Rules Were Made To Be Broken Not

Once, when he absent-mindedly mentioned, that her ears, reminded him of Clark Gable’s big ears, the words, seemingly rolled off her, like water off a duck. And In that moment, if he had thought he was free and clear of any admonishment, he was about to realize that it was wishful thinking.  

     

“You should know dear,” she began, “that my big ears, as you so indelicately described them, were considered indispensable weapons in the fight against crime, when I worked for the FBI. The FBI Director himself, as a matter of fact, called my investigative Tool Box, the best and most effective he’d ever seen in his long, career. He said that mind you, when he was awarding me the “FBI, Agent of Year, Award.”

“Really?” he said, “I didn’t know. You never mentioned that you’d worked for the, FBI.”

“Yes, I could hear a pin drop in a standing room only, Astrodome. I also have a photographic memory; speak four languages, fluently; hold a black belt in martial arts; and can shoot, both your eyes out, at twenty paces.  Although, I’d never do that, unless, of course, you pissed-me-off; and you’re teetering on that precipice, as we speak, my love.” 

Then, she laughed, adding, “I also graduated, cum laude; from Stanford, and have two Masters Degrees; Law and Theater Arts.  But I’d be remiss if I didn’t respond specifically to your thoughtless comment, concerning the size of my ears. You see love, I have learned to overlook this minor physical flaw because God also endowed me with blond hair; a strikingly, beautiful face; long legs, perfect breasts, and a tight, vagina.”

He apologized, and then, proceeded to tell her, that his most notable achievement, had been graduating from High School, by the skin of his teeth. She laughed, again; although, this time, he thought it was tinged with a little too much, smugness. He often thought those kinds of self-denigrating thoughts, and it always angered him. 

“Darling,” she continued, “I haven’t known you that long, what, two, maybe, two and half years? However long or short, it is, I have grown to like you — a great deal. And, honestly, I wouldn’t be with you, if I thought you were an underachiever. I just believe that you were spoiled as a child; spoiled, overly-protected, and abused.  And, I know you hate it when I play the abuse card, but please dear, call my shrink she works wonders; look at me.”

He ignored the shrink comment. Hell, he’d heard it, a million times before; and told her a million times, too, that he’d seen a shrink; and gotten, a clean bill-of-health.  Yes, he was successful, but he was also, hopelessly—madly in love with the woman, and he didn’t need a shrink to tell him that. Yes, she could be an overachieving, overpowering, piranha, at times, but he adored her. He also wanted to screw her so, bad his nuts hurt — all the time.

It was also, true, that the woman was gorgeous and scary smart; but of all her attributes, he loved her eyes and mouth best. Her eyes were deeper and bluer than the deepest ocean; her eyelashes, longer than the golden fringe on a surrey top; and her lips—Oh—her luscious, rose-hemped lips — they were his gateway to Kubla Khan’s, stately, pleasure-dome.

However, I would be remiss, if I didn’t mention that there was a rub in the relationship. Sadly, isn’t there always?

The woman had rules; crazy, FBI, like rules.  And one rule, in particular, had brought him to his knees, on more than one occasion.

“It’s not a rule, love,” she’d said. “It’s simply, that I prefer the mystery of romance. Where you, on the other hand my dear have, in prior relationships, practiced free sex.  That doesn’t work for me, and since it’s my vagina, you must play by my rules.”

THE RULE: (with underpants remaining on), Nothing below the navel, and nothing higher, than, “Stop, right there, please.” 

The rule was straight forward enough, but it was also, very difficult to enforce. The poor woman was always buying new underwear. Bottom-line, however, and most important to her; she remained a virgin.

He had been so desperate recently. that he had circuitously suggested that they marry. Her response was, “Well, that was romantic, a roundabout proposal of marriage. If my memory serves me correctly, dear, doesn’t the man ask the woman for her hand in marriage?  And, I’m purposely skipping all the mixed-gender issues; you know, different strokes for different folks; consenting adults; what happens in the bedroom, and the First Amendment. I understand that you’re desperate, my love; but, do you want to know something? What I love most about you, is your patience, perseverance, and unrelenting doggedness. I know that one of your most revered philosophical tenets, “Rules are made to be broken,” works for you, and I agree; except, I’m not as carte blanche about it, as you. No, I’m more of an individual case, kind-a-gal.  I’m sorry, sweetie.

She took his hand in hers, and said, “It’s just one, itty bitty, rule. We do all the other kinds of lovemaking; well, everything except that one other thing.  I honestly, don’t know what more I can do?”

“You could let me see it?”

“You mean, show it to you?”

“I didn’t stutter.”

“Okay, but I want something in return; a promise. No, a commitment.”

“Anything.”

“You’d really do anything for me; you love me that much?”

“Jesus, stop beating around the bush — so to speak.”

“What I want then, is a gracious, tender, and loving marriage proposal.”

Suddenly overwhelmed by the limitless, possibilities about to stare him in the face, he fell to his knees and recited a marriage proposal worthy of Shakespeare.  It was both a solemn and emotionally charged moment, for them both; and as promised, she graciously, removed her underpants.

“You shaved it?!”

“Yes, love, I didn’t want you to have any unnecessary distractions when we consummated our love. I’m afraid you’re disappointed.”

“Oh, no. Not at all. I’m actually, quite pleased. It’s beautiful. You're beautiful. Hell, all god’s children are beautiful.

“Good, I hoped you’d like it.”