarre, and that the President must have suddenly decided that the urgent matter he'd mentioned was too important to ignore. It was the best explanation I could cobble together for why he'd left me naked and posing without saying he was leaving.

I touched upon what had happened with my dad during one of our weekly check-ins. I told him that the President had invited me to a meeting to discuss the Youth Advisory Council and that I'd been asked to take a leadership role. He was beaming with pride; I heard it in his voice.

I jokingly told him that the President painted as a hobby and had asked me to model for a portrait. My dad let out a gruff guffaw; he'd made a comment about how he'd never understand "those artsy types." When I told him that I had done some practice poses for the President, he just chuckled at the absurdity of the entire situation. It made me laugh along with him; it helped me see it in a different, less serious light. Still, I didn't mention that the meeting had been one-on-one. Somewhere deep down, I knew that that would be the first step down a road I didn't want to travel - and especially not with my father.

I also became increasingly obsessed with Tessa. I'd grab at her waist whenever she'd walk by me, and never pass up a chance to sneak up behind her and wrap my arms around her small frame. She seemed to enjoy it. We had sex three nights in a row; I even ate her out once, which wasn't something I liked doing that much.

By Wednesday morning, I wasn't nearly as preoccupied with my thoughts. Like always, I left the apartment at seven o'clock and biked to the Senate Office Building. I stopped to grab a cup of coffee before I headed into work; the Americano I bought was substantially better than what the Senator had us brew up in his office.

I dove into my duties. I'd primarily been tasked with greeting visitors and sorting mail that day. Basically, I'd divide letters into one of three piles: needs a "we hear your concerns" form letter, needs a "thank you" note, and needs to go into the garbage. All of the important stuff had already been filtered out by the time the leftovers trickled down to me.

The office was quieter than it had been most mornings. The Senator was out of town at a fundraiser, and he'd taken most of his senior staffers with him. A few other mid-level folks were attending meetings on the Senator's behalf elsewhere on the Capitol. Tina and I were holding down the fort in the reception area.

KNOCK-KNOCK!

I heard tapping on the wooden doorframe. I looked up from my pile of correspondence. The President was standing at the threshold to the reception area.

"Mr. President," Tina gasped as she jumped to her feet.

I hopped up from my desk as well, but I couldn't find my words. There was something about seeing the President show up unannounced that felt overwhelming.

Tina ditched her duties and sprinted towards him. She frantically began to introduce herself; he shook her hand.

"Is the Senator in?" he asked. "I was just on the Hill and thought I'd stop by."

"No," Tina said. "I'm so sorry, Mr. President. I can call his secretary and have her set up an appointment. Better yet, I have an emergency number for the Chief of Staff. Should I call it?"

"No, no," he replied, brushing her offer away. "Is that Truett I see over there? You know, Truett has just accepted a position on my Youth Advisory Council. Did he tell you that?"

I started to blush. I finally forced myself to walk over to where they were both standing by the entrance.

"He did!" Tina exclaimed. "It sounds like an amazing opportunity. I'm not a health and fitness expert like Truett, but I've got tons of ideas about how to get young people more involved with politics. I even make TikToks breaking down some important issues in a way that college students can better understand them."

"Interesting," the President said while shooting me a quick glance. "Call up the White House switchboard and ask to speak with Joshua Hughes. Tell him the President wants him to send you an application for the Youth Advisory Council."

Tina was basking in what might as well have been the glow of the Sun. The President's warmth had turned her normally timid grin into a wide smile. It was nice to see her happy. I liked that he was willing to do that for her.

"Truett," the President said, "can I bend your ear for a few minutes? I was just thinking about something we discussed the other day."

I went to speak, but my mouth felt inexplicably dry. I nodded instead.

"Where should we go to meet?" he asked.

"There's a small conference room," Tina said. "A few people are working in there, but I can ask them to clear out for twenty minutes."

"No need," the President replied. "How about we just use Charles' office? He doesn't need it if he's not here."

Tina seemed uncertain about that suggestion. She glanced over at me; I shrugged. The President aimed his disarming smile right at her. He was pulling out the big guns.

"Come on," he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. "I won't tell if you don't."

"Yes," she said, sounding like she was simultaneously falling out of one trance and into another. "No problem. It's no problem at all. I'll hold down the fort out here while you two talk."

"Tommy?" the President hollered.

The Secret Service agent I'd seen while out running entered the room. Rather than jogging attire, he was sporting a traditional navy blue suit. He handed the President something that looked like a messenger bag. Instead of slinging it over his shoulder, he just held it in his right hand.

"Let's go," the President said, leading the way.

I glanced back to see that Tommy was trailing us. I figured he was going to post himself outside of the entrance to the Senator's private office. I assumed that, in his eyes, even someone as harmless as Tina could be a potential risk.

"It's nice to see you again so soon, Tru," the President said as we walked, "although... I'm a bit worried about the cat."

"The cat..." I finally muttered.

"The cat that got your tongue. You haven't said a single word since I'd walked in the door. That sweet girl was talking up a storm, and you were just standing over there like you'd been stricken dumb."

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to be rude... Mr. President. I guess I'm just tired."

"Tired," he echoed as he set his bag down on top of the Senator's gigantic cherry wood desk. He sauntered over to the loveseat on the far side of the room and carefully lowered himself onto one of the cushions. "Tessa keeping you up late at night? I remember girls her age. Some of them are insatiable."

"Not really. I mean, we try to go to bed by midnight. I have to head out by seven, and Tessa leaves a little after that."

The President shook his head and grinned. He patted the seat cushion next to him. There wasn't enough room for both of us to sit on the loveseat comfortably, but I didn't want to be rude. I sat down; my right knee was less than an inch from touching his left knee.

"That's not what I meant, Tru. What about the girl out there - Tina? She's not too shabby. What do you think of her?"

"Tina?"

"Yeah," he said. "It was nearly impossible not to notice her tits. She'd give Dolly Parton a run for her money."

The President is talking with me about my coworker's tits.It should have felt awkward, but it didn't for some reason. In fact, I think he knew it'd help ease any lingering anxiety I had from our previous meeting. We were just two guys shooting the shit about chicks.

"They are pretty huge."

"You a tit man?"

"I'm aneverythingman," I replied playfully.

We both started cackling. The President slapped my right thigh twice in quick succession.

"I'm more of an ass man, myself. You probably won't believe this, but the First Lady had an unbelievable backside when we first met - heart-shaped and tight. Sadly, time has taken its toll."

I'd never met the First Lady, but I'd seen pictures of her. She could've passed for one of my mom's friends. If she'd had plastic surgery, it wasn't obvious. She certainly didn't have the telltale oversized lips and paralyzed face that had become increasingly more common amongst famous women -- even a few that weren't that old.

"It's not just bodies that change," the President said. "She's turned into a cold fish in the past few years. Trying to get her to have sex involves more negotiation than an international peace summit."

I chuckled; it was genuinely funny. It was cool seeing him be so laid back, even if it was a little peculiar hearing the First Lady being spoken about like she was one of my buddy's girlfriends. I knew, however, that it was just off-the-cuff locker room talk.

"Shit," he said, "I don't think I've had sex since... the last week of March. It was our anniversary. Sometimes it sucks getting old, Tru. There are girls out there - like Tina - that I know I could use my charm on, but I'm stuck with a wife who won't put out. Do you know what it's like to be constantly surrounded by women who'd do anything to have sex with the goddamn President of the United States and not being able to take a single one of them up on the offer?"

"No," I replied to his rhetorical question.

"It's like dying from starvation at a buffet!"

I kind of felt bad for him. I'd always just pictured the President as a shiny figure on a pedestal. I'd only thought about all the power he had and the respect he received. I'd never really thought about any of the harsh realities of his life.

"Shit," the President said again with a hint of exasperation in his voice. "I should stop talking about this topic. It seems to be... having aneffecton me."

He used his chin to gesture towards his lap. There was a giant lump pressing against his fly. The thing was absolutely massive. I nearly gasped looking at it. The situation would have been strange enough regardless, but the size mattered.

"I guess we're even now," he said.

"What?" I asked, feeling my cheeks start to turn rosy.

"You know. 'You show me yours; I'll show you mine.' Isn't that the saying?"

I could feel a switch flipping inside of me. My muscles were beginning to tense up. The relaxed sensation I'd been feeling the past few minutes was quickly vanishing. We were shifting from being on equal ground to him being in charge, yet again. Immediately, I felt silly that I'd ever thought it could be any other way.

"Well, let's change topics so I can get mind off of sex and ignore this thing until it goes away. I was hoping to check in with you about the portrait. Is that okay?"

"Sure," I said, though I was feeling anything but okay about anything. I didn't really know what I was feeling.

"I've decided I want to create something that feels intimate. I want it to be like the viewer has stumbled onto a scene they weren't supposed to see. It'll be set in the past - maybe the early twentieth century? You'll have wandered from the bedroom nude to the kitchen. You were looking at some food on the table when someone sneaks up behind you. The painting will catch the exact moment you glance over your shoulder to see who it is."

He'd become more energetic as he'd been describing the scene; all his frustration had shifted over to excitement - genuine artistic passion, as far as I could tell. It brought a smile to his face; without thinking, I returned one of my own. Then he furrowed his brow, as if waiting for me reply.

"Okay," I said quickly. "Like I said, I've never painted... but it sounds nice. Will it show my face?"

"It'll be a partial profile. Here, look at me."

The President angled his face so that I was staring directly at its side. His jaw was broad and defined. His left eye was bluer than any blue in nature; there were barely-noticeable crow's feet snaking out from its edge. He slowly angled his face a few more degrees in the opposite direction. It made it harder to distinguish who he was as easily.

"I was thinking like this," he said.

It didn't seem so bad to me; at that particular angle, I'm not sure I would've immediately recognized somebody less famous - even right up close. I figured that a painting - with its broad stokes - would make it even harder to identify a nobody like myself.

"I'm fine with that," I replied with a bit more confidence.

"I know I said I was going to sketch you for the first step and use that as a basis for the painting, but I think that even a sketch would take too long. There's really only one solution."

The President hopped to his feet. I wasn't focusing on his crotch intentionally, but it was clear that his erection had gone down. He traipsed over to the table and opened the bag he'd brought with him. He pulled out something from inside.

"Is that..." I started to ask.

"A Polaroid camera," he replied. "I had to have an assistant go find one. It's what I used when I was taking photos of models while I was first learning to paint. I thought you'd appreciate it."

My heart was bouncing around in my chest; the idea of having pictures taken of my naked body made me feel on edge. I didn't hate any part of myself, including what the President had referred to as my"small-as-a-button"dick, but that didn't mean I wantedactualphotos of my private parts out there for everyone to gawk at.

"I know," the President said. "I've read enough reports about catfishing and sexting to understand the apprehension. One thing I've learned is that it's recommended that, if you are going to take nude photos, don't show your face in them. Would it feel better if I don't include your face? I can always take a separate picture of it."

His suggestion made some of my tentativeness vanish. It was nice to know that he could understand why I might feel ill at ease. Even if he was the President, there were still ways the wrong people could access his private materials. I remembered it being a big scandal when naked photos of Prince Harry were published in a tabloid. If royalty wasn't completely safe, neither was the President.

"I'm okay with that," I said, and it wasn't exactly a lie.

"Good. Take off your clothes."

"Now?" I asked.

"Why'd you think I brought the camera?"

I hadn't really thought about it. I'd figured he was just showing it to me. I realized how stupid that sounded.

I started to take off my clothes. I wasn't going to tell him no.You agreed to it, Truett - again -- solet's just get this over and done with.

I hung my suit jacket on the coat rack next to the loveseat. I neatly arranged the rest of my clothes on the cushion of the sofa I'd just been sitting on. Unlike what I'd done in the Vermeil Room, I left my black dress socks on. I figured he could tell me if he wanted me to remove them.

"What should I do?" I asked.

"Stand about a foot in front of the desk. Given the time of day and the direction of the windows, that'll be the best light."

I didn't bother covering myself. The President had seen it all. He'd even seen it hard, so walking around with a limp dick didn't feel like a big deal. If anything, it felt weirder knowing that I was wandering around my boss' office in the buff. I knew that Senator Whitney would have an aneurysm if he'd known one of his interns was strutting around naked in his inner sanctum.

I planted my feet on the spot he'd told me to. I turned away from him so that he could snap a few Polaroids of my backside. I knew he'd tell me how to adjust my head if he wanted that from me.

"I want to start with the front. Turn and face me."

The front? Why?He'd just told me that he was going to be painting me facing away from the viewer. I didn't understand why he'd need pictures of that part of my body.

"I'm indecisive," he said. "Guys like Senator Whitney like to call it 'flip-flopping.' I just think I enjoy being flexible. It's better to take these now, in case a few days down the road I decide I want to do something entirely different."

"Should I pose?"

"No, just stay still."

The President framed me in the viewfinder. He snapped a photo, and a thick, plastic square slithered out from the camera. He casually tossed it onto the loveseat.

He kept moving around the room. He squatted down to take an upward angle photo while positioned a few feet from my right leg. He paused for quite some time before finally pressing the button.

I didn't move. I just focused on looking the best I could for him. I tried to tense my quad muscles and tighten up my abs. I kept smiling, even though I knew my face wasn't going to be in any of the pictures.

The President placed himself ten feet in front of me. He lowered the camera. He scanned me from head to toe.

"Can you do that thing again?" he asked. "Plump yourself up a bit?"

It was embarrassing hearing him saying it. I froze for a moment. The thought of doing it again was mildly off-putting. It felt like we were veering down a path I'd reassured myself was just in my imagination.

"Stop earlier this time," he said, not waiting for me to consent - or object. "It's just about making it not look quite so absurdly teeny. No need for another boner."

I shook my head; it was like I was casting off my lingering shame about what had happened in the Vermeil Room. I still hadn't figured out how I'd gotten so hard. I'd tried to tell myself that it had been the perverse excitement of being naked in the White House. It had seemed like a plausible explanation.

I grabbed my soft two inches between my fingers and started pulling at them. I tried not to think too hard about what I was doing. I knew that if I did, I'd completely chicken out.

The President snapped another photo. I paused mid-stroke.

"Should I stop?"

"Just keep going. Don't you trust me?"

I did trust him, and I wanted him to know it. I started pulling at my dick again. I glanced down at it as I waited for it to start to fill with more blood. The President took a step closer to me and snapped another picture. He placed the Polaroid on top of the desk behind me.

Things continued on like that for another minute until my dick plumped up to the semi-firm three inches he'd wanted to see it at. I slowly pulled my hand away.

"It's... it's ready."

The President walked towards me. He reached the desk and snatched up the photo he'd taken moments before. He placed it into my right hand before traipsing back to where he'd previously been positioned in front of me.

I looked at the photo. I knew it was one he'd taken when I'd been pulling at my dick, but the picture only showed a close up of my abs.

The President sprung back into action. The next few minutes were him moving from spot to spot while he snapped photos. Watching him only increased my respect for his commitment. He'd take time to frame each shot before pressing the button. He seemed to truly care about all of the things he did - even the activities that could be written off as silly hobbies.

I didn't feel the same inexplicable "zapping" sensation inside of me as when I'd accidentally popped a boner a few days earlier. I was more thankful for that than I could possibly describe. I'd been worried that I was going to have to will myself to not get another erection, but it ended up being a nonissue.

"Let's move on to the back," the President commanded. "Just face the opposite direction. You don't need to do anything special right away."

I heard him snap the first picture. I absentmindedly browsed the titles of the novels Senator Whitney had on the bookshelf behind his desk.