Sex for America: Politically Inspired Erotica (16 page)

You know who she is?

Middle-age blonde who was smoking hot nine years ago and is do- ing her best to age gracefully?

She’s Thomas Carter’s wife. The senator?

Yeah.

No way. It’s her.

Why would the wife of a U.S. senator be in this shithole? No idea.

It’s not her. It is.

Go talk to her. What do I say?

Tell her you’re an admirer of her husband. Dan laughs.

Yeah, right.

Tell her you like her highlights, that the blonde streaks are subtle and disarming.

That’s a good line.

Ask her if she wants a drink.

He motions towards her table, where a waitress is sitting down a cocktail glass.

Looks like she got one already.

Just go ask her if she wants to fuck.

She smiles and says yes; they end up in the men’s room. It’s small and cramped; it has a toilet and a urinal and a sink squeezed into a space the size of a closet. He presses her against the door their tongues in each other’s mouths, pushing, tangling their hands grabbing, seeking one of his in her shirt the other up her skirt spreading both of hers are working the buttons on his pants. He unbuttons her shirt unhooks her bra starts sucking and biting. She drops his pants to the floor she pulls his head away from her chest and gets down on her knees.

She comes back the next night. He bends her over and her head hits the door with every stroke.

She’s missing over the weekend, comes back on Monday. He sits on top of the toilet and she rides him while he sucks on her tits. He takes her outside on Wednesday, they go into an alley behind the bar. She wraps her legs around his waist and he takes her against the wall.

Thursday they get into the backseat of her car. He goes down on her and stays down on her for forty-five minutes. He uses his lips, tongue, and fingers, uses them to give her a taste of herself. When he’s done, he mounts her and gives her a taste of himself.

They do not speak to each other. They have never exchanged names or numbers. She just shows up and smiles and takes him by the hand and tells him what she wants.

She disappears for a couple weeks. Dan misses her, misses her smell and her taste, her hands, lips, and tongue, misses being in- side of her. He watches the news and the papers and looks her up online, finds out that she’s with her husband, who has gone back to his home state to campaign. He is running for his third term in the Senate. He is a conservative who serves a conservative state, a born-again Christian who is anti-abortion, pro-gun, sup- ports the war in Iraq, and supports the idea of future aggression in the Middle East. He believes in creationism and prayer in public schools, believes that homosexuality is a curable disease and that all gays and non-Christians will burn in hell for eternity upon their death. His opponent is a moderate and has absolutely no chance of winning. Despite this, the senator raised a huge campaign fund

and has run hundreds of ads on television, on the radio, and in newspapers, attacking everything from his hair and clothing to his wife, children, and marriage. The senator’s justification for the ads is—God is going to judge him someday, I might as well do it now.

Jack and Dan sit at the bar. They’re both drinking beer. Jack speaks.

Have you told her what you do? Dan speaks.

No.

You think you should? No.

Why not?

Because we never talk. And because it’s irrelevant. You really think that?

Yeah.

If her husband was a mortgage broker or an insurance agent, would you be fucking her?

No.

Would you have even approached her? No.

Then it’s relevant.

Maybe to me, but not to her. How about her husband?

It’s probably very relevant to him. For a number of reasons.

She shows up the next night. Dan’s surprised because he knows her husband is having a debate with an opponent. He’s sitting

at the bar; she comes up behind, whispers, let’s go fuck, in his ear.

They leave. Get in her car. He wants to get a motel room; he starts driving. She gives him head as he drives. When they find a motel, they park and she finishes him off. He gets out, goes into the lobby, gets a room. As he walks to the room, she gets out of the car and follows him into the room. He closes the door and she’s on him. They fuck twice; the second time he takes her anally. When they’re done they lie in bed. Her head rests on his chest. There is a streak of light coming through a crack in the curtains. He speaks.

You’ve never told me your name. She speaks.

Is there some reason you need to know it? It would be nice to put a name to your face. My face?

Among other things. My name is Jane.

Jane what? Jane Doe. He laughs.

You think that’s funny? Sort of.

It’s not, not at all, and it wasn’t supposed to be a joke. Okay.

It’s important to me that you know me as Jane Doe. I fuck you. I suck your cock. I let you do whatever you want to me. I’ll keep doing it as long as you acknowledge me as Jane Doe.

I can’t do that.

Why?

I work on the Hill.

She sits up, stares at him. There is shock and rage in her eyes, spreading across her face.

You work on the fucking Hill? Yes.

What do you do?

I’m an aide to a Democratic senator.

She stares at him for a moment, gets up, puts on her clothes, walks out. When she’s gone, he stands and spreads the curtain and watches her walk to her car and get inside her car and pull out of the parking lot.

Jack and Dan sit at the bar. They’re both drinking beer. Jack speaks.

Are you surprised? Dan speaks.

Yeah. Why?

There was something there. Jack laughs.

You spoke to her once. So what.

So there couldn’t have been much. I love her.

Jack laughs again.

You’re fucking kidding me. Dan shakes his head.

I’m not. I love her.

You’re never gonna see her again. Probably not.

That’s why you love her. That shit happens when you get dumped. Doesn’t matter if you loved the person or hated them, if they dump you, you yearn for them and miss them and love them and feel all the shit you didn’t probably feel when you were with them. It’s stupid and crazy, but that’s the way it is.

I know that syndrome well. It’s not that. What is it then?

If I knew it’d be easier. That’s part of the problem. And it doesn’t matter that we hardly spoke. When we were together there was that thing, that unexplainable thing, and I felt it, felt it very strongly. And you think it’s love.

I don’t think. I know.

And it doesn’t matter that she’s married to the fucking Antichrist. Nope.

And that she’ll never leave him. Nope.

You’re fucked, dude. Yeah.

Dan is walking to a meeting on the Hill. As he starts to climb the stairs leading to the entrance, he notices there is a press conference being held at the landing. There is a lectern set up; her husband is standing in front of it. She is standing next to him. They are sur- rounded by aides and advisors. A large group of reporters stands in front of them recording every movement, every word. Her hus- band is speaking passionately about the need for faith-based aid and the effectiveness of evangelical charities. She is watching him,

nodding and clapping at the appropriate times, looks the model of a supportive wife. Dan stops when he reaches the crowd. He stares at her. She glances toward him, sees him, does not acknowl- edge him in any way. He knows she saw him, and recognized him; she continues smiling and clapping at the appropriate times. He stands and watches the rest of the press conference, including the question-and-answer session with the reporters. When it’s fin- ished he walks to his office. She walks away with her husband and their entourage.

He watches the returns on the day of the election. Her husband wins in a landslide.

Five months later. Jack and Dan sit at the bar. They’re both drink- ing beer, watching the Nationals get crushed by the Mets. Jack speaks.

The Nationals suck. Dan speaks.

Yeah.

You think they’ll ever be any good? No idea.

The door of the bar opens, she walks in. Dan sees her in the mir- ror. He smiles, watches her walk toward his stool; she’s smiling. She stops behind him, whispers in his ear.

I’ve missed you. He nods.

I tried to stay away but I couldn’t. He smiles.

I got a room at our favorite motel.

He turns around, stares at her. He stills feels it, whatever it is, still feels it strongly.

I want you to take me there and fuck me.

He stands, takes her by the hand. They walk out of the bar.

TRANSFIXED,
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HELPLESS, AND OUT OF CONTROL

Election Night 2004

CHARLIE ANDERS

Queerdom cries. The hot young things at Eighteenth and Cas
- tro gather around the world’s suckiest television screen, made out of bedsheets and milk crates, watching the world turn red. “It’s okay,” people keep saying over and over again, “Ohio’s still a toss- up.” Over in the Midnight Sun, it’s almost a relief when they show a Village People video instead of Dan Rather’s folksy ramblings. Dan Rather says the election is as sticky as a squirrel in heat cov- ered with forest burrs. He says John Kerry is as desperate as a nudist in a freak hailstorm.

Queer theory didn’t prepare you for this, did it? Everywhere I look, tragedy strikes down Gay Shame and the Marriage Equal- ity people alike. Even the Village People are not enough to rescue

our crumbling psyches. Skinny fags and dykes in tight shirts and pants look as though someone just set fire to their gourmet dog biscuit store.

“But, but . . . I mean, Kerry won Maryland,” this one girl says through tears and hair and maybe snot. She’s normally kempt, but the election returns are challenging her kemptness. We’re looking at the screens on the outside of the Midnight Sun, on the sidewalk. “That’s good, isn’t it? Maryland’s in the South, sort of. He won a southern state.” Seeing her so desperate, so miserable, so, so . . . achy for a promised reward, suddenly I’m all horny. She has that look, the one that bottoms get when you’ve promised them an orgasm if they’ll just do one little thing for you, and then it turns out you lied.

I like that look. I go to great lengths to elicit it from my bot- toms.

I will now cut and paste a paragraph from my last Craigslist ad, to avoid having to describe myself in this story. “I’m forty two years old, but can pass for forty-one. Been an SM dyke since the Iran-Contra scandal. Mostly bony but with some curves. Brown hair, brown eyes, fair skin. Leather-wearing femme. Sadistic and sarcastic, but not Socratic.” There, now you’ve got a mental pic- ture. Bully for you.

Before I’ve consciously thought about it, I’ve decided unkempt girl is my prey. She has latte-colored skin and long wavy hair. Turns out her name is Lexa and she’s an MFA student at State. She’s still crying over John-boy and his terrible shortfall. NBC has called Ohio for Bush, but everyone else is reserving judgment.

It’s not looking good, is it? I ask her, not having to fake my own disappointment. It feels so useless to be standing around here, watching and waiting. I sigh theatrically.