The Tea Makers

When I entered the supermarket, turned the corner, grabbed a plastic basket to carry stuff in, the first thing I encountered was a blond-haired diminutive woman with her back toward me.
She was wearing a medium length skirt, and I instinctively looked down, and saw two perfect legs.
Now those are exceptionally hot legs, I though to my uniquely discerning, perceptive, reporter-like self.
It was only later, and fortuitously, along the linoleum aisle next to the frozen shrimp section, that I would be able to confirm exactly to whom those legs belonged.

If only I were George.
What a sex life I could have.
Every young girl, all the way up to so so middle-age women, would give me a second look.
They’d say to themselves “I know that guy … from somewhere. Oh yeah, he’s in the media, sort of like an actor … on TV.”
They’d quickly begin to size me up.
Not that bad looking, in reasonably good health, employed with probable above-average income, and a future with some… potential. Looking a little bit rock n roll, a little bit rebel. Likes to break the rules.
Hmmm.
Perhaps he’d like to break a little rule with me.

The last time I saw George during a taping in the studio he was practically shoving his crotch in the live audience’s face.
From a distance, true, but still, wearing jeans, legs spread apart, leaning against his red chair and answering questions during a break in the taping.
He was definitely more cocky than when I had seen him here in the same place a couple of years ago. Now, he was even far more self-assured.
It was noticeable.
I realized of course that he was in his element, his workplace for most of the year. And also that he was way better prepared for what has to be the same meek questions that he’s always asked night after night.
By now, George has the routine down, and knows exactly which answers sound cool, and which will get an automatic laugh.
And George may indeed have had some interesting experiences in the last few years that may have boosted his confidence, made him more comfortable and confident about his somewhat weighty lard-ass body.
Who knows.
Quite possibly some drunk starlet has dropped a clever hint after an interview.  Perhaps even a big enough starlet to make George ask himself “if it’s this easy, could I get Lohan?”
Or Belinda Stronach.
Then again, that might not be all that much of an achievement.
But not bad. Not bad at all.

I know that if I were George I’d be banging Kirstine Layfield.
I’m sure of it.
I know this because I’m not George, and I definitely want to bang Kirstine Layfield.
But if I were George, it would be such a no-brainer, and far more likely to actually happen.
To begin with, we’d be the same height. I’m certain that would increase the odds in my favour.
And we’d be working in the same building, probably run into each other every now and then. Perhaps even a meeting, in her office.
And, I’ll tell you, if her and I were having a private meeting in her office, it wouldn’t be long before I’d be looking into those beautiful doe-like eyes, and there’d be a meeting of the minds, if you know what I mean.
I can even picture it.
We’d be discussing some program idea or some trivial but seemingly very important professional topic, sitting next to each other, close enough to notice the subtle yet inviting, and not repulsive, scent of the other person.
We’d turn to face each other as we talked, and consciously realize that our lips are only inches apart.
And yes, I’d make the first move.
Slowly, yet quickly, my lips would gently come in for a landing on those two tiny petals just below her nose.
You know, her mouth.
I just know that moment would be so hot.
She could always jump away, and tell me that’s, a bit too forward and familiar, a bit out of line.
But she’d forgive me, and probably be a little bit flattered.
Hey, I’m George. I’m still considered young. You’re hot. What did you expect?
And since no one was there to see it, it would become our little secret, and never be spoken of again. Yet also live on forever, as a little smirk on her face when we’d be in larger group meetings.
Or she could say “not here. Meet me at the Four Seasons. I’ll text you the room.”
And we’d be off to the races. A close encounter, of the naked news kind.
And I betcha I could make that woman moan, if not actually close to fainting multiple times.
After all, I’d be me, George. You know… the one. And only. Like those billboards and posters make me out to be.
And I’d be, let’s say, highly motivated. She’s, without question, a very attractive woman.
For her type.
And she does have a certain aura of power about her, and could maybe teach me something. Something perhaps managerial.
A kind of lesson, in private, from a broadcast executive, with the volume kept reasonably low.
Not to say that either of us, at our ages, have that many new things to learn.
Even if you’re Glen Gould, there are only so many variations on a theme.

Of course I’d have to consider what other people might think, if we were ever found out to be associating “in that way.”
Some people, I suppose, would think it an inappropriate relationship, what with me being a show host, and her, kind of, sort of, being my boss, in a way.
Of course, being me, that is, George, I’m such a big star that, really, in a way, nobody’s my boss.
But still, she does have some influence over whether The Hour gets renewed year after year after year after year.
The conspiratorial-type thought is bound to come up in some curious, gossipy minds, especially those who might be jealous or imagine that there’s some taboo policy about romance in the workplace.
And then there’s that slight difference in our, well, let’s call it, maturity.
But I’d be ready for that stuff.
And I’d be proud of myself, because I could take a very high-minded approach in responding to their pointed remarks.
In some ways, even prouder than I’d already be from banging Kirstine Layfield.
Because I could simply look each person in the face who tried the nudge, nudge, wink, wink with me, and say, without blinking, “have you ever heard of the term, consenting adults?”

Yeah, perfect.
I’d be George.
And I’d be banging Kirstine Layfield, and looking at staring down people while saying those words.
I’d give the impression of being so very grown up.
Yeah. I can picture it.
That would be so totally awesome.

Not that I’d be banging Kirstine Layfield forever.
After all, I’d be George, and there are so many other women who also need to be, ehh, flattered.