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Gabe and Jenny are Besties who love to chit-chat. They're very unique individuals. Press play, thank you!
This video was originally published August 2013
Gabe and Jenny are Besties who love to chit-chat. They're very unique individuals. Press play, thank you!
Originally published May 2013
Gabe and Jenny are Besties who love to chit-chat. They're very unique individuals. Press play, thank you!
Originally published February 2013
Gabe and Jenny are Besties who love to chit-chat. They're very unique individuals. Press play, thank you!
Originally published December 2012
T
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
“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
