Shagging a stranger while Trump talks success in politics & business. By Tx Tall Tales. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories. I was a little delayed getting to the Convention Hall where he was going to speak, but my red VIP badge got me past the "velvet rope" down to the front 10 rows, which were looking pretty full. The hall was split up into a bunch of sections during the day, with low pipe & drape curtain panels used to separate the VIP purchase area from the hoi-poloi, and to make virtual rooms to one side and the other, as well as to create a backstage area. It was a business & leadership conference with speakers like Tony Robbins, Donald Trump, and a long list of others. One of the ushers waved me over, pointing to one of the few open seats left. I "excuse-me"d down to the spot, and wedged myself in between two attractive women, a blonde on my left and a brunette on my right. Because we were sitting in the rightmost section of the seats, the main podium was over to my left as well. As such you tended to sit turned in your seat a bit, for a more natural view, which placed the brunette "behind" me and the blonde in "front" of me. Now I'm not a little guy. Not huge, but my shoulders are a good bit wider than most. And at 220 lbs, I'm mostly muscle, though a good way from having 'abs of steel'. The biggest problem is I'm wide. W-I-D-E. Really wide in the shoulders with a 48 inch chest. My Hawaiian heritage. It makes for uncomfortable seating in coach-class on airplanes, and in places like this, where the chairs are locked together, and they're all made for 118 lb. weaklings, and little things, like the size 2 women on either side of me. A speaker was just finishing up, and when he went into pitch mode, I asked the blonde "How was he?" "I don't know, I just got here a minute ago too. I'm here for Trump." Let me get this out up front. I'm a horn-dog, with an addiction to women. I love blondes. "What are you here for? At the Motivational Expo, I mean," I asked her, surreptitiously taking in her pretty face, turned up nose, cute eyeglasses, and pinned up blonde hair. Her hands were free of any rings. "Mostly just hanging out," she told me. I thought it seemed kind of odd. It cost a couple of hundred bucks to 'hang-out' in the VIP section, less if you signed up early and were on the right mailing list. Maybe a $100. But still pricey for "hanging out." Even stranger was the way she was sitting. There was another pretty big black guy sitting on the other side of her, and he had all his materials from the day on the floor between his legs, forcing him to sit with his legs open. As soon as I sat down, she moved away from him, leaving a couple of inches gap, and scooted up right next to me, her side pressed against mine. Then she turned away and watched the stage. We were quiet for a bit, and I tried to start a conversation again. A glutton for punishment, I do this a lot. I like people. I like to talk to people. I guess I'm a bit of an extrovert sometimes. And in a setting like this, anybody could be a great networking contact. "What do you do?" I asked. She spoke softly, and I had to bend down to hear her. Damn, she smelled good too. "I own my own business, how about you?" she answered. "Some real-estate investment, some writing, a real-life job I wouldn't mind ditching. I'm thinking of getting into a gig like this - professional speaking." I told her. She patted me on the leg, a pretty friendly thing to do, I thought, then said, "Will you save my seat for me while I go take a smoke break?" "Absolutely. I wouldn't dream of letting anyone else sit next to me." I told her with my most charming boyish smile, which seldom works, but you can't fault a guy for trying. She patted me on the arm again, giving it a little squeeze, and then eased her way past me and out the row. She left her tote bag with all her materials, so I didn't think she was just blowing me off nicely. As she walked by, I took the time to check more of her out. Definitely a looker, with a light zip-up sweatshirt (unzipped) over a scoop-neck white tee, and a blue jean skirt that hugged her very pleasant looking hips. She had long slender legs that ended in ankle-high white socks and a pair of black canvas sneakers. Looked like Converse. I estimated her age in the early 20's. Yeah, I know, I'm a dirty old man, getting worked up over a girl 1/2 my age. Before I knew it, my blonde neighbor was returning. I sat back in my chair to let her by, and she sat back down, once again sidling right up next to me. I mean close contact. I have to tell you this was definitely new territory for me. I've known friendly women, and aggressive women, but this woman just seemed to like pressing against me. My mind was spinning trying to figure this out, it wasn't something in my known realm of experiences, and not to brag, but I have had my share. I had a choice of sitting with my arms crossed, and shoulders pulled in, or taking up half the seats on either side of me. But I could also turn a bit in the seat, and put my arm behind the seat to my side, which I did, especially easy since we were in the last VIP row, and there was an open space behind us with the barrier between us and the green-badgers. "Blondie" must have considered this some kind of invitation. She turned even more into me, and turned her head, resting it on my shoulder. She took several opportunities to pat me on the leg and arm again. I've read a few books on body behavior, and everything I know tells me this was a sign that I could be more forward, but I was still very hesitant. It seemed a spectacularly weird place to be hitting on a strange woman. But my little head was starting to wake up and do part of the thinking for me. The lights started to go down, implying the start of the next program. Blondie, whose name I still hadn't gotten, leaned forward to take off her sweat-jacket, revealing bare shoulders, and a nice pair of breasts, if on the smallish side. She patted me on the leg again, her hand lingering, and she gave a squeeze. "This should be good to hear," she admitted. She was turned a bit in her seat, facing the podium and leaning into me, fully half her weight pressed against me. I could smell the baby-powder she'd used early in the day, and the slight hint of where the long day of sitting in cramped quarters was finally winning the battle against her deodorant. The smell of her was getting me even hotter, it was going to be hard to pay attention to Trump. He'd better be good. I was able to look over her shoulder, and had a pretty good view into her shirt. I'm not a giant at 6'1", but I have a long torso, and when seated I tend to be a head above those around me. It gave for a great vantage point to look her over. Not a lot of cleavage, but I could clearly see her red bra, which had a big red flower, better than an inch across, right where the cup met the strap. The show helpers were walking down the aisle, passing out signs for us. These read "Trump for President", the ones that we got, at least. There were other ones being passed around, one said "You're FIRED", and there was at least one other one. My pretty blonde neighbor took out a marker and started writing on her sign. She wrote "Divorced" over TRUMP, and "Is So" between the words TRUMP and For. Then she wrote "Cool" between For and President. I wasn't sure what that message was. "He is divorced, right?" She asked me, again patting my leg. My leg was beginning to really like that, as my little head reminded me. "Twice. Ivana, and Marla Maples. He's married again since then." I told her. "I don't watch much TV." She said, putting down her pen, holding her sign in her lap, and resting her near hand on my knee. I was really confused. Was she just friendly? Was she coming on to me? What was going on? "She wants you," the little head told me, encouraging my addiction. "Don't be such a pussy!" She reached up to loosen her hair, and took the bun out. She started to twist it back up, and my little head spoke aloud for the first time, putting words in my mouth. "Leave your hair down," I told her softly. It's something that's worked for me before in the pursuit of females. I've found that if they're interested, they often like a bit of harmless dominance. You know, some silly little comment that you expect them to obey. If they do, you're often on your way to success. She hesitated, with both hands over her head, her hair half twisted, and an elastic in her other hand. She slowly let her hair back down, and dropped the elastic into her tote bag, then shook her hair out. At this point the president of the Learning Annex came on stage to announce that The Donald was in the building, and we started a chant of Trump, Trump, Trump, led by the show workers on stage, a bevy of about a dozen typical Dallas beauties, and a couple of guys. Donald Trump came on stage to lights and explosions, and thousands of gold foil rectangles burst out over the audience, and trickled down while Donald took his place at the podium. While the clapping continued the gold streamers fell among us, and one landed in her hair. I reached over and plucked it out, handing it to her, and then stroked her hair back into place. It didn't need the stroking, but I did. Unlike the other speakers who wanted you to stand through his whole bit, Trump told us all to sit. Then he started talking about how the show people knew how to "Feed his addiction", and he asked the guys to leave the stage, leaving all the pretty girls behind him. I immediately knew that The Donald and I were kindred souls, sharing that common addiction. Blondie was sitting leaning against me once more, her right arm casually laid across my left leg, her hand dangling between my legs, near my knees. My partner in crime between my legs was fully awake now, uncomfortably so, looking to stretch out. Donald was talking about the beautiful women of Dallas, getting lots of cheers from the audience, including from the
