We spent a day and a half employing people to work on my appearance. The finished product; fair to average, probably six, perhaps even seven on a scale of ten. The result; my skin felt too soft to touch without bruising and the false nails were driving me crazy, although the painted nail polish patterns looked quite dapper and were growing on me. I even found myself removing my shoes a few times every other hour just to wiggle my toes re-checking the painted patterns again down there; they were kind of cute, a first for me, I'm not a foot person.

Most of the people involved in the transformation were ultra polite and almost able to hide that expression they reserve for first visits of a reformed off the shelf K-Mart shopper. It was rather obvious how the old 'battle-axe' boutique owner who tried to flog us all the evening wear dropped the word 'elegant' from her well rehearsed third person 'madam' something praise lines the moment she watched me try to move in heels. I assume her charming young assistant will manage to keep her job if she looks remorseful and doesn't openly giggle again throughout the customer etiquette reinforcement lecture she will no doubt receive.

Eventually we all resolved to settle for a number of better-cut business suits with heelless shoes suitable for students at an upmarket ladies-college. It's just as well my feet are smallish and I'm six foot one tall they all said in some polite form. Still, I could see on their faces they thought I must have been raised in a one room cabin high in the mountains somewhere to have never acquired any skill in the gentle art of walking in heels.

It was embarrassing walking back into work, what with looking like Barbies Aunty Gladys, as some 'pig' from the sports desk piped up. There were a few wolf whistles, two back slaps, which I truly hate, and one kind-of proposal of marriage with a rather rude tongue gesture thrown in. The Editor even slipped out of his office and said loud enough for everyone to hear, "It's amazing what a coat of varnish will do to an old punt. Butt Boy, when you have dumped those parcels, I want to see you in my office; feel free to bring a coffee for yourself if you can manage it without spilling mine."

I was seated in the editor's office sipping coffee before he confessed there was nothing to talk about, business wise. It seems he just he liked the way I make coffee and he wanted to tell me again how proud he was to have someone from the Tribune actually invited to lunch at the National Press Club in Washington DC. It didn't matter to him that the speaker was my good friend and author SoulmAz Khanum, he had 'Our Man in Washington' written all over the front page of his minds eyes. I slipped my shoes off and showed him my toes with a wiggle saying, "What about these for a guy-magnet." We shared a laugh over how dangerous they were. I even noticed him drop his guard for an instant, as if he was drifting back in time alone; he must have been quite some spunk before family, editorial responsibility, and grey hair consumed him.

The Editor sent me home to take my time packing for the flight. He told me to go pick up my stuff and rush off as if I was on an urgent story. He stood at his office door making bold statements about it had better be front page or you can keep going, just to reinforce his office image.

The flight was a good one, which suited me because I'm not at all confident about what keeps aircraft from falling. The taxi ride from Reagan National Airport downtown to the Henley Park Hotel was by comparison much more hair raising. What with my driver's compulsive need to speed, change lanes on a whim, use back alleys and delight in pointing out intricate detail of recent drive-by shootings, mugging, murders and rapes. All without displaying any need to hold the steering wheel or look through the windscreen for more then an occasional glance.

The hotel was delightful, just as well as I settled in for the night, too afraid to accompany a head full of muggings, murders and such on an evening stroll around town. I dined and slept well, waking freshly relaxed, ready for my day in the National Capital.

By design, the hotel was only a few blocks along Massachusetts Avenue from the National Press Club. I decided to leg it, leaving early enough to find my way but not so early as to arrive looking like someone's out-of-town country cousin, doing the once in a lifetime Washington thing.

It's funny how we occasionally chance upon people with an undefined something about them that draws our eyes to follow them uncontrollably while we sub-consciously busy our brain compiling a wish list about whom or what they might be. He even looked familiar. Dressed in a business suit, not a particularly expensive cut although his body filled it suitably, lustful staring seemed acceptable to a point. I'm not sure where he came from, as I approached the Press Club he came into view from the side crossing my path, and entered the building a little in front of me. There was a confidence in his walk, he obviously knew where he was going. I quickly had him down as a Washington Post journalist, at least, married, a few kids, a multi million dollar house, his and hers sports cars plus an SUV for shopping.

My familiar stranger went straight for the dining hall and furthered my curiosity by speaking briefly at the reception desk before he was immediately ushered around the security people without the necessity of passing through the metal detector. Wow, I thought before being distracted, asking where I needed to go at the front desk. I was sent in his footsteps to reception at the dinning hall. No such service for me; there were lists to look though with some cross checking, a visitor name tag to be found and secured to my person, which was then removed along with everything metallic as a preparation for running the electronic gauntlet.

The stylish blouse with the genuine gold thread through it had seemed like a wonderful fashion statement until it got me rejected three times by the metal detector and rapidly brought several well dressed and suitably alarmed bouncers my way. I was done over twice with a hand wand, before being ushered aside in the direction of a portable cubical to undergo a private and very comprehensive frisking. Even my choice in under-wire bra couldn't be visually explained, needing to be removed to get me through a beep-less wave of the wand. Standing under arrest for several minutes while they found someone with attire resembled that of a female, in full view of amused press people keen to manufacture a story, kept me thinking what a poor job I was doing at maintaining a low profile. When the press photographers started taking my photo surrounded by security guards, I couldn't help feeling a flashing light on my head saying 'out-of-town hick' would have done the same job with much less drama.

I finally got myself certified beep free, and re-dressed to be presentable enough to find my way into the dining room proper. Sure, I was ruffled around the edges but my having not gone ahead fitting an IUD last year somehow made me feel better. As it happens, I was just in time to witness my mystery man helping himself to a table upgrade. He was switching name placeholders from the back corner into the centre, not far from the speaker. His behaviour didn't offend me, I've done the same many times; journalism is not a profession for the meek. My natural curiosity took over taking me straight to the centre table to read the name place labels. Two things struck me, firstly his name, 'Jason Slaughter' and secondly I noticed he was now seated next to me. I thought, "Wow lucky break," before the penny dropped, no wonder he looked familiar. I spent almost a whole summer of school learning about heartbreak necking with a Jason Slaughter. In those days I was too young and innocent to do anything memorable, other than hold hands in public and rub anything above the waist for hours when alone. Nothing ever came of our encounters. I grew up while he still had zits, and besides he took up football; it was impossible to get near him what with the way the cheer squad members were. He had made an impact on me though, for some time I was sure I was doomed to hell for allowing him to use his tongue while kissing me and I got grounded big-time when a neighbour told my mother that I had allowing boys to venture inside my blouse. The last I heard of him he had joined the Marines. I guess he was the last person I expected to see wearing a suit in a club for journalists.

I had decided to play it cool by the time he sat beside me and did the, "Jennifer Priestly, well I never; how are you! I'm Jason Slaughter, we went to school together." I looked at him and said, "Jason Slaughter, The name sounds familiar but in all honesty I can't place you. It's so long ago, I'll check through my schoolbook tonight. Do you have a card?" I opened my purse and passed him a card in my well-rehearsed gesture, in truth I was fishing for more information about him. He didn't offer his card he just looked at mine and said, "I'm confused this card belongs to Caprice Savoy. Are you moonlighting?" I almost looked at the card too but pulled myself up in time. It seems our man who doesn't like going through metal detectors was very, very well informed. The waitress placing my meal in front of me saved me to some extent. The exchange wasn't over, this guy was rapidly becoming my number one priority for investigative journalism. Nothing ticks me off more than people who use privileged information to re-enforce a position of power over others, especially me.

The meal was a delight; I went for the Chicken Kiev with a Chocolate Soufflé dessert. The wine list was most impressive; I stuck to mineral water, in keeping with my recently created self-image. The other guests at the table bantered small talk back and forward, they clearly knew each other well and all seemed to want to know more about me. Basically they were fishing to find out how I managed to score a seat at the prestigious centre table. When the Manager introduced SoulmAz to the table I earned status, having SoulmAz refer to me by name and embrace me warmly without an introduction. They were particularly impressed that SoulmAz arranged for us to meet in her Hotel tonight; Business Cards were rapidly exchanged with me from all. Jason was quickly dropped from conversation; everyone present knew he belonged in the back corner, besides a guy without a business card in these circles must be an impostor or a joke.

I was delightfully surprised to establish just how esteemed SoulmAz was. During her speech all hung to her every word. Consumed by the logic she presented in her arguments, seduced with the skill of how her words captured attention. She spoke of the right of children to grow up healthy, free from oppression. She spoke of her dream that women will one day be masters of their own destiny, equal partners in the business of owning and determining worldly needs. Afterwards she fielded questions and in every case was able to offer answers, solutions to delight an enlightened audience. She received a standing ovation for her effort, quite an achievement in a room overflowing with journalistic cynicism. The conversation at our table continued for some time after SoulmAz had left for her next engagement. Not the journalism face of a situation, but an exchange of ideas offered and received by equals who had found a desire to expand their knowledge base and gain a better understanding of the people around them.

I walked out of the National Press Club freshly enlightened with four new valuable journalist contacts and Jason on my arm, who had offered to show me the sights of Washington during what remained of the afternoon. I'm sure it was no accident that Jason found the time to show me the sights. I had faked a trip to the bathroom to phone my editor to establish his take on Jason and was quickly cautioned that I was probably dealing with a genuine CIA operative, investigating what threat factors may be associated with, and around SoulmAz. I thought this sounded silly but if I might quote my Editor, 'be careful with those guys, they are all dangerously crazy; they hear and see threats to national security in every Pizza order. The environment they work in goes to their head.'

I quickly took up Jason's offer to show me about town, but my editor's words were starting to affect me. I even wondered if he was the Jason Slaughter of my youth at all, perhaps he was a stranger pretending. I searched his demeanour for something, a sign to reassure me; I could find nothing convincingly familiar.

First on the National Capital scenic tour was 'The Wall', he took me straight to his brother's name, running his hand over it like an alcoholic might fondle and stroke the last empty gin bottle. He talked of duty, what it means to be a true patriot; I was starting to catch on to his wavelength but said nothing. I sat back for the ride as we drove across the Potomac to Arlington Cemetery, which he could only refer to as Fort Myer. We went straight for Kennedy's grave, where he seemed to say a quiet player. I used the opportunity to take out my camera and started photographing things so as to include Jason. I asked about the impressive backdrop, Arlington House, and was fascinated to discover this 'knowledgeable' patriot had no idea he was standing in the historical grounds of the Lee Family residence. That this magnificent tribute to national pride and human sacrifice was created out of political vindictiveness had been skipped from the training he received. The quote, 'Those who don't study history are condemned to relive it,' rolled in and out of my brain, although I knew better then to share it with him.

I guessed correctly; next stop was the Iwo Jima Memorial and again I received a meaning of patriotism talk. Two charming Japanese tourists interrupted us, asking if I would take a photo of them together in front of the monument. They were such a beautiful happy couple, obviously very much in love and mesmerizing in front of a camera. I asked permission to take their photo using my own camera, warning them I was a newspaper journalist writing an article about visiting Washington. We exchanged bows and business cards; to them it would be a family honour appearing in print. I asked the man if he would take a photo of Jason and myself, putting my arm under Jason's shoulder in a best buddies pose and changed sides to repeat the embrace for another photo. Jason was, shall we say a little putout that Japanese people would dare visit 'his' sacred memorial. I wasn't sympathetic, my conversation with the young couple had already revealed that between them they had lost three Great Uncles to the fighting on Iwo Jima Island; I realised how this monument commemorated our combined history, bringing our nations closer together. This memorial was as much for them as it was mine. Jason's attitudes and obsessions had really started to bug me. I had only arranged the photo shoot to check for a shoulder holster, which was surely there under his left arm.

Time was running low, and I asked to be taken to the hotel to prepare for the appointment with SoulmAz. In the privacy of his car Jason opened up, it seems I was in danger and needed protection. SoulmAz represented a threat to national security; it was his duty to watch her and to make sure I didn't become involved. According to Jason I would be well advised to stand her up tonight and not have anything to do with her in the future. I laughed openly in his face; it didn't go over well. He was most definitely the Jason of my past, I once rather foolishly told him he was acting out a gay fantasy spending so much time interacting in the change room with his football buddies. I saw that threatening expression then; it had not changed one bit over the years. He didn't speak, choosing to sit quietly stewing, glancing at me occasionally; it was as if he retracted into a sulking provoked rage. I remember at school it made me feel concerned for my safety. He looked so dangerously untrustworthy; it was the reason I broke off with him. Nothing had changed, all the feelings and emotions came flooding back in an instant, save that I am now street toughened. I found another quote floating around inside my head and quoted it out loud, 'Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.' Although I'm not sure why, as I was quite sure my nationalistically indoctrinated travelling companion wouldn't have the foggiest idea what it meant.

The journalist in me took over and started me asking questions using my most seductive presentation to have him explain his idiom further. The guy was crazy; to him being from Iran and having a funny name was the threat, oh, and being successful enough to draw a crowd was clearly very dangerous. He didn't say so, but I'm sure being female as well made SoulmAz deadly dangerous. I asked about his research to date, had he read her books and while he skirted the questions he finally admitted that being a patriot like him meant having a responsibility to set an example not reading any subversive trash. I asked further about the research that had been undertaken to reach the conclusion SoulmAz was such a threat and followed his silence with a battery of questions about her past, where she grow up, where she now lives, her work, family, friends etc. Jason skipped around and grew quite uncomfortable starting to talk down at me playing the need to know, secrets game enough to convince me he knew nothing at all about SoulmAz, good or bad.

Jason followed me back to my room, where I invited him to pour a drink from the mini-bar while I deliberately changed in front of him. There was no reason to change really, but I wanted to expose Jason's psyche. What better way to unravel him than to place some flesh in his face, all very innocent of course, while I watch him exercise some of his ideological restraint; after all, I'm mixing in dangerous circles and he said he needs to avoid subversive trash. I maintained a conversation and proceeded to strip naked without covering anything or even turning away, as if it was done all the time. He sipped, talked and watched; somewhere during the display he started to run out of words, making up for the silence by adding more watching. Never one to miss an opportunity, I even went to the bathroom leaving the door open, having already made sure he was seated where we would maintain his eye contact. I used the washbasin to give myself a sponge down, the like of which I hadn't experienced since bumming around Europe many years ago. I changed the topic to the immoral influence of rock music while I did my hair and applied some make-up; all the while maintaining nakedness like it was completely natural. I guessed correctly, to Jason rock musicians were a threat. This was my cue to talk about Jeff Baxter and his involvement in the Aegis Combat System. I enjoyed explaining how he was known as Skunk when playing guitar in Steely Dan and the Doobie Brothers. I'm quite sure Jason didn't know I was trying to wind him up further, everything seemed to pass over his head. His brain being pre-occupied by my nakedness parading before him, eyes followed my every move while exhibiting lustful needs, the fill of his trousers was sending signals of masculine approval.

Satisfied I had his full attention, I started to dress. I did the job slowly, asking his advice about which piece to wear and help with bra clasps, etc. To his credit he kept his hands to himself and made no advances other then numerous complements designed to draw the conversation subject towards sexual matters so he could focus on the business of getting physical with me. It didn't work, I kept right on talking; anything to do with matters of national security, policy or patriotic duty, for no reason other then to tease his masculinity into submission.

I invited Jason to be my guest for the evening, he accepted in an instant. The principles involved with visiting SoulmAz and her family seemingly had become irrelevant. Jason wanted to follow me anywhere after what I had just put him through; he was feeling lucky about his chances tonight.

The evening with SoulmAz was a delight, her husband and children were as enlightened, charming and confident as I knew they would be. I introduced Jason as an old friend who had also attended the same school, adding that he is a genuine gun packing CIA spy, these days. I also explained how our parents all still lived within a few blocks of each other. Everyone received a surprise with my introduction of Jason. SoulmAz's son instantly became Jason's biggest fan and wanted to talk spy things all night. I used the opportunity to take their photo together with Jason proudly displaying his CIA identity pass on his chest. Jason was speechless, simply floored and somewhat embarrassed to discover the connection between SoulmAz and myself, and also himself.

It was rather late when we arrived back at the hotel. Jason had a look of expectation in his eye, I poured him a drink and sat close offering the latitude to accept advances. His hands were soft and gentle, graceful; I wasn't expecting it to be so. I had prepared myself for a torrid time, mindful of teenagers experimenting, how heavy handed he was with my chest; although in those days I knew no better
either.

His hands confidently found their way to my shoulders, travelled under my hair, slowly drawing me forward, our lips meeting half way. First a few innocent pecks before increasing the intensity of the embrace. Soft caresses drove me further into the motion of his spell. Hands manoeuvred behind and below my ears where fingers found unmarked places to heighten the sensation of my involvement. The cool dampness of his motioning lips sent signals to search for buttons on his shirt. Each in turn gave over their capture of him allowing my fingers to navigate, blindly feeling across masculine contours, venturing further down his front.

The pulsating of my heart pumping consciousness into an expanding chest of heightened sensation, magical tingles engulfed me as Jason released me from the inhibitions of my clothing. His hands ventured lower, occasionally softly rising to sweep up and outwards engulfing the form of my tightening breasts; caressed with a touch of tongue supported between lips of gold.

We stood continuing to undress, not breaking the emotional embrace holding us. We stared for a microsecond, our naked venerability alone with each other, identical, displaying and surveying the differences drawing us together. On the bed we accepted each other as one. Our motion gyrated in cooperative unison, electric, wanting to move faster, stay perfectly still, throwing us deeper into the moment of being one. The lustful bliss of orgasm visited me several times. We rolled taking control of each other until in an explosive release of energy we climaxed together before subsiding into quiet motionlessness.

In the dim light of the room I watched him lay like a contented baby, my head resting on his shoulder. I watched him fall asleep and wondered of what he would dream. I thought at length of him as a raw teenager and wondered where he had gained his experience. Somewhere in my thoughts the events of the day closed in on me, racing consciousness gave way to sleep.

We woke still tangled in our embrace, the room captured by daylight holding messages of sunshine etched on closed curtains. There was time for a relaxing breakfast in bed, followed by a cleanup together in a bath full of bubbles before it was time for me to return home. I've always been partial to a good back scrub and neck massage from kind hands, so I left the room feeling at my best. We allowed ourselves some folly, taking Jason's photo, my action man, dressed only in his shoulder holster draped across my bed, in waiting.

Jason drove me to the airport and said a passionate farewell, very impressive, I guess he had fallen in deeper then I thought possible. On the plane I started mapping out two articles, one by Jennifer Priestly titled "The Diversity of our National Capital," the centre piece being the beautiful image of the Japanese couple standing in front of the Iwo Jima Memorial, a grab for the readers attention. The print was the usual, where to go what to see society pages rubbish, plus a summary of SoulmAz's speech and vision.

The other Article was by Caprice Savoy titled, "Our Man in Washington – on the Job" I had our imaging department make a composite to clean up Jason dressed only in his shoulder holster. They enlarged and positioned his CIA identity pass over him such that it made him decent, suitable for publication, but stole nothing from the image in terms of reader imagination. The story detail was a believable nameless fabrication, presenting an idea about paranoid CIA agents, out of control, accountable to no one, inventing enemies, using power and position to manipulate people for personal gratification. They say a picture is worth a thousand words; my editor beamed with delight while signing off on the story, he shook his head  mumbling, "Butt Boy you evil, evil person, this is so precious, I love you. The punters do so like a good, well told conspiracy theory."

We received a lot of feedback about the articles; both caught our readers' imaginations. The editor received the usual gutter press complaints about the Caprice Savoy article, and numerous requests to purchase the piece for re-print in other newspapers, some from the national press; an excellent day in editor circles.

Eventually the call I was expecting came through; it was in the form of a text message from Jason saying simply, "You heartless bitch." An uncomfortable smirk came to my face; I had obviously made an impression. "That's what good journalism is all about," I told myself. Without saying a word I retrieved some text I had written earlier and replied. I sent a quote, 'Truth is the first casualty of war.' it seemed like the right thing to say; Jason and I were never meant to be.