An Erotic Look at the Republican Hopeful
“P
resident Romney.” He hadn’t said it yet that morning, and it felt fucking good.
The last time anyone else called him that was a decade ago, at the Salt Lake City Olympics. President of the Winter Olympics—now there was a job with perks. Luge team onesie fittings, the rifelry boys spread flat on their stomachs in the middle of the woods, the fact that no one asked him any questions when he told them to piss in a cup…
Now they just looked at him like the piss freak he was, and it hurt to think that he’d probably have to stop doing that sooner rather than later.
A lot of things were gonna have to end. That was for sure. His assistant, DJ, should probably stop calling him “Daddy” in text messages. Maybe even stop texting him altogether, but that was too much to think about right now. And whose fucking business is it anyway? DJ’s into it. And so is Daddy.
“Daddy’s into a lot of shit,” he accidentally said out loud. Good thing no one was around.
No one was ever around. He’d fought all year to become the Republican nominee, and he’d won. But no one liked him still. How did that happen? Where’d he go wrong?
He’d had his head squared by the best doctors in the Midwest. Had hard pecs with just the right amount of hair on them—not so much that anyone would think he was Jewish, but not so little that anyone would think he groomed it as often as he did. Maybe he did too many pushups—most of the politicians that seemed to get ahead were on the verge of a stroke from how hard their male breasts sagged and pulled on their necks. But Daddy loved his titties. So did DJ.
Plus, he was white, and richer than humanly possible. His church was as fake and fucked up as any of theirs. His wife had blonde hair and a famous disease. Sure, M.S. wasn’t as glamorous as, say, nipple or pussy cancer, but it was something. She was trying.
“Poor Ann,” he said, looking at her picture on the corner of his desk. So pretty. So willing to become a Mormon for him, to swear off work and ambition to stay home and raise his five hot-as-fuck sons, each one hung bigger than the one before him. All the while, just bouncing around on billion-dollar horses, dressed like a jodhpur model, pretending to give a shit about poor people and retards.
But she just wasn’t enough. He knew it from the first time they’d fucked, in the middle of their wedding ceremony, while his parents watched but hers didn’t because they weren’t Mormon and weren’t allowed inside. She couldn’t help that she had a pussy instead of a dick, and she’d been a sport, and moaned real low the whole time. But it was a façade.
Façade. A French word as beautiful as the French boys he’d bedded as a young, swinging missionary in the ‘60s. The LDS church had sent him abroad for almost three years to convert the heathens, but he hadn’t found any heathens who wanted to hear him talk. Just ones who wanted to stuff his mouth with their uncircumcised dicks to shut him the fuck up, and it had been eye-opening to say the least. Ass opening too.
French men be crazy at fucking he remembered writing in his missionary journal after a particularly brutal gangbang outside Bordeaux. How scared he’d felt the next morning, taking a home pregnancy test, wondering what the hell he was going to tell the Elders, if they ever let him come home.
He knew men made his dick hard from an early age. The oil painting of Joseph Smith on his knees before the Angel Moroni that hung above his boyhood bed had instilled in him a certain curiosity. Why would a man as strong and strapping, pure of heart and, presumably, cum, as Joseph Smith ever kneel down before another man—angel or not. It would be a long time before he figured out the answer by trial and error: because that’s how you get a dick in your mouth, which is literally the best shit possible.
Joseph Smith and the Angel Moroni were recurring characters in Mitt’s early fantasy life. “Revelation” came to mean ‘boner,’ “and the fact that Joseph was known to be such a great “orator” made him squirm in his long-sleeved church-issued underpants (or Temple Garments). Sometimes Moroni was on top, like in the painting, but usually Joseph overtook him and showed him how to fucking sin.
Because sinning absolutely rules. It was a fact that electrified Mitt every time it occurred to him, which was usually about five times a day, or more if he rode on a train, which was rare.
“It’s on, Daddy!” DJ chirped into the intercom out of nowhere.
“What channel?”
Obama was speaking from some piece-of-shit school in god-knows-where New York City. He looked amazing—fresh blue shirt, striped tie, no jacket. How does he do it, Mitt wondered. Look so fucking cute all the time, and what does he smell like? What did any black person smell like, for that matter?
Mitt had met a few, mostly while firing them during his Bain Capital days. They cried and begged, just like white people. And Asians. But he never got close enough to really take them in.
And now one was President. Mitt got hard as a rock every time he pictured moving into the Presidential bedroom right after Obama moved out. First thing he’d do would be to smell the sheets. Barack probably still fucked Michelle—you could tell—so it would smell like two of them. What a crazy fucking world.
DJ was standing in the doorway.
“Yo,” Mitt said, and the word felt weird in his mouth. He’d never said it before. Too much time spent thinking about black people, he guessed. He’d be careful not to do that again anytime soon. “I mean, howdy doody, Sport.”
“Daddy, your 2 o’clocks are all here.”
That’s right, he thought. Running mate day. It was a day he’d been looking forward to since the first time he ran for President in 2008. It was a beautiful thing—the nasty shit that could happen between a President and his Vice (“are you trying to rim me to death so you can be President?!”—stuff like that).
Too bad Jindal was such a screamer—it could never work.
“Send in Rubio first,” he said, checking his breath in his palm and choosing not to conceal the massive erection he’d been brewing in his khakis all morning. Why the fuck should he? He wasn’t President yet, but maybe that’s just because he hadn’t fucked anyone hard enough yet.
“President Romney. President Romney.”
This article was originally published July 2012
