Polling the Electorate

With Obama recently elected, there has been an enormous upsurge in the popularity of progressive candidates. People come by and beg you to run for a state seat. In fact, you're offered an unexpected shitload of dough for the campaign. Enough to make you think "what the hell," and give it another shot. And there's a heartening number and variety of volunteers willing to help in all kinds of way. You've got a decent sized storefront for most of the operation -- it even has upstairs offices for private meetings in addition to the open area down below. It's hectic, but you're mostly enjoying yourself. You like arguing with your opponent (a conservative asshole) and are pushing for a debate. That's where I come in. Some of your handlers figure that it wouldn't hurt to consult a poli-sci professor about various lines of argument. Sure, your jerk opponent wouldn't recognize a fallacy if it came up and bit him on the ass. But someone in the audience might, and this will probably be televised. A reporter might. Anyway, it's truth you're after rather than rhetoric. That's the whole point. So late one hot summer afternoon someone gives me a lift to the storefront. I don't teach summers, which means I don't have to wear very many clothes. Mini-skirt and tank top are good in this heat, with running shoes in case I need to walk back home if I can't get a ride. We're introduced and shake hands. I tell you that I'm a supporter even though I'm not in your district. What can I do to help?

We sit around going over the topics that might come up during the debate, tossing various lines of reasoning back and forth. We find that we both have a weakness for good one liners. I'm beginning to find you VERY attractive. I like the way you look in jeans. I've caught you having a look at my legs. We've talked our way past dinner time, and people are beginning to bail out for the day. The few of us engaged in the conversation about debating strategies send out for pizza. Once it comes, we pay off the delivery guy, close up the storefront and repair upstairs. Your campaign manager gets a call from her significant other about parent problems and bids us goodnight. Your assistant grabs pizza to go and leaves to relieve his babysitter. We're the only ones left in the office.

The office above the storefront is seedy but pleasant. There's an old overstuffed couch up against the wall, a geriatric rolltop desk with a broken catch, a sturdy wooden table in the corner with stacks of posters and flyers. There's one phone on the desk and another on the floor. Both floor and desk are also littered by file folders in various stages of disarray or disintegration. It all reminds me of my own office. I feel totally comfortable. Also increasingly horny. You're looking good. We're both sprawled on the couch, with the pizza box open on a straight-backed chair in front of us. I've got my legs propped up on the edge of the chair. Can't hurt to be tempting.

"You know," I say reflectively, "you've got to try and resist being outrageous at least a little. You have a chance of winning this thing if you don't give way to your irresistible inclination to shock the crap out of people."

This pisses you off. "If they can't cope with what I really --"

"Not the point," I interrupt. "Why should they have to? Most of your outrageous thoughts have nothing to do with any of the things you'll have the power to change anyway. Why risk --"

"I cherish my outrageous thoughts," you point out. "I'm having outrageous thoughts this very second. Thoughts which -- were they but known and publicized -- would create a scandal that would lose me the election."

"Oh well -- thoughts." I say. "It's deeds that have the real shock value."

I stretch my legs a little. I think I like where this conversation is heading.

"Deeds interest you do they?"

Yikes. Your hand is under the skirt. I wasn't expecting that. Mmmm. But it feels good. Then I hear a door downstairs and try to get my feet on the floor and pull my skirt down. You are not being helpful.

"Stop it," I hiss, a little panicked. "You're married. I'm married. It's a goddamn red state. Don't you want to get a chance to change things?"

Your lips are on my collarbone, kissing in a downward direction. It all feels fabulously decadent. It all feels good.

"It's the people next door," you mutter down my shirt, cupping my ass with one hand. "Nothing to worry about."

I take your face in both hands and pull it out of my chest.

"Look at me. I personally don't think we're doing anything wrong, OK? But your average voter--"

"Clearly needs to be educated on the burning issue of nonmonogamist rights," you finish. "Why, adulterers everywhere are being marginalized and discriminated against in an unconstitutional manner. Something must be done."

"So I'm supposed to fuck you in the name of civil rights?"

"Absolutely. Just to show your solidarity with the oppressed. Or you could consider it an act of civil disobedience."

"Oh, well, if it's for a good cau--"

You're kissing me now and somehow I'm prone on the couch with your body on top of mine. In fact, we're making out like a pair of hormonally challenged teenagers. I know I'm too old for this but at the moment I can't bring myself to care. One of my legs is partly around your waist and your hand is stroking the back of my thigh. I'm getting very wet and very excited. But I can't resist giving you a hard time. After all, this is supposed to be civil disobedience.

"But how are we supposed to strike a blow for truth and justice and subvert the dominant paradigm if no one knows we're subverting it? By being closet adulterers and sneaking around in secret, don't we merely pander to the dominant set of values which we wish to undermine? Don't we--"

Before I can get really warmed up, your hand distracts me. I mean really distracts me. I'm moaning now. You roll me, unresisting, onto my stomach. Oh wow. My train of though has been thoroughly derailed. My panties are gone. My legs are spread. How did you DO that?

"We must start the revolution from within," you say, your fingers moving in and out of me, and then maneuvering your cock into position. I arch my back as you enter me. "We must penetrate the barricades to effect change--"

Oh my god. Oh that feels --

"We must infiltrate the leading elite..."

Your finger is, shockingly, in the crack of my butt and then right up my ass, and for some reason I'm absolutely beside myself and loving it --

"and subvert them from within."

Oh my. Oh, your cock is all the way in and I'm almost screaming into the sofa cushion. Then you begin to build up speed, slamming into me over and over again. If you tell me you're polling your constituents, I will make sure you die. But later.