Sex for America: Politically Inspired Erotica (17 page)

“Yes, I feel so awful,” Lexa says. “And yet, transfixed.”

The way she says the word
transfixed
gets me all hot again.

Don’t ask me why, it just does. I want to transfix her.

Like a train wreck, I say. You want to look away, but you can’t.

“Exactly,” she says. “Helpless.”

I have to bite my lip when she says that word. I sigh again, ostensibly at the election results. Yes, I say. But at times like this, it’s good just to be close to another human. To feel alive. Do you know what I mean?

She says she does, but I know she doesn’t. I chat with her some more: about the stupidity of the Electoral College, all those huge empty red states where nobody lives deciding who gets to be president, the gerrymandering of the House of Representatives, the corporate ownership of the media, does democracy even ex- ist anymore? Blah blah blah. Paralysis seeps into her limbs, like bondage without any torture except for the slow death of hope.

I feel the need to rescue her from all this, to replace her men- tal anguish with another type of pain.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m upset too. The thought of four more years of Bush, of Bush with a Mandate between his mandibles, fills me with creeping sickness. It’s not just her I’m trying to rescue. My lust is a welcome distraction.

I whisper in her ear: it’s late, there’s nothing we can do here, they won’t call the election tonight, there’s still hope, why don’t you come back to my place for some tea and cakes, we can keep an eye on the results from there. . . . She nods, slowly.

I live in Outer Noe Valley, past Lovejoy’s Tea House. Tea and cakes are very important to me. They symbolize politeness, friend-

liness, companionship, stickiness—all good things. My apartment is sort of a Steampunk railway car, with a small dungeon area next to the computer, which looks piston-powered but isn’t.

While Lexa is looking around with what I hope is a mixture of terror and admiration, I busy myself with scones and decaf Earl Grey. Clotted cream, strawberry jam. We must Keep Up Our Strength. Lexa is staring at the small but impressive bondage area: rings in the ceiling and floor, sling pinned up on one wall, an assortment of floggers and torture devices on a lacquered tray. The whole thing soundproofed with big tapestries, including one a friend gave me that shows the traditional unicorn getting ass- fucked by the virgin with a strap-on.

I make loud tea-serving noises behind her so she won’t feel as though I’m sneaking up on her. I hand her a cup and saucer, gesture to the milk and sugar in their floral china homes. I touch her wrist and she nearly spills. This could be our last chance, I say. To enjoy life. Before the repression starts.

“Oh no,” she says. “There’s still hope. Maryland, I mean. And Ohio is a toss-up!”

Yes, yes. Always hope. And meanwhile, I offer her a scone, but she’s not hungry. I ask her if she likes my bondage gear, and she says yes. Sometimes, I say, transgressive sex can be an act of resistance against hegemony. She likes that; I knew she would.

I put my hand on the back of her neck and she moans. Just a light touch. She’s still holding the teacup, which keeps her from making any sudden movements. I run my fingers down her neck and along her shoulder, through her sweater. I finally take the tea away from her and put it down on the little table next to my computer. I come back to her—she hasn’t moved—and I run my

fingers over her cheek. She closes her eyes, goes into a mild trance. I keep stroking her cheek, run my other hand over her body with- out touching it. She can just feel my palm pass by her breasts, stomach, cunt, without touching.

I tell her to take off her sweater. It’s an over-the-head thing that leaves her blinking and muss-haired. I stroke her lips with my finger and she opens her mouth to take it inside. I undo the clasp of her jeans with the other hand.

This could be our last night of freedom, I tell her. We have to be prepared for the worst. She’s given up on contradicting me. Her jeans fall to the floor, bunched around her boots. Now she’s just wearing an anti-globalization T-shirt, panties, and boots. I tell her to shout “red state” if I do anything she doesn’t like. She nods.

I tell her to undo her boots and mine, to save time and to maximize the time she spends bent over. Her ass is even more amazing in panties than it was in jeans. It would make an excellent center of resistance; it could contain the revolution in its round- ness. When she stands up again, I stroke her thighs with almost no pressure at all. She’s a fun bottom, she twitches just from a little petting. Skittish.

You’re lucky, I tell her. A pretty one. They’ll keep you to breed the next generation of Jesus droolers. You’ll learn to like read- ing the (and here I smack her left butt cheek)
Left Behind
books. You’ll be a good fundy wife, in time.

She pushes her ass back to meet the spanking halfway. I swat too lightly to hurt, until she begs me to spank her harder. I pull her panties off, leaving her wearing just the T-shirt. I move her pant- ies, jeans, socks, and boots out of the way, then guide her ankles to the rings in the walls of my little bondage cubbyhole. I put velcro

cuffs around her ankles and snap them onto the rings. I leave her arms free, so she could free her ankles in seconds. But I know she won’t, and this way her legs are spread nicely. I make her bend over slightly so I have a nice view of her ass and pussy.

Now that I’m sure she’s not going to run away, I can com- mence the mindfuck in earnest. Oh, I mean it’s not really a mind- fuck, it’s catharsis, it’s helping her to confront the inevitable. Not really a mindfuck at all.

I spank her harder and tell her all the horrible things that will happen. Polluters will rewrite all the environmental regulations and pollute our wetlands. (Here I brush her own wetlands, just a little.) The FBI will place us all under surveillance in the name of Homeland Security. (Whap!) Antonin Scalia will be chief justice. (I claw her back under her T-shirt.) Abortion rights will wither. (Smack!)

I get my suede flogger and start on her ass and thighs. Per- versely, I don’t want to take off her T-shirt yet. You thought things were going to change? I say, giving her nice even strokes back and forth, mixed with little cooling touches. Well, they’ll change, all right—you’re going to learn what patriarchy’s all about! Are you excited?

“No,” she sobs. She’s biting her lip to keep from crying. It’s delicious; for a moment it’s almost worth another four years of Junior. Almost. “No, I hate it.”

I know, it’s scary, I say. Do you want to feel nice for a while, to take your mind off it?

She nods and blinks. Now I pull her T-shirt up, but not all the way off. I leave it covering her head, so her arms are raised and she’s blindfolded. I tell her not to move it. Then I start stroking her

breasts, her sides, her armpits. Some of my touches make her purr and twist her body, others make her jump a little from ticklish- ness. She’s lost in sensation.

Then I start in again, predicting. A few rich CEOs will con- trol the entire economy, you’ll be their slave. Your vegan boutiques will turn into Gap outlets. We’ll turn the whole Middle East into a crater.

And so on. This whole time, I’m giving her little touches, licks, and bites on her thighs, breasts, stomach. I put a latex glove on one hand and lube up a finger. I smear lube around her ass and she moans louder, rotating her butt in supplication. I keep finger- ing and whispering in her T-shirt-covered ear.

They’ll teach creationism in school, I murmur. They’ll ban sex education and teach everyone that masturbation causes AIDS. My finger is pressing against her butt hole now. She pushes back. Pretty soon my finger is moving in and out and around, slicking her inside and out. She’s bucking and gasping. They’re going to round up the queers and put us in camps, I say. She wails.

I’m just getting warmed up. I keep finger-fucking her ass with my left hand and flogging her shoulder blades with my right hand. I can’t flog too hard, because it’s hard to coordinate and I don’t want the flogger to wrap around accidentally. But it still stings. Pleasure below, pain above.

We’re this close to a military dictatorship, I say, snapping the flogger against her shoulder blades. She squeals. All it takes is one little shove—I push my finger further into her ass—and we’ll turn into real fascists. I work a second finger into her ass and she once again backs up to welcome it in. They’ll suspend the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. I’m not even trying to be gentle anymore;

the fingers are thrusting and the T-shirted head and arms are flail- ing. The feds will strip-search you in the streets whenever they feel like it. They’ll cavity-search you.

Somewhere inside the anti-globalization shirt, a little voice is begging, “No, no, no, no . . .”

I decide to check in. Are you doing okay? Are you ready to cry “red state” yet?

“I’m okay,” she says between sobs. “Please don’t stop.” That’s all I needed to hear. Are you ready to be cavity-

searched by Homeland Security? She cries and says “no” over and over again. I keep claiming her ass. Are you ready for Christian reeducation camps?

“No, no, no, no, no!”

I get a Baby Jesus butt plug and ease it into the opening I’ve made. I let her know that if she lets it fall out, I will leave her tied up and tell Tom DeLay where to find her. She whimpers like a puppy. The butt plug stays in. Good girl. I take off the glove.

I whip her tits, then finger her pussy, then whip her tits some more. I put a couple of Day-Glo clamps on her nipples and then whip her tits again, flicking them back and forth.

In the new world, women will be property, I hiss in her ear.

You’ll have to act like Laura Bush, stand behind your man.

My fingers circle around her clit. It trembles. Oh yes, you’ll enjoy being Hester in our Puritan new world. I get a Hello Kitty vibrator and work her clit with it. I move closer to her clit every time I say something to upset her.

Bzzzz. . . . Hate crimes will become public policy. “Oh yes, please, yes!” Bible study will be mandatory. “Please, yes, please don’t stop!” We’ll all have to swear loyalty to Bush. “Yes, yes,

yes!” They’ll have a curfew at night and all day Sunday except for church. “Oh god, more!”

Finally, just as I’m telling her that Congress will mandate pub- lic burnings of queer books, she screams as if it’s her last breath, she shakes and flails and Baby Jesus flies out of her and she goes rigid and then collapses.

Ankles still cuffed, she leans against one wall, her body slack. Reality seeps back into her mind. All the things I said before unspool again, only this time without the thrill of bondage and arousal to soften them. She’s left mostly naked, really helpless, in a terrifyingly ugly world. I ask her if she’d like to come back some- time soon, and she says yes.

A CRYSTAL FORMED ENTIRE LY OF HOLES
‌

NICK F LY NN

1

At first it was just a kiss, tentative at first, her lips moving over his body, she found the hole, one of them, one that the AK-47 had left, this one in his bicep, her tongue fluttered over the wound, healed now, grazing it lightly, as if to say,
it’s alright, I still want you, you’re still beautiful
, and on the third pass her tongue slid in, at first just the tip, and he didn’t push her away, and as her tongue went deeper he shuddered down to some untapped core and moaned and it surprised them both.

Word spread across the base. It was only a matter of time before it caught on.

2

In 2006 a physicist in Texas had synthesized a crystal formed en- tirely of holes.
A crystal formed entirely of holes
. You couldn’t hold it in your hands, but its mass could be measured by how much air it displaced, by the way light passed through it. It came directly from research into the shape of nothing, which had been revealed to great fanfare a few months earlier, with charts and renderings and shadowy drawings.

3

As with most pure science, the military was the first to under- stand the practical applications—put bluntly, they had so many bodies shot through with so many holes, a simple, unavoidable by-product of their business. Bad enough, the casualties, but the injuries, the wounded—they never play well on TV. A military researcher read about the new crystal—what if one combined this nonentity, this synthetic nothing, with even rudimentary stem-cell technology—he speculated it could create, in essence, an entire new organ, the hole itself would become the organ—an evolutionary leap, but not the first—vegetables had been engi- neered for decades, every species from one-cell bacteria on up had by now been cloned. The higher-ups didn’t care much about the Darwinian aspects to it, they were just tired of bleeding out. If it worked, the idea was to apply this new technology to those wounded in battle—shrapnel blows a hole through your skull, the wound itself becomes a new organ, incorporated into the body. If it worked—and there was every reason to believe it would—even a hand or a leg, blown off, could be restored. You still wouldn’t