President Ronald Reagan threw himself into bed. It had been a long day for the Gipper, one that he wouldnât soon forget. In fact, the whole year of 1987 had been quite the busy one for the Chief of State. For now, however, he simply wanted to sleep. He had already changed into his bedclothes and gave Nancy a good-night kiss. That night, however, was not going to be a normal night for the old Great Communicator. After a few hours of fitful sleep -- one no doubt plagued by the problems of the Union and the world as a whole -- the President rose from his bed and let his elderly -- yet still very much capable -- legs carry him to the Executive Washroom. He sent the water running forth with a nimble turn of the tap and a familiar squeak. Splashing the cool liquid on his face, Reagan stared at his wrinkled visage in the mirror. He couldnât deny it -- he was getting up there in years. Not that he would admit it to the American people or anyone else, but he couldnât deny it to himself or his First Lady.
Just then, Ron couldnât help but hear the red phone ringing in the Oval Office. The Kremlin didnât normally call this late, so he figured it must be urgent. Sprinting down the hallway as fast as his wrinkled frame could carry him and the Presidential bathrobe he fastened around himself, the Gipper snatched the phone off the hook and held the receiver to his ear. Panting and out of breath, Reagan asked, âH-hello?â
âHello, Mister Reagan.â A thick Russian accent greeted the Chief Executive.
âG-Gorbachev?â
âYes. Meet me at Russian embassy alone. I have a surprise.â
The line clicked closed as the President had to do what we elect Presidents to do: make a decision. Only a momentâs thought sent the Gipper out the door, dressed in his best suit without alerting Nancy or the Secret Service. The chill of the winter Washington air beat against his aging frame, the whistling wind rustling both the trees of the White House lawn and Reaganâs skinny knees. His freshly-shined shoes carried him through the Washington streets and directly to the Russian embassy, where he found the gate unlocked for him and nothing but darkened windows welcoming him inside. The door was unlocked as well, and the embassy held nothing but a single desk and one Mikhail Gorbachev, a desk lamp trained on his chubby frame, wearing only a heavy fur coat, the overpowering scent of premium Soviet vodka, and a seductive, come-hither smile. Ronald wasnât sure how to react. All he knew was that he could feel his own Head of State poking up against the inside of his pants.
âMister GorbachevâŚâ He began, slowly undoing the buttons on his sport coat without pulling his gaze from Mikhailâs passionate brown eyes, only slightly gazed from the vodka coursing through his hardy Soviet frame. â...Tear down this wall. To my heart!â With a mighty show of strength and can-do American spirit, the Gipper tore his sport coat and dress shirt from his weathered frame, hurling himself onto Mikhailâs all-too-obliging fur-coated borscht belly and landing without a scratch. The Commander in Chief let his nimble fingers dance just under the coat and gracefully glide around Mikhailâs erect Soviet nipples and the rough carpet of hair that surrounded them. âTheyâre so hard.â Reagan remarked, his confident, breathy clearly impressed.
âDa. Is cold in Moscow.â Mikhail nodded, a proud smile on his face, as he ran his chubby, yet surprisingly nimble, fingers down the front of the Presidentâs aging body. He started with a graceful circle around the Gipperâs chest, just barely grazing the inside of his tender nipples. These were nipples that Mikhail had wanted to touch for a long time, an urge locked up in the back of his calculating Communist mind until not a few hours ago, when a number of very lonely thoughts and the bottoms of more than a few vodka bottles had left him unable to think about anything other than that charming American and his freedom nipples, the ones that had worked so hard to threaten his precious Soviet way of life. Perestroika and Glasnost -- aside from what he had named his testicles -- had been working to close the gap between the two, and all that hard work was beginning to pay off. Mikhail let his borscht-fattened fingers glide down the Great Communicator -- one still entranced with the fantastic rigidity of his loverâs hardy Soviet nipples. Soon, Mikhailâs fingers made their slow, dancing way down to Reaganâs waistline, gingerly reaching into his star-spangled briefs and wrapping his lonely fingers around the Presidentâs flagpole, the one holding up the tent of his suit pants. A few gentle strokes summoned a blush to the Gipperâs wrinkled face.
âOh, Mikhail...â He said, breathlessly. â...I didnât think you would go THAT far.â
âMister Reagan, there is much you donât know about me.â Mikhail responded, punctuating his statement with a kiss on his loverâs forehead and a sly smile on his Soviet lips. He continued to stroke up and down the Great Communicatorâs rigid penis, laying his hairy hand across his loverâs back in an almost fatherly fashion. Ronald was hardly uncomfortable with this. Quite the opposite, actually. For some time now, Nancy simply hadnât been giving him what he wanted. Iran-Contra had practically impeached his own little Chief Executive, so this was a very welcome surprise, to say the least. Resting his aging head, and the still-sharp brain inside, against his new loverâs bear-like Soviet chest, the Gipper let Mikhail unbutton his pants and discard them- and his tighty red, blue, and whities- onto the beautifully ushanka-ed hat rack by the door. Reagan could feel his personal flagpole eagerly twitch with Mikhailâs loving touch and quickly bringing the President to the verge of his own Challenger explosion. Just then, however, Gorbachev stopped.
âSomething wrong?â Reagan asked, his voice sincere and shaken.
Without saying another word in his silky-yet-harsh Soviet voice, Mikhail sprung into action. He moved surprisingly fast for someone of his age and size. He spun the Gipper around, displaying the graying hair on the back of the Presidentâs wizened head. A smooth, oddly practiced thrusting motion forced a meaty, borscht-fattened ICBM deep into Reaganâs eager, wrinkled ass. It only took two or three emotionally charged, hearty stew-fueled thrusts to wrack both wrinkled bodies with pleasure. Copious amounts of warm, sticky cum filled the Gipper, while Commander in Chief found his own pocket rocket firing all over the door- a good ten feet from the dirty desk- and even pushing the Great Communicator into the hair-cushioned chest of his old nemesis. Both men merely laid on the desk for a good ten minutes after that, letting the last of their shared orgasm leak out of their respective, ample dicks. Gorbyâs even remained buried in the Oval Orifice, bathing in its own warm, welcoming product.
After the last deep, recovering breath had been taken, both men sat up on the desk and found themselves on their feet. Ronald realized he had never even removed his shoes, and his socks had become splattered with... probably his own cum. It was hard to be certain. He walked his newly invigorated frame around the room and collected his underpants under the watchful eye of his new lover. After fastening his supportive patriotic briefs around his sagging waist, Reagan secured his Presidential bathrobe around his body and tried to come up with a story to tell Nancy about where he went.
âSame time next week?â He asked, throwing his gaze behind him to the half-naked Russian.
âDa.â
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When the two pairs of piercing blue eyes met across the room, Paul felt a jolt through his body like a bolt of ice-blue lightning. âIâm straight,â he told himself silently. âIâm a Republican!â But it was no use. This man had a presence to him, a sense of power, that not even the knowledge of society's dependence on not changing the definition of marriage could control.
Memories began to return to him. No, not memories: Shadows, images, things from before that day when those two men in cammo and ski masks hauled him out of the wreck of that car. Theyâd taken him to a cabin in the woods and laid him on a stack of stockpiled gold bars, where they bandaged the cut on his head and set his broken leg.
âThanks for helping me,â heâd managed to croak out.
âHelp?â grunted one of the men. âWhat do we look like? Liberals? Communists? Social workers?â
âWe help no one,â said the other, the one who was setting his leg. He had a voice like gravel. âThat would be against the principles of enlightened self-interest. You areâŚan investment.
Now repeat after me: My name is Paul Ryan, and I am a conservative.â
âMy name is Paul RyanâŚand I am aâŚconservative?â mumbled Paul. Something about it seemed wrong, but he couldnât remember what. He couldnât remember much of anything.
âGood. Now say: I want to end Medicare and make abortion illegal.â
Paul numbly repeated the words.
âGood. That was the first lesson. Tomorrow you go out to that crick behind the cabin and shove your hand down the throat of a live catfish.â
Now, years later, the words had become his reality. He had known no otherâŚuntil tonight, when he had spotted that famous visage from across the room. He'd seen him on television, of course, but the screen could not do him justice. It couldn't convey the way the soft lights glinted off his silver-gray hair and highlighted the rugged contours of his face. His heart was in his throat when he saw the other man beckon to him. Then they were face to face. A curl of cigar smoke rose between them, upsetting the calibration of Paulâs carefully toned body and making it difficult for him to think.
Paul had no words, but the other man seemed to understand. He left his drink on the bar and led the way out onto the balcony.
Framed by stars, he was only more beautiful. He reached out and touched Paul's face, as if he were brushing away a stray hair, but of course it was just an exuse to touch him--Paul never had stray hairs. The cool night air cleared Paulâs head and gave him courage. Finally, he was able to speak.
âRush,â he whispered, âI think Iâm in love with you.â
50 Shades of the Blue and the Gray (George W. Bush/Lincoln)
November 19, 1863
Dear Diary,
Returned by train from Gettysburg, where to-day I gave an address that the world will little note, nor long remember. But that's not what prompted this momentous, and perhaps rash, entry in my diary. You see, upon entering the Oval Office, dimly lit by candle-light as is my custom, I became aware of an abrupt flash of light from behind my desk. Thinking it gunpowder or sorcery, I dove to the ground. When I regained my footing, in my place was the visage of a space-man, wearing some fashion of green military suit and a helmet the likes of which I had never seen.
"Hey," a voice from behind the mask chuckled. "You're stovepipe hat guy. Like on the penny."
Rendered momentarily dumb by my state of confusion and the space-man's incomprehensible gibberish, I stared more closely. I couldn't help but notice the space-man's suit was especially form-fitting around the trousers. Having removed his helmet, I could see his visage for the first time, and I took in his steely, resolute glare before my eyes returned to the bulge in his space-suit.
"Heh," the space-man said, gesturing down to his nether regions. "I heard you were a little light in the loafers. But that's okay -- hell, it's better than okay. That's why I got Dick Cheney to borrow this time machine from Haliburton to send me back here to the, uh, whazzitcalled, past."
I was beginning to sense that this space-man had more attributes in his technology than his elocution, but I did not care. I felt a desire in my loins I had not felt since I'd shared a bed with my dearest friend in a log cabin back in Illinois.
"Don't worry, chief," the space-man said, unzipping his suit in a deft maneuver that left him standing naked before me in an instant. "One day, they'll name a part of the Republican party after you."
"You mean in Congress?" I replied.
"Don't mind if I do!" the space-man said, throttling my neck as he took me forcefully and repeatedly, prompting me to lose consciousness in a miasma of lust, asphyxiation, and overpowering cologne. When I regained my senses, the space-man was fading from site in the same glow, muttering to himself.
I'll take his final words to my grave: "Mission Accomplished."
-Your faithful servant, dear diary, Abraham Lincoln
That Whole Yale Thing (Bill Clinton/George H.W. Bush)
"Bill, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately."
"What about, George?" What everyone said about his Bill-ness? All true. All hand over hand, palm atop forearm. All those late nights on the phone talking core values, Foundation news, Katrina, PEPFAR. All those years he'd wanted to be an F.O.B., friend of Bill.
With benefits.
"About all I've done for this world. All the things that might live on after me."
"You have the most efficient military victory in a generation, consequential SCOTUS selections. For a one-term president, you got an awful lot to be proud of. In fact if it wasn't for the whole supermarket scanner thing --"
"I don't mean politics, Bill. Personal."
"Mr. President, may I ask if you'd be willing to define your terms?"
"Well, I keep thinking back to an incident back in New Haven I've been turning over in my mind ever since. For so long I'd rather not have spoken of it, but I'm getting on with things and -- when you were in law school, Bill, did they take freshman photos of your class?"
"I'm afraid I don't remember, but maybe that's not the only thing I'm not as familiar with up there as I'd like," he said, laughing that big belly laugh of his that welled up from his core like the hot of the Ozark springs.Â
"If they'd taken one you'd remember," George continued. "They lined up my whole class at Payne Whitney and -- "
"The gym? Wow, I used to live over there. There's a picture of me and Hillary in the front of there in the big book. Put the thing in the stockphoto stockpile up in Chappaqua. Man, I miss those days. We had a little beachhouse there up in Guilford. Used to read Faulkner and Gabriel Garcia Marquez looking out on the coast. Sometimes Jordan and me --"
(As much as George adored Bill, the man could talk one's ear off.)
"No, it wasn't about the gym, Bill. It was about some experiment they were doing, though they didn't tell us that at the time. Bill, they had us each form a place in line and then call us into a photo room and --"
"Oh, that whole thing?" (God, he was so quick!) "Not my class. We were too late and liberated for that! But I heard about it at Georgetown. You think they'd let that effort fly at Georgetown?! That's what Catholic high school is for, George! Lawd almighty, the Jesuits woulda had a field day. But Hillary had one done at Wellesley, let me tell you. You know, they were supposed to be doing it to check spinal curvature, and she was of course straight and narrow, but this was all before she got all Wellesley on everybody."
"You don't really believe that, do you?"
"You haven't seen her cervical spine, have you? Her haircuts tend to obscure that little crane of the neck, but it's left quite an impression over the years. Hell, if you believe Joe Klein, I invented those rumors."
"I don't believe anything Klein reports about anything, not after 43. But what scares me, Bill, is I believe I might have a⌠fantasy about someone taking another photo of me, with the passage of time. For comparison's sake."
"Huh." Bill gave one of those over-the-reading-specs pensive looks he does.
"Would you be willing to see? I see your assistant has an Instagram on his phone."
"Aw, George, you know I don't swing that way. I've seen a lot of dicks swinging free in my day, as you might guess, but this other angle ain't me. I can't tell you I'm not flattered, but I just don't think of you that way. I'm sorry."
"Oh." One of those times when Yankee reserve worked for him so well. "I apologize for being so forward, Bill. Yet I thought with -- you and Stephanopoulos always used to seem so --"
"You wouldn't be the first to make that mistake, him included."
"I'm sorry, I'm not usually so... improper."
"Oh, hell, why don't you just show me? A man's gotta do one crazy thing before he leaves this place for good, right?"
"I assume so."
"Well, click-click!"
"I will, Bill."
"Atwater would skin you alive for this. You could lose your entire base."
"It is what it is." Though he still had an athlete's build, his joints had gotten creaky with age, and Bill helped him wing back his arms to remove the shirt.Â
"No, let me finish." With that his pants were off faster than a Perot monologue, and like Perot, he had brought the goods for a real slideshow.
Bill wouldn't have pegged him for a manscaper, but the base of his shaft was clean as his record.Â
"Hoo-ey, that is some shit! Did you pick up that habit over in China?"
"Oh, no. Barbara." He hunched down. "Here, check my spine."
George had thrown a lot of curveballs on the day, but there wasn't a damn curve on him now, not a curve down his whole back to his preternaturally tight elder states-ass. Every part of his posture was upright. For posterity, he convinced himself. The family dynasty.
"Mr. George," Bill breathed, "I think your reputation'll hold up just fine."
Caroline. For the past year Caroline had consumed him, as phthisis consumed her. Benjamin could barely pronounce the word, and when they pronounced her dead, he was as wide open as the upstate New York springs that could not sustain her. What would he do without his role as caretaker? He was so used to life caring for an invalid that he forgot his own in his new, and subservient, role. For a time it chafed his style, and distracted him from, what, Indian Affairs, but after some time he grew to like the doting, conceding his campaign responsibilities, all thanks to Grover.
And Grover! That big bitch had beaten him in 1888, without the electoral vote on top of it, but Grover had suspended the Democratic campaign for him--such an unexpected gesture! Ben didn't think the Bourbons capable of such tenderness, especially Grover, who always looked so miserable all the time mushing his mouth around like he had something he was trying to push around in there. So things had been better between them lately.
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Just a joyless campaign. It was way too early for this shit, and it wasn't even 5:30 a.m. Joe was spent; Geist was out today doing God knows. Did these candidates even like politics? Obama, trying to be so above it all. Romney, just, like, odd. No interest in the game. No desire to do the back-and-forth scrapping Joe craved. Where was a third party to re-energize this race? Sometimes he felt like he was talking to no one, the loneliest man at the roundtable leading the morning news of the world.
The world put a little more slump in his shoulders this 7:45 break.
As "Up the Junction" played over the tag, Joe felt a little tug at his trousers from under the desk.
"Hello."
"Wha -- ?" Years before he'd become a little reluctant to look down at what was up at his Deep South.There had always been rumors about Olbermann wearing nothing under the waist, and just⌠nasty. Plus this one time Katrina tried to initiate footsie with him, which he tried to play off by saying he wanted something a little more middle-of-the-spectrum, but --total kink-fest, let's just say, so weird. And he wasn't into it, not at all.  Â
"You have a surprise visitor for the 8:00 hour." It was Mike Bloomberg, Mayor Mike, Bloomberg Bloomberg, who had crawled under and made a little compact box of himself on all fours.Â
âIâll be in the Oval Office. Hold my calls. No disturbances, okay?â
âYes, Mr. President.â
âGood girl.â
With that, George W. Bush closed and locked the door behind him. He knew he wouldnât have long. He went straight to the al Jazeera channel on YouTube and there it was. The October 29, 2004, video of Osama bin Laden. Heâd watched it a thousand times, but still it never failed to arouse him. He pulled out his cock and began to stroke it.
âMmmm, yeah. Thatâs it. Claim responsibility. Daddy loves a bad boy.â
At first heâd hated that video. How dare Osama blame him, the President, of misleading the American people? (And so what if he had? It was for their own good, damn it!) But in the days after the video was released, his once-flagging campaign for re-election gained popularity. People were scared of bin Laden, and olâ Georgie boy was there to protect them. Winning that second term â and the pride of beating his father at his own game â was all the impetus heâd needed to develop an obsession with Osama bin Laden.
âOh god, yeah. Stroke your beard. Mmmm, if only youâd take off that robe.â The stroking stopped momentarily as he paused to pull the well-worn dildo from the desk drawer, lubricate it, and insert it roughly.
âOh yeah! Fuck my tight little hole, Osama! Harder!â He stroked his cock furiously as he bobbed up and down on the dildo.
âMore! More! Oh⌠oh⌠oh god⌠YES!â he cried as jets of hot cum squirted across the desk.
He paused to catch his breath, then wiped off the desk and put away the dildo and laptop. There was one more thing he needed to do before he went back to work. He dialed a now-familiar number.
âYeah, itâs me. Raise the reward money for capturing Osama bin Laden again. We really need to catch this son of a bitch.â He hung up the phone. It was time to get back to work.
âSomeday you will be mine for real,â he said wistfully as he walked to the door.
Erectile dysfunction. What a thing to be remembered for, Bob Dole thought bitterly as he sat on his porch, gazing off into the distance of the flat, featureless Kansas prairie. The long, hot summer was finally giving way to shorter days and cool fall air. For Bob Dole, it had been an uneventful year so far. He had given up waiting for a phone call from that gutless bastard Romney, though of course he spent most of his time closely following the campaign. Now the asshole was trying to spin his airplane window gaffe, insisting it had been a joke. I fucking wrote the book on humor in politics, and when your wife almost dies on board an aircraft, itâs no laughing matter.
 As he so often did these days, Bob Dole allowed his mind to wander back to a time when the Republican Party was home to great men. Men like Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, Dick Nixon⌠and, most of all, Jerry Ford. How well he remembered the day Jerry had summoned him to his hometown of Grand Rapids to discuss an âurgent matterâ with him. âThey call it Furniture City,â he purred over the phone. âI think youâll find a lot of wood here, if you know what I mean.â
 Nelson Rockefeller no longer suited Fordâs needs. Scuttlebutt around Washington was that Rockefeller had a fatal flaw: he was relentlessly heterosexual. It had proved his undoing in the end, all right. Bob Dole, on the other hand, had always had a thing for football players. He looked forward to spending long nights in the Oval Office with Jerry â Betty was hitting the bottle pretty hard in those pre-rehab days, so the president would need a lot of consolation â but sadly, it was not to be.
 Bob Dole had, of course, chosen another football player as his running mate during his own bid for the presidency, but that attempt had failed as well. At least they had enjoyed some hot nights on the campaign trail. Bob Dole loved running his fingers through Jackâs thick, sexy sweep of gray hair, even when Kemp wouldnât shut up about supply side economics. âThereâs only one trickle down that Iâm interested in tonight,â Bob Dole would tell him.
Bob Doleâs reverie was interrupted by Liddy, bringing him a glass of lemonade. She was a good woman, even though he thought of their marriage as one of convenience. No one would ever know the real reason he needed those boner pills â when he was touching the sinewy body of an ex-football star, he could get it up just fine, thanks. âDonât you want to come inside and watch the game? The Rams are playing the Bears,â said Liddy. For the first time all day, Bob Dole smiled.
Behind the Green Room Door (Gingrich/Perry/Cain/Romney)
By John Handcock
"Fuckin'--"
"Man, I love--"
"White people," they finished together. Herman Cain squinted skeptically and shifted his eighth of a ton in the puce loveseat, taking his angry eyes from the initially offending Rick Perry to the source of the other voice, even as Leroy "the King" Gingrich paused in the doorway, flushed and fumbling with a Jerry Pournelle paperback. Gingrich ran his thick fingers over the embossed cover of the planet-scale rape fantasy and said in his querulous voice "Jinx, there, Herman-o: you owe me a good Georgia coke from one of those pizza joints of yours."
"Shut your mouth, you tiny-faced big-headed ol' pee-pee drinker. Only coke you're getting over here came from a hell of a lot farther south than Georgia."
"And any jinxes," threw in Rick Perry, "are gonna be on y'all's limp-dick campaigns!"
The debate was still nearly an hour off. The green room choked on competing smoke-clouds from the candidates--anyway, the male candidates, as Iowa's fairly strict segregation laws were still in effect. Cain's foul cigar naturally predominated, but Perry's acrid industrial-chemical taint cut through the burning-garbage-pile stench neatly, like a Jethro Tull flute solo over power chords. Perry leaned back and exhaled pale grey smoke as the glass pipe slipped from nerveless fingers. "My goodness, Figgy, you certainly would make a better door than a window--though, to be honest, you're a pretty pudgy door!" Thus did Willard "Mallard Fillmore" Romney announce his arrival, behind the corpulent impediment and his sweat-drenched behind, still ensconced in the doorway's embrace. Gingrich, still endorphin-drenched from his unusually successful masturbation attempt, just sighed and hove his bulk fully into the warm room and its moist air, that his better might enter.
"Hey, Milk Baby, you want a bump?" Cain tucked his coke spoon back underneath his ugly shirt and leered at Romney.
With a nervous, throat-choked snigger, Gingrich tried to throw in "I think you should say 'Ho, Ender, you fart-knocker, when you talk to that Mormon hack--' but, as usual, nobody wanted to hear smug in-jokes from a pudgy jerkoff artist. He never did get to finish explaining his Ender OF CAMPAIGNS HAW HAW HAW joke, which, no matter what your feelings are on meat-clotted adulterers with rancid, hate-filled political beliefs drizzled in a tangy sauce of expedience and pandering, is at least a little bit of a bummer. Everybody deserves to finish their jokes. Romney's impassive mask hardly cracked at Cain's jibe, and he said as evenly as his speech modulators allowed "Why, you child of Ham, do you think it is that you always want something white to introduce into yourself? Is it because even your name bears the foul mark of your eternally-punished sins?"
"The FUCK did you just sa--" but Cain was cut off by Perry taking to his hind legs and stretching hugely. Naked, he stalk-padded around the room, preening and flexing with small noises of self-appreciation. Cain's anger broke against Perry's impenetrable obliviousness and fell back in rivulets seeking an easier target. "Hey Greendick--the hell were you running your mouth about white people for? Don't tell me you think these peckerwoods right here are worth a damn. Don't you dare tell me that."
"I was just reading my bible here in the bathroom--these stories are so inspirationa--"
"God DAMN you are a tiresome, awful little person. Shut up about your little revenge fantasies, Footfall, whatever. You want to see a foot gonna make you fall you come over here for a second."
"Why can't you ever be nice to me, Herman?"
"Because I don't like you. You're a bad person, and you're weak. Somebody asks you what you want on your pizza, you look over at me. Some iron-faced little tranny asks you to change your religion, you say yes. Some dumb jerk in the office asks for a quick hump, you say yes, then you cry about it."
"Well if you hate me so much, why don't you just--"
"Can't find any takers. I'm stuck with your sorry ass."
Like an arthritic elephant trying to sit, Gingrich collapsed in an avalanche of flesh to the floor before Cain's throne, angling his head towards Cain's lap like a guilty spaniel. "Aw, Herman," he groveled, "I know you don't mean any of these nasty--"
"Man, get off me!" Cain shoved Gringrich away and stood up. Romney, forgotten by the bickering couple as he'd be forgotten by history, kept to his corner, his characteristic prissy smirk playing across his crisp jaw. Since only Perry happened to see it, only Perry wanted to feed him a Dagwood of a knuckle sandwich. "Hey, you judgmental prick, why don't you either join us or go shove some Iowa corn up your tight-ass tailpipe for an hour or two."
"Rick, I can buy a couple million of you. I wouldn't, because it would be a bad investment. But I could, my friend."
"I ain't for sale."
"Yes you are, Rick. I buy and sell the companies that buy and sell little men like you. Usually we buy in bulk, so the prices stay low. Five thousand dollars, say."
Stung, Perry swiveled away to find his pipe. Cain, ever the savvy business man, decided to take advantage of an emotionally disturbed competitor to drive up the price on an otherwise worthless commodity. "Rick, you're not the sort of man," he opened, stifling a liar's self-satisfied chuckle, "who can be bought and sold at all...let alone for such a low, low price."
"Damn right," growled Perry, now absently patting his thighs for his lighter, apparently having forgotten his nakedness.
"Hell, I bet even this worthless little piss-pot here is worth...I figure...ten thousand dollars?"
Gingrich, spurned and insulted, writhed on the floor in a paroxysm of complicated emotion. Wallowing in the insult, he could only hate and yearn for Sheldon Adelson to forgive him, to take him back, to say, finally, that he had abased himself enough in public debates and at the feet of, he thought, cretins like Cain and Perry. What, he wondered, had he possibly ever done to attract the attention and enmity of these masterful men, Romney and Adelson? A lifetime of service, of boots licked and favors delivered, an entire career of craven fetch-and-carry errands, for what? For them to...to outsource his ritual humiliation? To force him to bow and scrape to a third-rate figurehead of America's second-worst pizza chain? How could he possibly sink any lower, he asked with a gleeful spur of self-hate lacerating his thoughts. What would it take for Romney to make him finally and totally really his?
"You got it, Herm. Ten grand it is. Dunno what I'm gonna do with...this," pausing to deliver an ungentle kick, "but I'll think of something. Hey," he brightened, "why don't you go find my pants, Froggy. After that, maybe I'll let you blow me before the debate--don't wanna go out there tense, you know." Gestured at Romney, "Might look like this uptight peckerhead."
"Say one thing for him," gloated Cain, "boy knows how to treat a prostate."
"Good to hear. Can't say I ever paid this much for a piece of ass before, but I tell you what. I'm gonna treat it like it's the cheapest goddamned thing I ever owned in my entire life."
Romney had had enough. "Oh, shut up, Rick. You're as bad as the Negro is. I'm gonna buy this election like you just bought Newt Gingrich. While you petty men of little accomplishment bicker and engage in depraved acts, I'm setting myself up to own this bloated, inefficient republic. Your drugs, your sex, your tiny little kingdoms, it'll all be gone once I add the Americn Crown to the golden crown of righteousness I've always worn. You base, despicable wretches. All any of you are good for is death, so your souls can be added to the rolls. See you out there, gentlemen."
At such rough, masterful talk, Gingrich experienced his second near-erection of the day, somehow without the erotic aid of potent pharmaceuticals or the prose of Jerry Pournelle. Noticing this, Cain and Perry voided their bladders on Gingrich, munificent in their treatment of their devoted property. Striding away, Romney allowed himself to fantasize about knocking them all down, shaving them bald, and marching them before his entire clan. That would show them where the real power was. All of them, even Adelson. The entire country. He'd show them all what it meant to be bought, to be sold, to be owned.
In the meantime, he thought, he'd have to throw in some public reminders, show the perverts he had to debate that he was above their filth. He'd have to be sharp, figure out a way to name a very specific price that yoked them all together. He'd have to pay very close attention tonight, in Iowa, and let them know that the time was coming when they'd must needs acknowledge the Lord of this World, Mitt Romney.
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Campaign Finance; or, Please Stop Sending Me Emails Asking for Donations (Obama/Clooney/Surpise Guest)
He sat slouched over upon his knees, his eyes focusing on the large toes of both feet.  His wrists itched with the burns of the rope tied around them.  As his back began to ache, he attempted to lean back upon the auburn velvet armchair but the gashes in his back stung like a thousand hornets, and again he heaved over the front of his seat. Regaining his composure, he focused on the events that took him to this room, this prison reminiscent of a Henry James bedroom.
The campaign was floundering and the HOPE that had been on the lips of many a Democratic minion four years ago had turned to disillusionment.  Barackâs plan was to spend like a demon until the name Obama was so deeply etched into the minds of the voters that they were compelled to vote for him. He didnât believe that Romney could win but he wasnât going to take any chances. The taste of power whet his appetite too strongly and he wasnât going to give it up. Barack Obama gives in to no one.
But this had gone too far. He had come in the middle of the night to the house in Los Angeles with two months left until the election.
âGeorge,â he said with a smile half vixen and half saint, âweâre hurting for money. I know that you have been giving up your time and inviting those pricks to your house just to raise money for the campaign, but it just hasnât been enough. Those arrogant New Yorkers have shut their wallets, and you know if I appease them I lose those Midwest swing votes. You know that everyone hates a New Yorker.â
George smiled his boyish grin.  At the time at least, he was willing to help in anyway; he loved the feeling of being the presidentâs friend. His ego was constantly in need of inflating, and while money and fame had been satisfying, desire bred more desire. His father was a distinguished reporter, and what was he, a movie man. He finally felt that he was doing something of importance and it gave him a euphoric of power that he hadnât felt in years.  Yet, it was this feeling that blinded him to what was being planned.
The money would be sifted in anonymously. Barack had his connections in Chicago. Clandestine messages were distributed to all the previous wealthy donors as well as to anyone suspected to have an interest and the funds.
Spend an intimate evening with George Clooney, one on one. George has a hard-on and he wants you to relieve his pressure. Minimum donation of $200,000.
 *
George knew he had a big head, but he didnât expect himself to be so naĂŻve. He anticipated some old widowed heiresses, disgruntled wives, and the occasional closeted gay man would suck him off. At most, he thought it would amount to five or six days of blowjobs, and who wouldnât do that for a friend, especially when that friend was the President of the United States of America.
For the first ten, he had enjoyed himself.  He was surprised at the amount of men showing up, but he would just close his eyes and picture a current or past girlfriend. He was disturbed by one middle aged man, with the flesh of his overweight stomach hanging out of his striped button down shirt, and comb-over that looked like it was dyed using Just for Men. Before he put his drooling mouth over Georgeâs mushroom tip, he dug his pig nose into the space between Georgeâs testicles and thigh and whispered the nursery rhyme, Georgie Porgie, while sniffing like a dog.
After the second ten, George had decided he had had enough. He was sore and bruised and his imagination was failing him; he couldnât get hard no matter how hard he tried.  He asked the secret service man who brought in the guests if he could talk to Barack, and received a piercing, questioning stare. George stared back, and the man nodded and walked down the hallway, but after locking the door from the outside. For the first time, George began to feel that he was a prisoner.
Barack entered. He seemed agitated and in a rush. His grey tailored suit was slightly crushed along his long slender legs, as if he had just been shuttled from a meeting, and George did not see the same friendliness that usually accompanied his friend.
âI think Iâm done here.â George said with half a laugh, trying to make light of the situation.  â Iâm not Eros.â
Barack did not smile. âThere are already eight more signed up for the rest of the week and the money is already spent.â He spoke coldly, and George thought he saw a bit of Chicago gangster in the way he shifted his hands in his pockets.
âHell, Iâd do it if I could,â George joked, â but there is only so much I can control.â He pointed down to his half exposed genitals.
âWe have drugs for that.â Barack replied dryly.
âI wonât do it. This has really gone far enough. There is only so much I will do. I am not a whore.â
âOh, youâre not are you?â A large bellow of laughter escaped Barackâs lungs.
â Youâll do what you said youâd do, whether willingly or if we have to force you.â
They stared each other down. George was betrayed, but he didnât blame Barack, but himself. They both were addicted to the power, and now George was suffering for it. Barack pivoted on his right foot and began to walk out of the room.
Just as he was about to exit the door, he turned and smiled.
âIâm glad we understand each other George. Remember, itâs for the Democratsâ
George glared back and the silence was only disturbed by the slamming and relocking of the door.
Five minutes later was when he received his first beating. He was a man, he told himself, and a man must fight on. They tied him down to the chair he has spent the last week attached to like an appendage, and forced Viagra down his throat.  When he refused to sit quietly while being blown, they gagged him, sometimes even letting the paying guests do the honor. A six foot three ex-marine would come in between sessions. He would throw George on the bed, and give him ten cracks on the back with his saber. His face never changed, remaining the blank dutiful stare of a soldier who knows his duty and follows orders.  When George was unable to engorge himself, he was re-drugged.
There were fifteen more that week. Yet only a few hours ago, the guard entered with a big smile on his face, the first genuine smile George had seen in ages that werenât plastered on the face of some rich pervert.
âLast one and youâre done! Iâm sure you are a happy man Mr. Clooney. Just think what you have done for democracy.â
George wanted to feel happy but he was a broken man. His body hurt all over, and while he could not see his face, he could feel that the luster that had seduced a nation of women was no longer in his eyes. There was no more George Clooney. He was unsure of who he was or what he would become after he would be freed.  He tried again to lean back in his chair, the velvet that should have been soft and comforting, just a reminder of the ghastly days and nights he was a victim to the lusts of the gluttonous. But only one more, he thought. Just one more time and it would be over. Tears began to build up in the corners of his eyes, and slowly cry down the bridge of his nose.
âThis is a special customer Mr. Clooney.â The guard had re-entered and was carrying a green and white robe. George looked inquisitively at the cloth and suddenly realized that it was not an ordinary robe but priest vestments. â Heâs paying more than double the asking price, and so youâll be required to put this on.â George didnât know what to make of the situation. The guard untied his hands, and George sighed relieved. He looked at the red marks on his wrists and thought of the scars that would never really disappear, but it felt good to touch his hands. He felt an inkling of strength left in the tips of his fingers. The guard placed the robe over Georgeâs head, and over his bare chest, leaving an opening around his crotch.
âWhat is this about?â George asked.
âApparently, he used to be an altar boy and wants to relive some old fantasies, if you know what I mean.â The guard grinned wide and George was puzzled for only a minute before he realized what was meant of him. He felt a sickness grow in his stomach and he wanted to vomit. He would sit there and take it, but he would not be coerced into acting as a pedophilic priest. It was all too much.
There was a knock on the door. The guard quickly retied Georgeâs hands behind the back of the chair.
âDidnât think I would forget that did ya?" he laughed. He walked over and stuck his head out of the door. George only heard muffled whispers. He repeated to himself over and over to maintain just a little bit of his integrity, to hold on to a small part of himself so he would have something to start from when this ended.
âHere he is.â The guard opened the door wide and Georgeâs eyes gaped. Paul Ryan stood before him in the entranceway of the little Edwardian bedroom. In short pants, a gold cross, and holding a Missal under his left arm, Ryan smiled bashfully.  This was an event that even George could not understand.  Was Ryan so desperate for this fantasy that he would donate against his own campaign? Couldnât have found a real priest to do it?
The guard closed the door and the two men, a priest and a young boy, were left alone in the room.  George kept his eyes on Ryanâs face, watching his every move and trying to guess what this all meant. Maybe it was all a ruse and Ryan was actually there to free him and reveal to the world the debauchery he had been tortured in.  It wasnât.
Ryan walked up to George and got down on his knees. He pressed his palms together and bowed his head down between Georgeâs legs, as if he was about to say an act of contrition.
âForgive me Father for I have sinned,â prayed Ryan, âIt has been three months since my last confession.â
âI wonât do it. I canât! I canât! I canât! Please, please just let me go!â George screamed in agony. He began to cry, exhausted of his whole existence.
But Ryan showed no sign of sympathy or the forgiveness he professed in his faith. He stood up, walked to the door, and whispered unintelligently to the guard. He closed the door and watched George, like a hyena waiting for the moment to steal the carcass from a pride of lions.
It was ten minutes, but to George time had stopped. In walked Barack, visibly agitated with a pack of Marlboro Red in his left hand. He slammed the door behind him and walked over to a small wooden chair in the corner, grabbed it by the back rail, and placed it in front of his frocked victim.  He straddled the chair and packed his cigarettes. He pulled out one and lit it, taking a drag and letting the ashes fall upon the exposed thigh. George watched as the grey tobacco landed on his leg, and then looked up at his tormentor, once his savior.Â
âNow George, why do you have to start trouble now? This is the last thing you have to do for us, but still you make it difficult.â Barack inhaled another drag of his cigarette.  âDonât you know I have a country to run? Now you are an actor. This man is giving us a very big donation,â Barack glanced over at Ryan, who had started praying a rosary, the glorious mysteries, and beamed in the glorious irony. âNow our donor wants you to forgive him his sins, and I think you know what his penance should be.â
âWhy are you doing this to me?â George sputtered out of his trembling lips, his composure completely gone. âYou can have everything of mine. Please, just let it end now.â
âDo you realize who I am? I am Barack Obama, president of the fucking United States, leader of the damn free world. You think you can plead with me. You think that I have compassion for you.â Obama stood up, glaring down at George, a hunched over corpse of once a cocky man. He sipped his cigarette, sighed, and relaxed the tension in his face. â You do this, and not only will you have protected the future of the Democrats, but you have will have helped millions of Americans.â
George was momentarily stunned, until Barack could no longer hold a straight face and was doubled up in laughter. George wanted to say something, anything to convince Barack to let him go. He wanted to find that man he played pickup basketball with and talked shit about the Republicans. It couldnât have all been a trick, a ploy for Georgeâs celebrity to help win the election. But George was too weak. His lips could find no words that could penetrate the man standing before him, proud in his victory.
âDo it or you disappear,â Barack asserted and walked out the door. George gave up. He stared down at the floor, totally shattered. He gazed at the paisley pattern on the Oriental rug, and tried to lose himself in the swirling maze. He was almost gone, until suddenly, he realized that Ryan had reinstated himself in front of George and was once again starting his reconciliation. George lifted his head and let his blood shot eyes cut Ryanâs with his despair but Ryan was impenetrable, a Republican to the end.
* Â Â Â Â Â Â
Outside the door, Barack took the last drag of his cigarette. It was these little moments he cherished. What bit him the most about being president was that he couldnât enjoy a cigarette like in the past. Now he always had to be on the watch that someone would find out.
âOh Father, I have been a bad Catholic. I have had lustful thoughts about other boys and I have been telling lies. Please Father, what shall my penance be?â
Barack heard Ryan through the door. He was mystified and somewhat disgusted about Ryan, but he knew it is wrong to judge others on what we donât understand. He was just thankful he was not raised a Catholic. The tragic life of an altar boy.
Barack flicked his cigarette to the floor and put it out with the heel of his right shoe.  The secret service agent returned to his post and informed him that Michelle was looking for him and that he had a meeting in a half hour about what to do about growing tensions between China and Japan. He looked down at the littered cigarette, and remembered that he was President of the United States. Him, a black man. Damn, it made him feel good. He nodded goodbye to the agent and coolly walked down the hall, smiling as he thought of seeing his wife.
He Never Liked the Top Hat (William Rufus King/James Buchanan and James Buchanan/Abraham Lincoln)
By ZoĂŤ
James Buchanan hated Lincoln the first time he met him. Well, actually, he hated Lincoln for the first year and half of their acquaintanceship, albeit in a low level well. But he hated him on sight because he was so much taller than James was and he was making Rufus smile.
There's no reason Lincoln and Rufus should have gotten along. Like James and Lincoln they were on opposite sides of nearly every issue. But Rufus had that southern charm going for him and Lincoln walked around DC like a really scrappy, really ugly puppyâthe kind of dog Rufus could never never resist and was constantly trying to convince James to adopt.Â
To be honest, James was most surprised to even see Lincoln at a bar. He wasn't the bar type and this particular bar was not only full of Democrats, but known for being where political machinations happenedâthe exact thing that Lincoln detested and publicly sniffed at. But there he was, 20 feet away, downing some gin and laughing at Rufus' joke. James debated just acting like a child and calling it a night, but then Rufus caught his eye and waved him over and he sighed, grabbed his whiskey and braced himself to meet Lincoln.Â
"James!" Rufus said, clapping him on the back, "You must meet the charming Mr. Abe Lincoln. Abraham, this is my dear friend Mr. James Buchanan."
"A pleasure," James said amicably, but Lincoln's eyes narrows as he said, slowly, angrily, "Oh, I know who Mr. Buchanan is. The Northerner who loves slavery. The Northerner who brought slavery to Cuba."
Then he nodded at Rufus, finished his drink and stalked out of the bar. And well, after an introduction like that, how could he do anything but hate Lincoln?
*
Despite the fact that it was known in Washington circles that he and Rufus wereâŚ.companionable, Lincoln continued to be Rufus' friend. In deference to James' moods, Rufus never brought it up and never forced them to interact again. But James knew that he enjoyed the tall, odd-looking man's company and he knew that sometimes Rufus would come home late and crawl into bed smelling like whiskey and meat and muttering about log cabins. James tried not to hold it against him and tried even harder not to be too jealous.
*
Of course, during their next longest interaction, Lincoln had to go and be a big god damn hero.Â
They were at a bar and he and Rufus were trying to be discrete while having, well, a lover's quarrel. Over drapes. It was ridiculous and James knew it was ridiculous, but it was his house and Rufus may have been his and he loved him, but he was not going to get a say in the drapery of the living room of James' own family home. He wasn't. And so they were bickering and were drunk and maybe a bit louder than they intended to be. So of course that's when Jacksonâthe assholeâwalked by.
"Oh what's wrong, Aunt Fancy, your husband cutting off your allowance? Forbidding you from the quilting bee?" he said to Rufus, with a huge smirk. "Maybe if your maidenhead was still intact you could find yourself a better quality man than doughface here."
No one, least of all James, least of all Jackson, expected Lincoln to deck him one after that, But James didn't mind all that much either.
And after that, well, he could deign to give Lincoln a nod and a smile in public, even if he hated him. Even if he hated that he had been the one  who defended Rufus' honor. Even if he hated that Lincoln was kind about the horrible, shameful thing between him and Rufus.
*
It's almost fitting that Rufus dies in Cuba. Almost.Â
*
James wasn't sure if he was going to be able to make it to the funeral. And if he got there, he wasn't sure he was going to be able to make it through the funeral without trying to throw himself into the ground. He was already out of sorts the morning of when there was a knock on the door and there stood Lincoln.
 "Hello," he said, eyes red like James'. "I thought. I mean. I thought you might like some company. On the way there. I know, you and Iâbut Rufus always said we'd get along if we only just talked andâŚ" he swallowed hard before continuing, "I think he'd have liked it if. We went there. Together."
And James was so surprised, so honestly touched that for the first time since he heard the news, for the first time since he saw the bodyâRufus' body cold and stony and not like himâhe broke down and sobbed. Lincoln just through an arm around him and rubbed his back.
*
They maybe become friends after that.Â
*
It's no secret that Buchanan hated Douglas, but Lincoln hated him too and so they bond over that. They argue a lotâthey argue most of the timeâbut they also get in loud, exuberant discussions about what a dick Douglass was and how awful Jackson was and how they hated, well, most of Washington is. It's nice and if it means James starts thinking of him as Abe and if it means they go out and drink whiskey too much together and if it means coming home to his home--Rufus' home--a little less lonely that's ok too.
*
He didn't know Abe could arm wrestle until he saw him take down Millard god damn Fillmore in a bar match.
The thing about Fillmore is that he's really, really boring and really, really forgettable, but he's also built like a goddam Ox. And Abe, well, isn't. Abe is awkward and gangly and tall and ok, he has some arm muscle (all that wood chopping!) but he's not Fillmore. Fillmore who, James is sure, went into the Mexican War and just ripped people's head off with his bare arms.
But Abe doesn't even flinch when Fillmore challenges him, just grins, crazily, downs his shot (James may be a bad influence, in regards to drinking) and goes to town. It isn't even close.
If afterwards James starts having dreams about tall bodies and strong hands holding him down, well. No one has to know.
*
It comes to a head in James' study one night. He's exhausted from the campaign, the speeches, the pandering and Abe is just as exhausted as he always is, like he's carrying the world on his back and he wishes he didn't have to. They're barely talking, just sipping brandy next to each other, legs touching a little, books on their laps. It'sâŚ.nice. It reminds James a lot of Rufus and that doesn't hurt nearly as bad anymore. It feels right, like it would make Rufus happy to know that James became friends with his friend.
Abe breaks the silence by clearing throat and saying "Want to arm wrestle?"
James doesn't even know how to process that for a second and so he just stares and so Abe continues, more awkwardly, "I justâŚ.I can't even focus on the words anymore. Sometimes doing something physical helps with being so tired. And you always enjoy watching me wrestle at the barâŚ" and then he shrugs and smiles a little.
"IâŚ.sure?" James says, because he does like watching Abe wrestle, but he knows he's not going to win. He's doughy and uncoordinated and it's not even close to a fair match up. But then he thinks about those dreams and touching Abe, even a little bit, and smiles. He adds, more confidently "Yes, of course! But try not to break my handâthe future President can't put a broken hand on the Bible, after all."Â
Abe laughs, pulls over the coffee table and starts rolling up his sleeves. James does the same and then they're sitting across from each other, staring into each other's faces in a way they never had before and grasping each other's hands. Abe tightens his grip and James shivers, just a bit.Â
"Oh my count," Abe says "OneâŚ..twoâŚâŚthree."
And they're off and James was right, it's not even close to a fair fight, but Abe is going a little easy on him so they struggle for about twenty seconds before Abe easily slams his arm down on the table.Â
James loses track of what number loss he's on before he finally wins one. It takes longer than it does with Abe, but after about a minute he's successfully pinned Abe's arm down and he feels pretty proud about that. Abe is still grinning and laughing and puts his arm up for the next round.Â
Only this time when he tightens his grip, Abe starts stroking his thumb on James' hand. It startles James so much he loses in about five seconds and then his arm is pinned and Abe is still stroking with his thumb and then his other arm comes up and starts tracing designs on James' pinned arm and suddenly James can't breathe.
 "James." Abe says, softly "James, IâŚ." and then he pulls the hand stroking James arm off, reaches across the table, cups James' cheek in his hand and kisses him. Hard.Â
And before James can process it there's tongue and his own hands are moving and it's like they've been waiting for this moment for years, ever since that first night in the bar, ever since forever. They're awkwardly making their way up the stairs, shedding clothes and shoes, murmuring things they can't mean or hear and then they're on the bed, naked, and Abe is pinning him down and kissing his neck and James feels like he might explode.
"AbeâŚ" he starts to say, "Abe, RufusâŚI. You know I--"
"it's ok," Abe says. "I know. It's fine, it's ok." And then they don't talk anymore.
*
It's not the best sex James has ever hadâand Abe is not Rufusâbut it's still wonderful to touch and be touched. He wakes up with the sun coming through red drapes (Rufus won that argument in the end) and Abe pressed against him and he smiles before he remembers to be sad. He smiles before he remembers that they should never do this again. They're on opposite sides in a fractured country and James was barely holding it together after losing Rufus before he started running for President. And Abe is too kind, too sweet to be ignored for a campaign, for an office.Â
He sits up to start to say all this, but Abe looks him in the eye and smiles. Gives a small nod of understanding. James knows he gets it.
*
They don't talk again until Inauguration Night and they don't really talk much then either. Abe barges into his hotel room after the victory party has died down and kisses him his congratulations.Â
It definitely is the best sex James ever had, but he still wishes it had been with Rufus.Â
*
They see each other around town after the election, but being the President is time consuming and the country is falling apart and those differing beliefs they held--have always held--are getting harder to ignore. They make polite conversation in public and Abe will occasionally send him letters that show understanding and caring, even as James' presidency goes to shit and Douglas starts to take it all away.Â
It's petty and shows no party loyalty, but he cheers every time Abe wins a debate.
*
After the election--after his ousting, his humiliation--when James turns to Abe and says "If you are as happy in entering the White House as I shall feel on returning to Wheatland, you are a happy man," he knows that Abe gets it. He wants Abe to love being the President like he loved Rufus, wants Abe to fix the country like he could never fix his heart after the loss.
And maybe he doesn't love Abe, but he loves him for understanding him in that moment and smiling.
Which is maybe why they kiss after he says it.
*
Abe's death doesn't hurt as much as Rufus' death did, but he breaks down all the same.
A smile flickered across Mark Halperin's face as he removed his makeup with a cotton ball. Â He had seen the smirks of Brazile and Stephanopolous as he asserted that John McCain's number of houses "gaffe" was going to be a disaster for Barack Obama, but he had managed to keep his focus and bat down their objections.
They would never guess his secret. Â John McCain knew EXACTLY how many houses he had, and Mark Halperin had visited him in every one!
Coolidge sat in his chair and read, the firelight illuminating the pages of his book. The rain was coming down awfully hard, he thought idly. Suddenly, there came a desperate banging from the door, and Calvin thought he heard a faint sob. He opened the door and found Harding, soaking wet and shivering, on his doorstep.
"Warren, my dear fellow, come in and dry yourself off! My god, man, you'll catch your death out there! What on earth are you doing here at this hour?"
Harding mumbled something incoherent. Calvin shrugged. "In any case, you must come in and dry yourself off!"
Several minutes later, Calvin returned from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, one of which Warren accepted graciously. "I had to escape. All those scandals are taking a toll on me, and I didn't know who to turn to..." He turned his gaze to Calvin, and his deep soulful eyes begged for comfort. Calvin held his gaze for a moment, then gave him a wry smile. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes."
Harding was true to his name, his commander-in-chief standing at attention. Calvin raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, the smile remaining on his face. He began to undress himself, never taking his eyes off of Harding's executive branch. Warren, though, was worried. "This will cause another scandal if it gets out. I don't think my presidency can take one more..."
Coolidge pressed a finger to Harding's lips, easing him onto the bed. "They don't call me Silent Cal for nothing."
Erection Season; or, Fifty Shades of Black (With a Little Bit of Grey at the Temples) (Romney/Ryan)
The consultant had brought it up toward the end of the vetting session almost as an afterthought. âYou realize, I assume,â he began, âwhat accepting this position means in terms of your - availability to the President.âÂ
Paul groaned inwardly. âOf course I do,â he said, casting a longing glance toward the window. Heâd never gone this long without pull-ups before, and the inactivity was making him irritable. And heâd been sitting in the same hard plastic chair in the same hot and airless room, answering the same barrage of questions (yes, twice; not that Iâm aware of; youâd really have to check with the doctors on call that day; never; a little to the left but not noticeably I donât think) from a parade of seemingly identical and endless frowning, red-faced old men.Â
âWhat I mean to say is that youâll belong to him - in the way of Vice Presidents.âÂ
He frowned. The hell? The consultant sighed, clearly reluctant to delve into specifics. âYouâve heard, I imagine,â he began, ârumors. Havenât you? Rumors of tradition, of ceremony, of the ways that things are done around here to ensure - to ensure successful future campaigns - a majority Republican house - responsibilities and roles that it falls to the Vice President to perform. Some of them are widely known. Others are not.â
âIâm fully committed to joining in the race, if thatâs what youâre saying,â Paul said. âIâm absolutely on board with Mittâs vision, his -â
Paul stopped as the consultant raised his eyes to meet his. The consultant seemed almost - wistful? Apologetic? Paul couldnât be sure, but he found himself stifling a twinge of annoyance. Iâm not a child.  âPaul. Kiddo. Can I give you some advice?âÂ
I donât suppose no is a legitimate option. âSure.âÂ
âYouâre a young man. You have a great career ahead of you. Youâre on Ways and Means, for Chrissakes. Turn it down. Get reelected and plan ahead from there. You donât need this.â
Paul laughed. He couldnât help it. The consultant threw up his hands. âI know, I know. Youâre about to be one of the youngest Vice Presidents in United Statesâ history and Iâm just a tired old fact-checker who couldnât make a go of his own. Youâll do what you want.âÂ
âIs that all you need from me, then?â Paul couldnât help himself from asking. If it was rude, the other man had been rude first and heâd been in this room for hours. They hadnât even let him bring his core-stabilizing bouncy ball he normally used instead of a chair.Â
âAlmost.â The consultant leaned back and rubbed his eyes. âPaul, Iâm going to assume that what Iâm about to tell you, you havenât heard before. And I need you to understand that itâs not going to come up again, that if after we leave this room you try to mention it to me or to anyone else - I donât give a shit who, your wife, your fellow Congressmen, Mr. Romney, anyone - you will be out of this race and out of your seat that same hour. Palin will look politically relevant when weâre through with you. Is that something weâre clear on, you and I?âÂ
Paul nodded.Â
âWonderful. Thatâs wonderful.â The consultant ticked off something toward the bottom of the sheet. âTraditionally, the President - takes - the Vice President upon assuming office. At least once, sometimes more often, but thatâs really something that we leave to the Presidentâs discretion.â
Paul shook his head. There was something in that sentence he was supposed to pick up on, he was sure of that, but a day of questioning had left him fuzzy and exhausted. âTaken?âÂ
âPaul, youâre a man of the world; youâve been a congressional aide.âÂ
âI really donât see how thatâs -âÂ
âAll right, then, Iâll spell it out for you, if thatâs how you want to play this. But Paul, Iâd like to remind you that I didnât think you were ready to hear it and I still think you ought to drop out.âÂ
âYouâve made that clear. And I hope you understand I donât mean any disrespect when I say that only makes me more determined to hold that position.âÂ
âAs Vice-President, you will belong - to the president - physically. Sexually. Thatâs the simplest way I know how to put it.âÂ
Paul laughed again. Not because he didnât believe the man - everything about his demeanor suggested this was not a man whoâd gotten his current position by making jokes - but because he couldnât think of anything else to say.
âItâs been this way since the Founding Fathers. Yes, all the other Vice Presidents have done it. Yes, all of them,â the consultant continued, putting up a hand against Paulâs increasingly choked laughter. âYes, Iâm serious, and yes, this will include you. Iâm not going to waste my time or yours by waiting for you to process this information - thereâs plenty of background in the folder we sent to your office this afternoon and you can review it at your leisure. It has to happen only once; but the President can choose to set additional terms, if he finds them agreeable.This is how things are.âÂ
Paul, dazedly: âWhen?âÂ
âSo you can keep up.â The consultant smiled, a bit grimly for Paulâs taste. âInauguration night, after the speeches, before the parties.â
âAnd the others - they know?âÂ
âAll involved parties and relevant staff have been briefed on procedure.âÂ
âBut everyone doesnât - they wouldnât all know - when I accept the nomination, would people - would Congresspeople -âÂ
The consultant shrugged. âHave you heard anything?âÂ
That wasnât the answer Paul had been hoping for. âBut Mi- Mr. Romney knows? Did he know about this when he nominated me?â
âThatâs really not for me to say.â
âAll right. Okay. I see. Okay. Okay.âÂ
âI know I shouldnât volunteer more of my advice when you clearly donât want any,â the consultant said, smiling more gently this time, âbut something I can tell you about Mr. Romney is that heâs not the kind of person who goes looking for a fight. I wouldnât recommend giving him one. Heâs a very gracious winner. This can be easy to underestimate. Donât make that mistake.âÂ
âAnd when he loses?â Paul found himself asking. Why are you asking that, why would you ask that, why are you even considering -Â
The consultant smiled again. âHe doesnât.âÂ
When Paul left the small basement room a few minutes later, he found himself wondering if any of the surreal proceedings that had taken place there that hot afternoon had been real.Â
The next few days were lost in a flurry of activity - after accepting the nominations there were the speeches, the briefings, the strategy meetings, the wardrobe fittings (âno, thatâs 6% body fat,â he couldnât help correcting the girl taking measurements) - and Paul barely had time to think about the cryptic conversation heâd had with that odd, final consultant. He and Mitt hadnât even been alone in the same room together, and nothing the older man had said or done suggested that there was anything out of the ordinary. He behaved just as he always did - patiently, courteously, with a touch of amusement behind his slow and careful speech.Â
When the moment came, they were in the hallway, and Paul was not prepared. Theyâd been discussing something about the timing of the speeches when the last of the aides stepped back into the conference room and Paul felt suddenly, stupidly aware that it was just the two of them.Â
Everyone knew but you, he thought to himself, his face burning the the realization that once again heâd been the last to pick up on it. âI donât think it should be a problem,â he continued brightly, âif we move the section about education cuts toward the end of -â
âLeave the education cuts where they are,â Mitt said. Nothing in his voice was different, but Paul couldnât move. âI need to talk to you about something.âÂ
âAll right,â Paul said. âAll right, weâll talk.â This was the smallest hallway in the world. How did people step around each other in this absurd hallway, he wondered. No room.Â
âHere are a few things this isnât, Ryan,â Mitt said, stepping deliberately - and chest-tighteningly - closer. âThis isnât a joke.â Now one of Mittâs hands lay on his shoulder, the other casually tugged on his belt loop. âAnd this isnât a game.â The hand moved. âSo I want to make sure that youâre paying attention.âÂ
âI am. Iâm paying attention, I am,â Paul insisted. A finger traced the hollow of his collarbone and he twitched helplessly, gasping. Could the others hear them talking?Â
âThey told you whatâs going to happen to you after the election.â Not a question. Paul nodded. âGood. I wanted to be sure that you knew - that you accepted it - that you were ready.â Â
âThis is - this is why you nominated me?âÂ
The words came in close and warm against the shell of his ear: âRyan, this is why I ran.âÂ
The speech began, and Paul found himself avoiding eye contact, wresting his thumbs together and staring at the patch of lineoleum in front of his wingtips. He did, however, find himself acutely aware of every move the speaker made - every time Mittâs hand landed on the podium in a resounding thump - every stride toward or away from the front of the stage, every pleat in his khakis - as if he were invisibly tethered to Mittâs every move.Â
The lights were very bright, and very hot, and it seemed to Paul that every single person in the room was looking at him out of the corner of their eyes. They know, he thought wildly. Or some of them. Some of them have to know. They can tell. He froze in what he hoped was an attitude of casual vice-presidentiality.Â
Is Condoleeza smirking at me? Paul jerked wildly in his seat, trying to avoid her withering contempt, and found himself staring into Jannaâs eyes. Stop fidgeting, she mouthed affectionately at him, then closed her hand over his. Paul couldnât breathe.Â
You canât do this, he told himself. Youâre about to be the vice president, for Christâs sake. Have some self-control. He forced himself to look back at the podium - just like everyone else is doing  - just look at his tie, just focus on the tie  - have some self-control.Â
But heâs looking at me. A twitch grew and stretched itself out along his frame into a warm and pleasant shudder.
He is not, he is not looking, and if he were it would be in - in the normal way - the way that any president looks at his vice president.Â
His vice president. His. He found himself awash in a wave of lust so acute it was determinable only by the filthiest of protractors and shivered.
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Kerry could still hear the crowds cheering as the limousine pulled away from the stadium. It was an incredible feeling--he had never inspired that level of passion before. And he owed it all to the man by his side.
He looked at the boyish face, still glowing from excitement...at the tousled hair he longed to run his fingers through. Everything came so easily to this man, this golden boy. He was charm personified. Kerry felt like a moth drawn to a flame.
"What are you thinking, John?" Edwards asked. Kerry was startled, and didn't know what to say. I was thinking about what your mouth tasted like, he realized. Oh, God. How could he have let this happen?
"Let me show you what I was thinking," Edwards went on, and Kerry realized that his running mate had slid across the broad leather seat until his muscular thigh was pressing deliciously, deliriously against his.Â
Kerry held his breath--what was happening?--as Edwards's strong arm encircled his neck. He felt the warmth, the incredible softness of this kiss, this incredible kiss, like a revelation. Like the fireworks above the Mall on the Fourth of July.
As they broke apart, finally, for air, Kerry looked at the sculpted, perfect face so near to his own, this marvelous, magical man who was offering himself so tenderly.
"Bring it on," Kerry said, in a husky whisper. "Bring it on."
âYou were right, Ike,â Jack said ruefully, looking out across the shimmering pool to the desert beyond.  âThe military-industrial complex really does have a stranglehold on our economy.  Look at that guy.â  Jack waved to the New York ad man.  âTried to sell Nixon, trying to sell aviationâŚ.â
âHung like one of Harryâs horses,â Ike interjected. Â Jack looked at the ad man, then looked at Ike.
âWell, yeah, butâŚ.â  Jack let his voice trail off.
âUsed to be we were men in battle,â Ike said grandly. Â âMen were men and the sheep werenât nervous because we had each other. Â It was a beautiful thing, the band of brothers.â
âOkay, I can see howâŚ.â
âAnd sometimes people would get a little handsy.  Just because, well, thatâs how it was.  Later, when you had your own command, youâd get in a WAC you liked, but before thenâŚwell, you made do, Jack.  You made do.â
âI suppose,â Jack said.
âOh, donât be so missish,â Ike said. Â âWe all know about the Navy. Â A ship leaves port with three hundred sailors and returns with a hundred and fifty couples.â
Jack squirmed uncomfortably.  Some days there just werenât enough injections in the worldâŚ.
âAnd itâs just us presidents together,â Ike said. Â âPlus your brother-in-law puking in the bushes.â
âFuck,â Jack said. Â âThat fucking Hollywood fuck.â
âEnglish, too,â Ike said. Â Â âBut more Chamberlain than Churchill, if you catch my drift.â
Jack caught it all too well. Â He sighed. Â âIâm pretty sure Crosbyâs slapping his kid around.â
Ike shrugged. Â âMaybe itâll toughen him up, but a mean drunkâs as useful as a garter snake in a toolshed.â
âThatâŚwas surprisingly profound,â Jack said.  Maybe the injections, plus the martinis, plus the pillsâŚ.
âSo,â Ike said, clapping Jack on the shoulder.  Jack barely winced.  Oh, yeah, the stuff was definitely kicking in now.  âThis band of brothers thingâŚ.â
Jack let Ike pull him closer. Â âItâs just us, now,â Ike said. Â
âHarry,â Jack protested.
âBusy being broke. Â For fuckâs sake, throw that sorry bastard a pension. Â And get him a dog. Â He could use a friend,â Ike said.
âHerbert,â Jack reminded Ike.
âLooks like a baby got run over by a Sherman,â Ike said. Â âWeâre the only standing presidents, so letâs salute each other.â
âOh, look,â said Pat distantly.  âMy husbandâs being sick in the roses and yours isâŚkissing Eisenhower?â
âTrust me,â said Jackie in her airy, insubstantial voice, âif thatâs the worst he gets up toâŚ.â
âI hear Marilynâs going to be here tonight,â Pat said maliciously. Â Jackie lowered her sunglasses to look at her sister-in-law.
âWho do you think asked for her?â Jackie said, making her voice even more breathless than usual. Â Jackie settled her sunglasses back over her eyes and sprawled back further into her deck chair. Â Palm Springs wasnât exactly Newport, but it would do for now.
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