Gay Erotica from the top of the GOP
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here was never any doubt in his mind who was going to be his running-mate. The whole search was just a pageant, a show. Kicking the tires, testing the gag reflexes, putting his detractors in their place. Not below him so much as under him. Looking up at him. Choking on him and saying “thank you” with their mouths full.
No, it was never even a contest. No game to be gamechanged. He’d known it the first time he saw Paul Ryan. Fat-free, big-eared, that widow’s peak such a perfect cum-target, only God could’ve made it. Budget schmudget, Daddy Mitt wanted to fudge it. Now that he’d basically farted his way to the top of the GOP, he was gonna get whatever the fuck he wanted for a change.
And he wanted Paul motherfucking Ryan. Superstar.
Privatize Medicare? Sure. How ‘bout publicize your taint? Squeeze it up against a fax machine and push Send with the tip of your dick.
Subject: Grundle. Message: “All Yours!” Number of Pages: Less than 1.
There were lots of fun things to do in an office at any given point throughout the workday. He remembered fondly the first time it occurred to him to staple his assistant’s tie to the desk while plowing him from behind. DJ loved his ties almost as much as he loved getting an assful of Daddy Mitt for lunch. Life was is all about give and take, and it’s the mentor’s job to teach his mentee about life. He liked to put condoms next to his deskside espresso machine with a little sign above them that said “Things We Don’t Use.” Caffeine’s a sin.
Few things made him laugh as hard as watching the media figuring out how fucking beautiful Ryan’s body was. What took them so long, were they bind? Blindness would explain the way they trip all over themselves sometimes, trying to ask him about P90X and food stamps in the same sentence. “How do you keep your abs so cut-up, and why are poor people fat when they can’t even afford food?”
Ryan had told Mitt all about his fitness routine the first time they’d met--a blustery fuck of a day in Wisconsin years back, when Mitt was passing through on a tour of America’s unfuckable midsection.
“Muscle Confusion” was the general thrust of the workout philosophy, he recalled--the idea that if your muscles are constantly doing something they’re not used to, that they don’t see coming, the results would be magnificent. The wheels began turning then.
There were so many things Mitt could do to confuse Paul’s muscles. Lick them, sure, but maybe they’d see that coming. Maybe Janna even did that for him, who knows? He’d seen a woman lick a man’s muscles in porn once, but she was just probably trying to extract a little extra cocaine from his sweat so she’d be awake for the cumshot. Showbiz is all about lies.
Maybe he could tickle them? Squeeze them? Pour hot wax on them and watch it dry. Definitely cum on them, piss a little, but that was getting ahead of himself. Act like he’s about to lick them and then fucking bite them? That sounded more like it. Surprise is confusion’s fun cousin. Hey, that’s a smart thought. He’d write it down if his hands weren’t so busy brutally jerking his big Mormon dick, a two-handed job since the age of 13. But back to muscles...
The anus is basically just a muscle covered in skin and removable hair. A sphincter muscle, he’d learned from watching a VHS of Wayne’s World at church.
“Sphincter.” So scientific. He hated science for ruining the magic of ignorance. The possibility to go through life not knowing what stuff is called, what it does--that was a fundamental right that’d been chipped away at for too damn long. People should be allowed to choose to know nothing. Everyone deserves that choice (and no other choices).
He preferred to think of the anus as a tiny mouth sometimes, other times a peachy door to be kicked down like the cops do in movies. What was behind that door was anyone’s guess, different every time. A hot balloon, an empty tomato...
Whatever Paul’s inside-muscles were like, they were about to get the confusion of a lifetime. Even if Paul wanted it, which he almost certainly did not, it wouldn’t be easy. He’d have to start slow, very slow. Almost lovingly, which was too human an emotion for Daddy Mitt to rest his sack on these days, but he could fake it. He could fake anything.
But when?
At the Convention? Too obvious, and anyway, that was always the best time to fuck the press--they were so horny for any attention, anything extra, a non-speech moment that was all theirs. His favorite was the PBS intern pool because they reminded him of the ugly kids at LDS camp who’d let you do anything to them. The back of their heads were basically flat by the end of the summer.
Some fake security summit would be ideal, imminent threat in the air like the hot, toxic exhalation of a good hit of poppers. But who had the time to call one? And was there anything to be scared of anymore? Mitt couldn’t remember. DJ loved poppers.
Ryan loved budgetary hearings, that’s where he really shined. Daddy Mitt could could call a special one just for them, let the kid show off a little bit, feel special, then BAM! Thumb up his ass! “Great job Vicey,” he’d whisper into one gigantic, vanilla-flavored man ear. “You gotta tighten that fuckin’ belt, baby. Let the good stuff trickle on down.” And then THRUST.
"DJ," he grunted into the intercom on his desk, mid stroke, his hairy knuckles sticky with Satan’s boogers (that’s what they called precum in church every week). "Call Ryan in here to talk about our budget, get our platform banged out." He meant ‘ironed out,’ but he’d never ironed anything before and didn’t want to lie.
"Yes, sir, Daddy!" the twink chirped back from less than 30 feet away. "In the meantime--"
"Yes, baby. Bring in the stapler and that sweet little puss of yours."
This article was originally published October 2012