Mike Pence's Erotic Applebee's Fantasy

The vice president’s car stops outside the Applebee’s, brazenly parked in the carry-out spot, and Mike Pence hesitates. He’s breaking his own rule, he knows. He shouldn’t be here in the face of such temptation. The sun shines down on the “Eatin’ Good in the Neighborhood!” sign, the curves of the letters somehow illicit in the ordinary afternoon.

The agent opens his door. “Sir? She’s waiting.”

Mike Pence walks through held-open doors, past the hostess smiling in her crisp shirt, past the fake sunglasses-wearing alligator head on the wall, past the salad bar with hurried DC office workers loading up on bacon bits, to the discreet booth at the back. She rises to greet him.

The eyes of the vice president drink her in, all in one glance. Sensible black flats. Knee-length gray skirt with matching jacket. Light blue blouse. Delicate silver necklace. She extends a hand.

“Mr. Vice President? Thank you so much for meeting with me today.” The deputy undersecretary of the Office of Management and Budget smiles and Pence thinks he hears a lilt at the words “so much.”

Pleasantries follow. He orders an iced tea, no sweetener. She opts for an Arnold Palmer: Just enough off kilter to pique his interest.

“As you know, I wanted to talk to you today about the enrolled bill memorandum. Our office has a number of concerns that we need to hammer out before reconciliation,” she says.

“Of course,” says the VP. “I understand the importance of the issue.”

Drinks arrive and she sips her iced tea/lemonade concoction. Light filters through a hanging stained glass panel and comes to rest on the woman’s ash blonde bob. A halo. She speaks again. He nods at her but has trouble hearing what she says.

The two peruse the menu, each of them coming to a consensus on a lunch special (2 for $20!), and then get back down to business. He focuses.

“Yes,” he smiles in the midst of discussion. “As I recall from my days in Congress, that budget reconciliation process can sure be a bear.”

She laughs. The waiter comes over to take their orders.

“Let’s see,” he says. “I’ll have the tomato basil soup and three-cheese chicken cavatappi.”

“Hmmm … what looks good. I’ll have the southwest steak and black bean soup and the fire-roasted chicken salad wrap,” she says.  

Fire-roasted. The vice president blushes.

“So how about we go over those numbers?” She smiles.

Mike Pence can’t take it anymore. He excuses himself and leaves the table. Near the salad bar, he grabs a phone from one of the agents and dials.

Karen answers. “Hello?”

“Mother?” he stammers. “Mother, I have sinned …”