Shag the Veep, Save the World

"Yeah. So the second most important guy would have been . . ."

"Alan Greenspan?"

"Gross. No, the vice president guy."

"Al Gore?" Marie-Renee asked with excitement. "'E is my 'ero!"

"Him, too?"

"Oh, 'is presentations on the global warming have been fantastique. The Academy Award. The Nobel Prize."

The young nun looked as if she were about to swoon.

"Well then, you can fuck him, girlfriend," Jennifer said. "Cause from what I remember, the guy is basically a statue. He couldn't dance if you like moved his feet for him. So I can't imagine what fucking him would be like. Worse than that dildo, probably"

She pushed the ring in her hand toward the French girl, only to watch her eyes widen in horror.

"But I am -- how you say -- a virgin?"

"At twenty-three?" Jennifer squawked. "I'm sorry. I forgot. The nun thing and all. So he'll be your first."

"I could not," Marie-Renee protested.

"All right. Well, look, he's got a wife. Tippy or Tipsy or something stupid like that. We'll just get her to wear the ring when she fucks him. Easy, peasy."

"But we must get her the ring."

"First we gotta get outta here," Jennifer said, a confident smile spreading over her face. "And that you can leave to me."

CHAPTER THREE

"I still can't believe you talked Mother Marie-Elaine into letting us leave." Renee was marveling at the plush seats in first class as the plane made its way across the Atlantic toward the United States, sipping from the champagne glass that had been handed her as soon as she boarded and that had been refilled several times since.

"Yeah, well, she took this whole Nostradamus prediction thing very seriously," Jen answered. Much too seriously, Jen thought. The abbess had reacted with alarm at first, announcing that she had no intention of trusting the environmental future of the world to two young girls. She had changed her mind only after Jennifer pointed out that there was probably a reason that Nostradamus's dildo was the only non-dusty item in the room. Perhaps it had had something to do with the footsteps in the dust on the floor, the ones that led from the shelf on which the dildo had rested to a wooden door in the corner of the study. The door in question, Jennifer observed, lay just below the abbess's own quarters. Wasn't that strange? After that, Mother Marie-Elaine had enthusiastically endorsed Jennifer's scheme to get the ring in the hands of Al Gore's wife.

The conversation, and particularly the 200,000 euro line of credit that Mother Marie-Elaine had made available, had begun to turn Jennifer into a believer as well. There must be something to this if it could Jennifer out of this dive, with money in her pocket to boot. And so the two women's trip became more than just a convenient way of leaving the abbey; it became a mission to save the planet itself. Albeit not an entirely serious one.

"What I can't believe," Jennifer continued, "is that you put that dildo in my suitcase. I was lucky the security guard was a woman. Have you tried it yet?"

Marie-Renee sheepishly raised four fingers.

"Four times? We've only been gone four days. God, I hope you like fucking cleaned it before you threw it in my suitcase."

The young French girl blushed, and decided to change the subject.

"Thank you again for the shopping."

"Don't thank me, girlfriend. You didn't buy any of the clothes that I picked out for you."

The two women had spent three days in Paris, buying entirely new wardrobes. Renee, who had dropped the "Marie" as soon as she was out the door of the abbey, had evidently spent her time there studying fashion in addition to Medieval French and paleontology. She had an innate sense of what would look good on her, and had turned into quite the young gamine. Her beautiful face had been difficult to hide even under that hideous haircut, but her stunning figure had been a shock. During the last day they had spent there, she had attracted as many, if not more, admiring glances from the men in the French capital as Jennifer had. It was annoying, really, and only her sunny and open disposition had saved her from the younger woman's jealous wrath.

"So are you going to tell me about your plan for getting the ring to Mrs. Gore?" Renee asked. "Or are you going to keep it a secret until we reach New York?"

A smile on her face, Jennifer leaned toward Renee to whisper in her ear.

CHAPTER FOUR

"It is not a ''orrible plan.'" Jennifer protested.

"Fine. Then explain to me how you plan on getting Mr. and Mrs. Gore into a hot tub with two strippers, two midgets, and a trained seal."

Jennifer sat back and her seat and glared at Renee.

"Okay," she finally said with a pout. "That's a good point. Maybe we should go to Plan B."

Once again she leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jennifer was just finishing attaching her second earring when Renee emerged from her adjoining room and breathlessly asked how she looked.

"You're good," Jennifer admitted, although a more objective answer might have been "outstanding" or "superb." Renee's bust wasn't in Jennifer's league, but it perfectly complemented her slender hips and long torso.

"The gown, she is gorgeous, non?" She twirled around. "I still do not understand 'ow you are affording all of this."

"I told you. Mother Marie-Elaine gave us some cash."

"I assumed it was a few hundred euros."

"Yeah. Well, it was a little bit more than that. Enough for us to buy clothes and put on this dinner anyway."

"Are the Gores really here?"

"Julie just phoned. They're down the hall."

"And you 'ave your speech all prepared?"

"Oh, yeah. Blah, blah, blah, family values. Blah, blah, blah, evil influence of rock music. Here's the ring. Thanks for coming on behalf of the Children Are Our Future Coalition. All the people burst into applause."

"People?"

"It would be a pretty poor awards dinner if we didn't have a crowd, honeybunch. Don't worry, Julie's got it all taken care of."

Julie Astin might not have been much help in escaping from a foreign country, but when it came to planning a party, the girl had few peers. Even from her home in California, where her mother had been forced to extend her grounding, the girl was perfectly capable of setting up a lavish dinner at a posh hotel in New York. The crowd in question - the other "members" of the "Coalition" - were being drafted from the Metropolitan Opera's matinee performance of Rigoletto. If they behaved, and nobody booed, they would all get another two hundred dollars when the dinner was over.

"Then Tipper speaks. People clap again. The world is saved from environmental disaster. Thank you, Jennifer Jackson."

"So you 'ave the ring?"

"Right here on my finger, Renee. Didn't want to take a chance on losing this baby." Jennifer held up her right hand. "No pockets in the gown, either. Shit. It won't come off. Shit. Help me get it off. Shit, shit, shit."

"The bathroom!" Renee pointed. "Let's get some soap. Merde! It is really stuck, Zhenifer. Maybe some lotion. Non. Let me think. Ah, I 'ave it."

She ran back to her room and returned with a tube.

"K-Y jelly?" Jennifer raised an eyebrow. "What the hell have you been doing in there, Renee?"

"Quiet. I'm trying to get off your ring, Zhenifer."

"It's not my ring, babe."

"It is if I can't get it off, isn't it?" The two women worked furiously, but to no avail. It was almost as if the ring had decided that the responsibility to save the planet was Jennifer's alone.

"What do we do?" Renee asked.

"Okay, first off, we don't panic, okay? Okay?"

"Oui. Yes. I am sorry."

"Good. Now, it's too late to cancel the dinner. I'll call Jules and tell her what's going down. But we'll have to keep the Gores from showing up."

"Why do we have to cancel the dinner?"

"And give her what? A pen from the Waldorf-Astoria? All we have is the ring."

"C'est vrai," Renee admitted with a shrug.

Jennifer made a quick call, and two minutes later, they were knocking on the doors of the suite occupied by Al and Tipper Gore.

"Yes?" The former vice president answered the door with his bow tie in his hand.

"Mr. Gore, I'm Jennifer Jackson, the executive assistant to Mrs. Barton, the president of the coalition. I'm afraid there's been a terrible accident."

"What's wrong?" Tipper Gore joined her husband at the door in a glorious brown evening gown.

"Mrs. Gore, I am so sorry. I'm afraid we're going to have to postpone the dinner. Our president, Felicity Barton, um . . ."

"Yes?" Tipper asked, genuine concern furrowing her brow.

"Died," blurted out Renee.

"She died?" the Gores asked in unison. "Just now?"

"Yes," Jennifer said slowly, her eyes narrowing as she stared at Renee. "Of a horrible French disease. My colleague, Renee, um, Paris, can fill you in."

Renee returned Jennifer's glare before she turned back to the Gores.

"Meuniere's syndrome," she said smoothly. "It does strike very quickly sometimes."

"Goodness," Tipper said. "I am so sorry."

"Really," Al added in his well-known two-note baritone. "Such a tragedy."

"Yes, well, perhaps we could reschedule it."

"Of course," Tipper agreed.

"Although it will have to wait a while this time," Al said. "It was our good luck that we had today open on such short notice when you called last week."

"Oh?" Jennifer asked. She could not imagine that the life of a former vice president was that complicated. After all, it wasn't like the current vice president did anything.

"Yes," Al explained. "Tipper and I will be in Japan for the next three weeks, at a spiritual retreat to promote awareness of global warming. And then after that, we'll be representing the United States at the Olympic opening ceremony in Beijing. I think that's on the ninth of August."

"The eighth," Tipper gently corrected him.

The two girls traded alarmed looks.

"August eighth?" Renee asked.

Two-thousand eight?" Jennifer chimed in.

"Yes." Al nodded slowly. "It is this year."

"Merde," Renee whispered under her breath.

"Shit," Jennifer added.

"Well, since the dinner is cancelled," Mrs. Gore said, "would you like to join us? We can order something from room service."

"Great." Jennifer reached a quick decision and pushed past the Gores into their suite. "I am starved. Renee, how 'bout you order us a bottle of champagne to start?"

"Champagne?" Al asked. "Do you think that's appropriate? I mean, with Mrs. Barton's death?"

"She would have wanted us to entertain you properly," Jennifer lied. "And to toast her wonderful life and all her magnificent achievements."

Two hours later, the two girls were still sitting on the couch in the Gore's hotel suite. They had amiably helped their hosts drink two bottles of champagne, and had not yet gotten around to ordering dinner, when Jennifer realized that the conversation was winding down.

"So, Mr. Gore," she said, "tell me about this global heating thingy."

"Warming," Renee said with a hiss.

"Whatever," Jennifer whispered before turning back to Al with a smile. "Global warming. It can't be as bad as everyone says." She batted her eyelashes a few times. "Can it?"

"Are you sure?" Al asked. He had had more than his share of the champagne, to the point of unbuttoning the top button on his shirt.

"We would love to know more," Jennifer purred.

"Well, I don't have my PowerPoint slides with me . . ."

"Oh, Al," Tipper said with a laugh as she whacked him on the arm. "Just tell them. I'm gonna order some more champagne. Does anyone want dinner? No? Okee-dokee."

"Basically," Al began, "no responsible scientist would argue with the proposition that global temperatures have been increasing over the last half-century, or that this period has corresponded with man's increased use of fossil fuels - oil, gas, coal - to drive the economies of the industrialized nations."

"Fascinating," Jennifer said. "Isn't it Renee?

The French girl answered with a hiccup.

"So the issue becomes the extent to which scientists are willing to conclude that the two are related. In other words, has our use of fossil fuel contributed to the production of so-called 'greenhouse gases.' So called because they act as a greenhouse. Just as a greenhouse keeps the plants inside warm, so these gases prevent the planet from dissipating its heat. And as that heat remains, the earth begins to warm. Slowly at first, but the better science believes that the rate of increase will itself increase exponentially over the next half-century."

Renee opened her mouth and hiccupped again, but decided she should still try to support her friend with some appropriate devil's advocacy.

"But couldn't that warming be caused by natural events," she asked. "Volcanoes, solar variations, climate cycles?"

"Farting cows?" Tipper blurted out with a guffaw.

Al smiled.

"That's an excellent question, Renee. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, with which I shared the Nobel Prize, concluded that the main source was anthropogenic greenhouse gases. In other words, man-made. Although it's actually quite humorous. The term "anthropogenic" actually means "producing humans." The term for "produced by humans" is actually "anthropogenous." So in fact the IPCC concluded that the greenhouse gases were caused by the act of producing humans, which as we all know is sexual activity."

"That is funny," Jennifer agreed after she realized that Al had paused for laughter and that Tipper was giggling uncontrollably. "Isn't it, Renee?"

"Mais oui," Renee agreed. "Although such a serious subject."

"Exactly." Al was off again. "Far too many people these days take the whole situation much too lightly, expecting that their children will . . ."

*********

"Renee!"

The French girl felt her shoulder shaken violently and came awake with a start.

"Thank God," Renee said. "I was afraid I was going to have to do the whole fucking thing myself. Take off your clothes."

"What?"

"I said, 'take off your clothes,'" Jennifer said. "If those two wake up, I don't intend to be the only one naked."

"What happened?" Renee asked as she began stripping, looking at the two Gores slumbering peacefully on the other couch.

"She had too much to drink," Jennifer said, "and I have this hazy recollection that Al sort of talked himself to sleep. Oh, all right. You can keep your bra and panties on. God, you're like such a nun. Now help me get them undressed. Oh, for fuck's sake, look at this. The guy's out like a light, and he's already got a woody. I told you he was a stiff."

"You mean you can have sex with 'im while 'e is asleep?" Renee asked with a squeak.

"I don't know why not. I have to have carnal knowledge of him, right? He doesn't have to have jack shit of me. So he can stay asleep as far as I'm concerned. He's not hard enough yet, though. Maybe I should blow him first. I give a mean blow job."

"Will that work? Have you done this before? Are you any good?"

"Am I good? Honey, one of the guys I was doing bet one of his friends that he could put an olive between his teeth and I could suck the pimento out."

"Mon Dieu! What did you do?"

"I bit the son of a bitch's cock next time," Jennifer said. "I told you I gave a mean blow job. The dickhead."

Jennifer wrapped her fist around Al Gore's cock and slowly began to pump him. After a minute, she brought her lips into the game, taking the surprisingly large head into her mouth and swirling her tongue around it. In another minute, she was deepthroating him with abandon.

Renee looked on with awe as her friend worked over the famous man's cock. But as far as she could tell, it was having no effect at all. And after five minutes, when Jennifer pulled herself off in disgust, it was clear that her diagnosis was correct.

"Fucking boy scout," Jennifer said. "Probably never gets it up for anyone but his wife. How come we couldn't get Bill Clinton? That guy never saw a pussy he didn't want. Damn it!"

"What shall we do?"

Jennifer would have been hard-pressed to explain the thought process by which she arrived at her next conclusion. Perhaps it was her remark about Al Gore's reputation as a straight arrow, coupled with the fact that he had been with his wife now for, like, nine hundred years. Perhaps it was the way that Tipper looked, sprawled on the couch next to her husband in a champagne-induced haze. Jennifer and Renee had stripped both of them, and as she looked over, Jennifer noticed the way that Tipper's surprisingly heavy breasts lay so peacefully on her chest, rising and falling with each breath. Her legs were splayed open, revealing a pink slit that was only partially hidden by the brown pubic hairs that fell across it.

"Get the K-Y jelly," she ordered Renee.

"From the room?" Renee asked. "You want me to go down the hall like --"

"No not from the room," Jennifer interrupted her. "From her suitcase."

"How do you know she 'as K-Y in 'er --"

"Just get it." Jennifer nodded toward the bedroom. Renee returned in minutes with the tube. By then, Jennifer had moved out from between Al's legs and was sitting beside Tipper on the bed. She squirted a generous dollop onto her fingers and slid them down between the older woman's thighs. It seemed only a matter of moments before Tipper was squeezing her thighs together in response to Jennifer's rhythmic probing.

"Mmmm," Jennifer purred softly as she bent down to Tipper's ear. "You like this, don't you, baby?"

Jennifer's other hand drifted toward Tipper's breast, cupping it, kneading it, squeezing it. The former Second Lady moaned.

"Yes," Tipper whispered. "Just like that, baby."

Jennifer's eyes were not on Tipper but on her husband, and when she saw his cock twitch in response to Tipper's plea, she knew she had her answer. Standing up, she beckoned Renee over and squirted a glob of lube into her friend's hand.

"What is this?" Renee asked in horror.

"Do her." Jennifer nodded toward Tipper. "It's the only way to get him up."

"Do her?" Renee was blushing. "I 'ave no idea what you --"

"Oh, like get out, Renee. Six years in a convent? I think you have a pretty damn good idea."

Jennifer was quite right. In less than a minute, Tipper was producing sounds that had her husband's cock hardening under Jennifer's attentions.

"Perfect," Jennifer whispered. "Nice and hard. And big too. Now go get the condoms."

"From her suitcase?" Renee asked.

"No," Jennifer said. "From my purse. Honestly, Renee. She's like 60 years old. Why would she be carrying around condoms?"

"Sorry," Renee said. "Here you are."

"No, give me all three," Jennifer said.

"Three?"

"The last thing I want is taking care of a little Al Gore for the next eighteen years," Jennifer said. "Don't worry. I'll make him cum. I had one guy tell me I could milk a barren cow with this pussy. Now, get back to work on Tipper. Use some tongue this time, girl."

With Renee's face buried beneath Tipper's thighs and Jennifer impaled on Al's cock, the ringbearer's carnal knowledge of former Vice President Albert Gore, Jr., was assured.

"Oh, God, yes, honey," Tipper cried as Renee sucked and licked for all she was worth. "Right there, baby. Right there! Harder now! Harder, baby! Do me deeper!"

Jennifer kept her undulating midsection in perfect synchrony with Tipper's cries. Her youthful but experienced muscles cradled Al's cock in a velvet glove, squeezing his manhood in a grip both soft and vise-like.

"That's right, Renee," Jennifer whispered. "Just a little more. Almost honey. I can feel him tensing up. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Cum for me, Al baby. Cum for me, honey. Fill that rubber and save the world."

With the cock inside her deflating rapidly, Jennifer jumped off, removed the condom, and hauled Renee out from between Tipper's legs. The two dressed in silence, knowing that when they awoke, the Gores would be none the wiser. They quietly left the suite and returned to their own room down the hallway.