Sex Education

“We don’t need to ask what the poet means, just what he feels. Better yet, Adam, what do you feel when you read these lines?”

“What lines?”

The guys chuckled; two or three guffawed in that attention-gathering way of hulky jocks. Oh dear; perhaps her admiration for beefy athletes, as well as slender swimmer types, had become too obvious once again. The more serious, academic-minded boys disappeared from her range of vision, although she encouraged their poetic sensibilities because, after all, it was a poetry appreciation class. One or two of the students had literary aspirations, which she, of all people, would be the last to discourage. A poet herself, Mandy understood the creative impulse. She also painted swirling, delicate water colours inspired by dream imagery, took Indonesian dance classes at the Java Institute, and meditated in the lotus position under a print of vulvar flowers by Georgia O’Keefe.

The less physically prepossessing among her students benefited from the presence of athletes who helped to spread good cheer in her class room. Most of the two dozen students consisted of males who belonged to one college sports team or another. Five girls huddled together in a corner, smirking more than smiling, she noted, giving each other pregnant looks. Everyone passed. She awarded marks liberally, if they wrote the way she talked or tried to show their appreciation. She didn’t correct grammar or structure because Mandy believe they inhibited creativity. On their papers, she was certain the students benefitted more from comments like “I enjoyed the soul of your essay.” If one of the jocks had written in muddled prose, she wrote in an exquisite hand: “this is a wonderful and truthful piece of work, Jimmy. Do come see me after class to discuss it.” Jimmy came, and she saw to it that he would come again. No one had ever complained about a high mark.

“Were you paying attention, Adam?”

“Yes, miss. I was following your lines, miss.”

In the library last week before her evening class began at seven, they had found a secluded study carrel. She unwound her batik sarong, purchased in Jakarta where she had taught English as second language to lithesome boys for a few months before too many clucking tongues and that incident of betel juice spat in her face indicated that it was time to leave. During his penetrating embrace of her jasmine-scented body on the carrel desk near the deserted philosophy stacks, Adam had repeated, “Oh, miss, miss, oh God, you’re so hot, miss, I’m coming, fuck, fuck, I’m cummmmming.” They shuddered together beautifully and he loved it when she praised his silky-smooth body and wrapped her sarong around his hunky body.

Unlike many of her female colleagues, she hadn’t repressed sexual allure simply because of the pedagogical imperative. She didn’t believe in the traditional hierarchy of education and the arbitrary barriers it established between students and their teachers who were more or less the same age, give or take six or seven years. Well, that wasn’t as true as it used to be, since time inexorably pushed her further and further away in years, but surely not in desires. She understood the fantasies and natural compulsions of randy boys.

That commune in California had taught her the joys of openness and the role sensuality played in developing the mind. Logic and rationality had corroded the Western spirit. And how gorgeous the boys! The tasty bodies, the curvature, the firm thighs, the long strong legs, the lips and hips, the flat washboard or smoothly hard stomachs, the bright and sensitive eyes awash with healthy lust, and, oh, glory be, their proud and demanding cock, the pride of their beautiful masculinity. Students learned so much better if they were also loved. Occasionally, Mandy experienced a twinge of guilt when she thought about the girls. She always chatted casually with them and tried to persuade them to join in the camaraderie of the classroom and not assume that sulky look of comic book heroines who wondered if their boyfriends really loved them.

Ah, love, love: love was not simply a subject of sonnets or pop songs. It was thrilling physicality like Adam’s provocative chest, his nipples pushing against the tightness of his black T-shirt. Oh, lovely nipples, oh, lovely belly button, oh, lovely lips and tongue. She had licked his sweet-smelling flesh in a deserted section of the library stacks, delighting in its saltiness, her hands almost within reach of Allan Ginsberg’s Howl.

True, times were a-changing, a lesson emphatically made clear at the end of her first teaching year in that Connecticut private school where the headmaster suggested that her methods and their curriculum were irreconcilable. At least, the good man had written a glowing letter of reference to ease the transition and avoid unpleasantness. Here, in this junior college, Mandy believed she had found a permanent home when she was hired three years ago. The college had opened its doors in the heyday of countercultural movements years ago, and still prided itself on innovation in pedagogy and non-traditional teaching techniques. So, it claimed, but definitions of pedagogical technique seemed to be a matter of opinion at times.

In the early years of its existence, several teachers had been hired on the basis of real-life work experience, alternative knowledge gained in the third world, and not upon standard degrees, which they did not all possess. Despite greyness and sagginess, many still wore jeans, and a few of the older male teachers sported ponytails. Yes, she had been born after the fact, but her parents had smoked, toked, chanted, meditated, and protested all over the United States. Her sojourn in the forest commune was the result of an impulse to explore heightened consciousness and liberation shortly after graduating from the university.

In the commune, she absorbed eastern thought in a totally non-structured way, walking through among giant trees with one guru or another, men who had transvalued themselves and emerged, well, elevated above the muck and mire of mere materialism. They had also raised coitus to a platonic ideal without sacrificing the physical. Three gurus had taught her tantric sex, not always at the same time, which she tried to teach to her favourite students, but they got tangled in each other’s limbs. They tended towards impatience and quick thrusts, satisfying in their way, but not entirely spiritual. Oh, blessed boys, oh happy satyrs frolicking in the pools, who had such pleasure in them to give, to whom she could give so much more.

“Jean-Claude, what do you feel about Whitman’s lines? Please read them aloud first, so we can all enjoy them again.”

He did not look at her sitting on the desk in front of the blackboard, one leg crossed and sandaled feet visible beneath below the hemline of her sarong. The finely muscled structure of his shoulders apparent beneath his football jersey, Jean-Claude shifted his legs and leaned forward, hunched over his book, and read the lines:

Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?

Dear heart, he read English with a heavy Québécois accent that made her bones tingle with pleasure, although today his voice had a hurried, hard quality. So demanding when he made love, a bit too rough, and insisting that she always be available to satisfy his aching needs and must never let another guy fuck her. She did not need anyone else, he proclaimed. After the fifth time last month, they had a little tête-à-tête about jealous possessiveness, and not expecting more than the ecstasy they shared in the moment. Embrace the joys of the here and now and don’t try to chain the future, she had tried to teach him. 

He mustn’t think of breaking up with Rachel of the auburn hair and distinctly pouty expression, one of the girls who sat in the back row. Surely, Jean-Claude didn’t believe that Mandy could ever replace his girlfriend, such an intelligent young lady? Despite all her exquisite ministrations and his ejaculations wherever he pleased, he had raged out of her apartment when she’d refused to swear everlasting fidelity to a sweet boy who had his entire future ahead of him. Oh, the sensuous texture of his skin, like shimmering satin. How she loved watching him dive like a demigod into the pool during swim team practise until her presence aroused too much attention. 

Conceivably out of pique, Rachel had spoken to the dean, who in turn requested a meeting. She had always praised the girl and awarded her high marks. The boys were all over 18, well, except for Jean-Claude, who would turn 18 next month, and one or two others, but no one knew about them, she didn’t think. The meeting with the academic dean, her department head, and a union representative was directly after class. Why had the union become involved? A student had complained about her marking methods; that was all she had been told by the chairperson; that, and “other issues” which required consideration. The matter could hardly be a question of labour relations. She taught her classes well, her success rate above average, students contented; indeed, happy. New students, mostly boys, flocked to register in her class at the beginning of each semester. Why would anyone complain about high marks to the dean? 

Perhaps it would be wise not to put Jean-Claude on the spot, so Mandy turned towards, well, a female seemed advisable, but not Rachel. Louise had golden frizzy curls just like hers, although the girl’s body tended towards the Rubenesque, which, great for a painter, didn’t appeal to most randy athletes.

“Thank you, Jean-Claude. Let’s get someone else involved. Louise, what do you feel about the lines Jean-Claude just read?”

Louise mumbled an answer to which Mandy paid scant attention because the class had come to an end. Jean-Claude rushed away. She wanted a word with him. Mandy couldn’t dally with the boys jostling around her like satyrs encircling a nymph in a forest glade. Adam slipped her a note that she read as she sauntered toward the dean’s office on the second floor. Mandy wondered if she should agree to spend the weekend with Adam and a couple of other boys, whom she had personally tutored to improve their performance. He had a heated pool and his parents would be in New York.

When she entered the dean’s office, his secretary was decidedly cool in her greeting. That didn’t surprise Mandy, for the secretary always wore a disapproving scowl on her face, but she was surprised to see Jean-Claude sitting, hunched over as usual, almost panting under an official school portrait. He didn’t reply to her question. Nor did he even bother to look at her, and he turned his body away when she approached, as if to avoid contagion.

The dean opened the door and wordlessly motioned for Jean-Claude and Mandy to enter his office.

The Schlong

~ Inspired by Nickolai Gogol’s “The Nose”

One day when Peter pulled himself to the apex of the rowing machine at the gym, he felt his penis pinched in the mechanism. As he slid backwards, his unattached cock scampered away, squealing, Free! Free!

What the fuck? Peter discretely looked down inside his gym shorts and saw—horrified—only a smooth patch of skin where his manhood used to be. He started chasing the darting dick, weaving in between weight machines and treadmills, only to see it skedaddle out the front door and vanish. 

He finally spotted a red two-seater Porsche that had just finished filling up at the gas station across the street from the gym. The driver was none other than his runaway body part, wearing a snazzy black track suit.

Peter knocked on the side window: Excuse me, but aren’t you my penis?

~Listen, asshole, I have a mind of my own. And I’m horny as hell. I need sex, and I need it now. So—fuck off.

You’ll regret this, Peter said.

~Oh, blow me. And the red Porsche zoomed away.

At wit’s end, Peter drove to Urgent Care. The amazed doctors kept poking the patch of smooth skin. Soon, the entire staff gathered to gawk at Peter’s groin as he lay on his back in bed, wearing only a hospital gown. 

He ran half-dressed to his car, where, looking at his phone, he discovered that his cocky cock, using the screenname “Playa,” had somehow amassed over 10,000 Instagram followers in less than a day and was now considered an “influencer.”

I’ll fix his little red wagon, Peter thought as he complained about his missing prick to the police. They responded, Pranking 9-1-1 is a felony, and hung up on him.

He went to bed early that night with a throbbing migraine. The next morning, half-awake, he stumbled to the toilet as usual and flipped up the seat with a bang.

His hand automatically reached down and grabbed his schlong. It had returned to its normal place and enthusiastically started to pee.

Come to Me

Luna, still fully clothed in the tight jeans and sweater she’d worn when she prowled the bars last tonight, lay upon her bed. Her head swam, then swayed pendulously to the side and she saw the LED numbers of the clock: 7am. With her tongue she licked dry lips. Cotton mouth, she thought. She closed her eyes and felt as though she were treading water over her head. Her eyes flicked open and the room appeared to be spinning. Again, she shut her eyes tight. Luna was still drunk.

***

“C’mon, babe,” said Rita, “let’s get high,” and she mimed bringing a cigarette to her lips. Luna nodded and across the dance floor they threaded their way. Then out the front door and to the back of the tavern, where they climbed a rickety flight of stairs to the venerable old building’s roof. There they joined a half dozen other bar patrons familiar to them. The acrid smell of burning marijuana was thick in the air and a soft wind blew the blue smoke into the distance.

The joint reached the newcomers, who toked avidly, then passed  the reefer on to the next person. “You ought to get closer to Rick,” suggested Rita.

Luna rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, owing to her consumption of THC, and said, “Not a chance.” Rita’s brother was 20 years old, or five years younger than his sister and Luna.

“How come?” asked Rita. “He told me he’d like to get to know you better. He digs you.”

“He digs my chest,” corrected Luna. When Rita gazed at her quizzically, Luna continued, “When I ran into him downstairs, he said to me, ‘Nice rack.’ “

Rita winced. “I know he’s a little crude with women sometimes, but it’s only because he doesn’t understand them. He’s young. I think he really likes you. He was probably only kidding.”

“Sorry, Rita, but I told him to go screw, and that I didn’t want to be a notch on his bedpost,” said Luna.

“Rick’s not a player, Luna,” protested Rita. “He might kid a lot, but basically he’s pretty lonely. He’s got stuff going on and could use another friend.”

“I know he’s your brother, Rita, and you’d like something to happen, but there’s no chemistry. I can’t get excited about a guy — no matter how good-looking, which he is — who obsesses on a woman’s body parts. You know what I mean?” she asked.

Rita shrugged.

“Besides,” continued Luna, “Say we did hook up, dated for a while, and then broke up? He might hate me and then how would you feel about me? I mean, there are millions of guys; why should I date the brother of my very best friend and risk screwing that relationship up? You’re lots more important to me than any guy.”

“But, I’m not saying you need to date him. Rick’s not like that, believe me. He’s no player.”

Luna smiled, took the next joint that had made its way around again, and said, “I’ll toke to that. Best friends don’t grow on trees,” Luna went on. “Guys do, just like nuts and fruits and apes….”

Rita laughed. “So, babe, do you want to start dating me? We already know we’re compatible. And I promise not to fixate on any of your…parts.” She looked, sleepy-eyed and stoned, at Luna.

“Sure thing,” replied Luna. “Just clear it with your old man first, okay? i don’t want to cross any jealous husbands.” 

Rita hugged Luna, who hugged her back. “Deal,” she said.

Some of the other stoners, completely blitzed by now, began to sing, loudly and off key. Lyin Eyes, an ancient song by The Eagles, thought Luna, recognizing the tune.

“C’mon,” suggested Rita. “Let’s beat it before the cops investigate all the racket.” The women descended the flight of stairs and returned to the tavern. “There’s one thing I’d like to say to you, Luna,” said Rita somberly, as they passed through the door of the pub.

“What is it?” asked Luna.

“Woman to woman, babe, and as your best friend….” Luna looked at her. “You do have a nice rack!” 

Luna slugged Rita in the arm and they both laughed.

***

The evening proceeded apace and Luna, who loved to dance and drink beer, danced and drank beer with everyone, male and female. Near the end of the evening, she even danced with Rick, who was still smarting a little from her rejection of him earlier in the evening. He was contrite.

“I apologize for insulting you, Luna,” he said, taking her in his arms for a rare slow dance.

“Forget it, Rick,” she told him, putting her hands round his neck. Luna was drunk and Rick’s strong, sinewy physique felt good to her. Sensual.

“We’re okay then?” he asked, placing his hands round her waist.

“We’re good,” she agreed. Suddenly the DJ spun a record that always affected Luna: How Deep is Your Love, a hit by the Bee Gees nearly half a century ago. For whatever reason, it always made her amorous. As couples softly swayed to the music, Luna reached down and moved Rick’s hands from her waist to her hips. He gently squeezed her cheeks. Ah, she thought, much better. The dancers molded their bodies against the other and moved in time to the beat. Rick almost instantly became aroused.

“Nice junk,” whispered Luna, gently pushing her pelvis into Rick’s.

After the bar closed, Rick went home with Luna.

***

According to the clock/radio on Luna’s bedside table, it was nearly 4am. She and her new lover had been going at it for more than an hour. The boy has stamina, she thought drunkenly. Luna was on her elbows and knees, with Rick, behind her, with his hands clutching her  thighs, was thrusting his cock in and out of her with a beat reminiscent of How Deep is Your Love, the song they’d danced to hours ago. Suddenly he stopped.

“Wh….what is it?” Luna asked, looking back at him over her shoulder.

“I’m getting ready to come,” Rick confessed. He was breathing very hard. A thin bead of sweat ran down his naked chest.

“What’s wrong with that?” she asked.

“I want you to come at the same time,” he said huskily, and withdrew and turned her over on her back.

Most men she knew, thought Luna, weren’t in the least concerned whether she climaxed or not. This was another mark in Rick’s favor, she decided.

With Luna now on her back, Rick gently spread her legs and entered her. Luna gave a little gasp. Rick was huge. He did have nice junk!

Softly caressing and then kissing her breasts, he moved his hips in rhythm to Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing, which Luna had put on repeat on her stereo.

Luna’s breaths were coming faster now and she began to move her ass in little circles, affording Rick additional stimulation. Rick reached his hand down and squeezed Luna’s butt, inserting one of his long fingers into her anus. Now she was panting. Next, she was thrusting her pelvis into his and together they came with little groans of ecstacy. Luna grew still, but Rick kept pumping away and in moments he was hard again.

“God, oh God,” cried Luna and together they came a second time. Afterwards, they lay spent, on the bed, which was moist with their perspiration.

Snuggling face to face with her young lover, Luna whispered, “God, Rick, I’ve never come like that before. You know, if you keep practicing, you’re liable to get pretty good at this.” Together, they laughed and held each other tight.

***

When Luna awoke, she glanced at the clock and gasped. 9am! She was late for work, she thought, instantly rattled. Then she remembered: last night was a Saturday and she went out to the bar, which meant that this was only Sunday. With that load off her mind, she sighed and turned over to go back to sleep, but suddenly she was fully awake. Where was Rick? she wondered. She looked around. None of his clothes were there, not the jeans she had peeled off him early this morning, after the tavern, so they could have mind-blowing sex. And the thick leather belt she had pulled out of the loops of his jeans so that he could softly beat her ass. She stared down at herself. When did she get redressed? Where did Rick go? she wondered again. He didn’t even say goodbye.

***

At work on Monday, Luna ran into Rita in the break room and they sat at a table to enjoy a Pepsi. “How’s Rick?” asked Luna, regarding her friend closely. Both women were editors at a prominant literary magazine.

“He’s fine,” replied Rita.

Huh! thought Luna. Maybe Rick hadn’t told his sister of his budding relationship with her best friend. Brother and sister was extraordinarily close, Luna knew.

“I think he might’ve found a new friend,” remarked Rita with a smile.

“Anyone I might know?” asked Luna with a straight face.

Rita shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me their name.” A pause. “I hope it’s not some low-life from the college, you know, 18 and loose.”

Luna frowned. “I’m sure he wouldn’t date someone like that, Rita. I think your brother has better taste than that.” She glanced at her  friend’s face again, but it was inscrutable.

Rita furrowed her brow. “I thought you thought that he had no taste.”

“I never said that,” her friend protested. “I just said that he maybe focused too much on women’s body parts.”

Rita shrugged, finished her soda and tossed the can in the trash. “Back to the salt mines,” she said, and the women returned to work.

***

The next Saturday, Luna decided to try the tavern again. It had worked out well the last time. She’d had a wonderful time with Rick, but he hadn’t called her. What was that all about? she wondered. Perhaps she’d run into him tonight.

At the tavern, Luna hung around the bar, nursing a beer and looking for Rick. He was nowhere about. At long last, he appeared. By coincidence, the DJ began playing that old Bee Gees tune — their song — at that very moment. Taking this as an auspicious sign, Luna approached Rick, placed her hand on his arm and said, “I think this is our dance.” Rick started, swiftly withdrew his arm.

“I beg your pardon?” he said. He looked confused, distressed — embarrassed.

“Let’s dance, handsome,” said Luna, replacing her hand on his arm and pulling him onto the dance floor.

“Excuse me,” Rick said stiffly. “You told me what you thought of me last week and….frankly, I’m no longer interested, Luna.” And disengaging her hand once more, he walked away.

What the hell? thought Luna. She stood there alone on the dance floor as other couples began the slow dance and she soon felt stupid. Had it been only a dream?  Had she and Rick made passionate love last week or had she only imagined it? A sexual fantasy? Luna was an editor and she would have rejected any fiction which boasted the old meme, “It was all a dream.” But, in real life, did it ever actually happen? What was in the pot she’d smoked last week? Had there been a hallucinogen imbedded in the reefer? Her feelings for Rick, recently stirred… ” She felt lost.

Rita walked up to her, handed her another beer. “Got news, girlfriend.” Luna looked at her quizzically and Rita said, “I found out who Rick’s new lover is.” She grinned a shit-eating grin.

“Who…who is it?” asked Luna, increasingly baffled.

“The name is Amari,” revealed her friend.

“Who is she?”

“Not a she,” said Rita. “It’s a he.”

Luna blinked in astonishment. “Amari is a man?” she asked incredulously.

“He’s a writer, an African American,” explained Rita. “We’ve actually used some of his work at the magazine. In fact, I introduced him to Rick some time ago.”

Luna’s mind was muddled. “Is…is Rick…a”

“The word is gay,” said Rita with an understanding smile.

“But, I thought you wanted me to date your brother. You wanted us to hook up. You said he dug me.”

“I didn’t expect you to bed him, you silly goose. I only wanted you to become friendlier. You know, a platonic friendship. Rick doesn’t have many real friends.”

“How long have you known that Rick is gay?” asked Luna, feeling like she was a character in a movie.

“He’s been queer his whole life, baby. When he was much younger, I tried to convert him, you know, get him to like girls. But that was just my own ignorance acting out. I should have just accepted him as he was. It would’ve said us both a lot of heartache.”

“So Rick is happy with his sexual identity?” Luna wanted to know.

“I think so,” said Rita.

“Has he….ever dated girls?” she asked at last.

“Oh, I guess he might have, you know; but he has zero interest in the female gender. “Why would you ask that, Luna?”

“You don’t suppose he’s maybe, bi-?” she asked.

“Like I said, he has zero interest in the women. He told me recently that he came to terms with his sexuality after some deliberation, and that he had just one more thing to do before he accepted Amari’s proposal, a sort of experiment, he said. But, I guess the experiment was a success, because now he feels he’ll be comfortable in a same sex marriage.”

Now it all began to come together for Luna. “When’s the big day?” she asked weakly.

“In three weeks. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

Luna replied, “I’ll try to come — for Rick.”

Legal Affairs

The attractive client showed up at the prostitute’s motel room at the appointed hour.  Cindy looked at Wally and wondered this guy needs to pay for sex?  Well you can’t tell by looks, maybe his wife denies him or he’s got some kind of kink.

Wally looked at Cindy and thought Unusual – no signs of drug use or abuse and she appears healthy and attractive.

Wally told her “Show me what you got.”

Cindy said “Put the $150 on the table where I can see it first.”

Wally complied, then replied “Your turn.  Undress and get into bed.”

As she got undressed Wally noticed that she was unshaved and that she had erect nipples in her large areolas.  Her appearance and signs of arousal caused his arousal in turn which his pants couldn’t hide. 

While Wally inspected her, Cindy peeped at him and couldn’t help but smile at the effect she had on him. 

After Cindy got into bed, Wally said “You’re under arrest for prostitution” and showed her his badge.

Cindy reached for her blouse on the nightstand, brought out her badge and replied “You are under arrest for soliciting prostitution.”

They looked at each other.  After a long pause, Cindy said “Damn those screw-ups at headquarters.  I’m from the Northeast Precinct.  How about you?”

“Southeast.  Dumb question, but what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“My ex-husband hated having a cop for a wife.  After our divorce, I thought that this assignment was the best revenge.  I know, kind of petty.  You?”

“I’ve seen what happens to sex workers and the families that they damage.  I’m happy that we have a diversion program for the women and men we bust.”

“What does your wife think about the work you do?  Does she complain like my husband did?”

“Never married.  Been close.  Mostly went through a series of breakups over stupid things.  The one I thought was the real thing died in a car accident.”

They stared at each other through a long silence until Cindy noted “We have the room for another two hours.”

It only took Wally three minutes to get naked and into bed.  After some mutual manual stimulation, ever the gentleman, Wally asked “What’s your preference?”  Cindy demonstrated by pushing him on his back and straddling him.  That only took them a couple of minutes.  They spent the rest of their limited minutes playing requests.  Licking, rubbing, and probing ensued with a soundtrack of Cindy’s purrs and chirps and Wally’s groans. 

The Beginning Of Their Story

Letters From The Trail

I remember when no one showed up to these things. I kind of miss it, really. Now there are always so many people, so many heads across a sea of heads and bodies. Most times there are so many people I can’t even see the doors. It’s like I’m sealed in and stuck with these people forever. I’ll tell you this, thousand-dollar plates will make even the mealiest-mouthed donors eat you alive.

Keep it together. Smile, dumbass. No, not like that. Show more teeth. No, that’s too much teeth. Try and make that dimple pop out, the one you’ve been wincing in private for months to try and create out of thin air. Keep—it—together. 

Fluorescent lighting works wonders in terms of energy efficiency but does jack shit for my spray tan. The buzz of it makes it too much like a doctor’s office in here. It’s too sterile for my brand of bullshit. I wonder if the kid who served the veal spit in my side salad. I wonder if the girl at check-in would fuck me.

Time for QA. I wish these people would ask me better questions. It’s always, “Can you expand on your ten-point plan to address income inequality and provide support for the homeless?” It’s never, “How are you?” Just once I’d like to tell someone about my day. I’d tell them thirteen stops in one day is too many. I’d tell them this bus is too small. I’d tell them I can’t eat any more fucking ice cream.

Dumb kid in the back of the question line keeps eyeing me weird. Is he a homo? Does he think I’m a homo? No, I’ve got a sterling stance on that particular issue. Everybody knows I’m a traditionalist. Everyone sees me as manly. Is he going to try and corner me on that flub from the Iowa State Fair about the death tax? Note to self: look up what the death tax is. 

I hate these shoes. These shoes are bullshit. They don’t look good. I don’t know why I have to wear them. It’s really only Steven who says I have to wear them, and he’s only been with the campaign a few weeks. We could shit-can Steven.

They say it’s time for the last question. Have I been answering questions all this time? The smiling faces in the front row of tables say I have. They’ve not yet peeled the American Flag stickers from their chests in favor of any communist-looking ones. They’ve not come for me with the prop pitchforks they brought. Are there prop pitchforks? Probably.

They’re playing the song now so I know I can get up and smile one last time. Wave to the people. The cramp in my jaw from trying to get the dimple to pop is making my teeth chatter. If I hold a smile longer than thirty seconds I start to spasm. It doesn’t look pretty in photos. We’ve worked out a system for avoiding this. I start tapping the toe of my weird shoes and Steven comes and whisks me off the stage and out the back door, puts me in a limo. I never get a chance to try and fuck check-in girl. Steven is definitely shit-canned now if he wasn’t before.

The next seven stops are a death loop. I stand on the same marks, watch the same homo weird guys eye me from the back of the question lines, lust after the same plain check-in girls and sniff plate after plate of conflict-enriched dinners for signs of tampering. When we make it to Guernsey County, I make Steven take a Greyhound back home to wherever he’s from and promote Stephanie to Steven’s old job. Stephanie would probably fuck me.

***

I don’t know if I even want this job anymore. I liked the one I had before just fine. Nobody cared then. Everybody cares now.

I have a televised presser today. I’m supposed to sit for makeup soon. Not the faggy kind. Stephanie tells me after we fuck this morning that if I sit for makeup and get through the presser we can fuck again tonight. Girl’s got an eye for career advancement. I probably won’t be bored of Stephanie for at least a few weeks. I agree to get through the presser.

It’s five to airtime and Mr. Interviewer Woman is already getting on my nerves. She’s making small talk like she’s not out to destroy me. She’s asking how the wife is, how the kids are. I know she pals around with Oprah and Kelly Clarkson and that bitch from the View. I know she voted for George McGovern, and I know she voted for Carter—twice. If it were up to me, she wouldn’t have a job. When it’s up to me, she won’t.

The interview goes well. I remember all of my talking points without pausing to ‘go to the restroom’ or adjust my face. I smile with the correct amount of teeth. I kiss several hands and shake several babies out in the parking lot of Big News Media.

Back on the bus, I pull my dogs out from the horrendous leather enclosures Steven calls ‘shoes’ and listen to them bark. This is how I know the everyman. It’s why I’m the favorite of the little guy. I know what it’s like to put in seven, even eight hours straight in cheap Italian heels, and I know what it’s like to be hassled. At least they get paid overtime.

I lie on the oversized bunk in back of the bus and thumb through Thai lady-boy porn on my encrypted iPhone. It’s not homo. It’s a kink. If anyone breaks the story, I’ll sue them out of existence but it’s not homo. I’m not ashamed, but don’t tell anyone. I fall asleep with a hard-on and dream about Michael Dukakis in a purple polka-dot print dress and spiked collar, with Kitty holding the leash and smoking a cigar.

***

Today there’s a big meeting to go over opposition research. I don’t attend, but they fill me in after. They say my opponents are clean. Like, angel’s asshole, eat off the floor, Mr. Clean clean. Well, every one of them except for Mr. Shit Doesn’t Stick To Me. I’m a smarter, more capable man than him, and everyone knows it. I tell them to keep digging until they get dirt on every candidate who isn’t me and make sure that it sticks. I tell them plant a few baggies of cocaine or some dead hookers or forge some passenger flight logs if they have to, because we all know they’re guilty of it. I tell them, “Wait, no—that’s me.” I laugh. No one else laughs. I laugh again, louder. Everyone laughs.

Intern Brad says he’s got photos of Senator Whoever in full blackface. I tell him no good, we’ve all got photos in blackface. Intern Chad says the up-and-coming Representative from New York was busted two years ago with illegal firearms, two of which were linked to various crimes. I tell him try again; it won’t play well with the NRA crowd. Stephanie offers to visit a few known liberal queer bars in DC, as if there are any other kind of queer bar in DC, and I tell her break a leg. I’m getting tired of Stephanie anyway.

***

I’m scheduled to appear on a late-night talk show with Trevor Clarkson tonight. He’s a Poindexter dickhead and no one likes him, but the voters eat him up like day old pizza. I tell the network I’ll give them ten minutes. They haggle for fifteen. I respond with five. They say ten. I tell them seven minutes, and I don’t want any hardball bullshit. I tell them don’t focus on my shoes, keep the shot high. They agree.

Trevor is sitting at the desk when I walk out. He’s shuffling papers and straightening his stupid tie. He offers his hand and I offer mine but pull away when his slippery fingers wrap around my own. His hands are bigger than mine. I make a mental note to never shake his hand again. 

The segment goes fine until Trevor brings up Iowa. Reminds the viewers that a poor showing could lead to an early exit. Mentions Mr. Shit Doesn’t Stick To Me. I forget how much teeth to show and start nervously tapping my foot. Trevor smiles at me and folds his arms, his fingers like snakes protruding from his hands. Steven is gone and can’t rescue me now. I stutter through a half-hearted line about paths to victory and strong support in the Midwest and funnel cakes. I laugh for some reason.

Trevor brings up a map of the country, zooms in on Florida. Points to several counties I’ve never heard of. Starts in on some nerd bullshit about demographic changes and favorability ratings. He asks me if I think I’m the kind of candidate the people would like to have a beer with. Asks me what my beer of choice is. I start to say Coors, but Trevor stops me and says I don’t have to play favorites. My face is on fire. The arches of my feet scream in crampy agony. I show my teeth and close my mouth and show them again. Be normal. Act normal. Make the dimple pop. Where the fuck is Stephanie?

I tell Trevor it was a pleasure. I wave to the camera and say God bless our troops and flee from the set. Intern Gary is all smiles when he comes up to tell me how great I looked on camera. I stomp on Gary’s foot and we both cry out because the force of it probably hurt me more than it hurt Gary. I take off the shoes and hurl them at the crew and feel myself sink to the floor by several inches.

***

On the bus I flip through five-hundred channels of satellite TV and throw the remote at the screen when I see my face a tenth time. I try looking at porn on my encrypted iPhone, but a message keeps showing on the browser. Something about parental locks. I try and jerk off and go to sleep but I can’t keep it up long enough to even beginto feel tired. Stephanie slides into the bunk next to me and tells me nobody watches Trevor Clarkson anyway. I tell her there are literally millions of nobodies that watch Trevor Clarkson. She tells me if it doesn’t work out, she’ll come intern for me back home. Says she can sneak in and out of the mansion when the wife is asleep. Tells me it’ll be fun, like a game of Clue or something. I tell her she doesn’t know shit about Clue, that’s not how it works. She jerks me off and tells me she fucking hates Disney movies and that she doesn’t like tall guys anyway and that she thinks I always show the exact right amount of teeth. I fall asleep in her arms and don’t dream about anything.