The Campaign

Tried a new format this time. It's a longer story. Wrote it while waiting for the results of this election! Enjoy-and please leave comments. It's fun to know what you all think!

The Campaign

Ross Stevens stood in the lobby of the hotel and stared blankly as the doors of the ambulance slammed shut. He shuddered as the sirens blared as the vehicle drove away with his boss aboard.

It was December 4th, it was bitterly cold outside, and the snow was falling. He was in Iowa, where he'd basically been living for the past several weeks. He was 23 years old and upon graduating with a master's degree in political communications last spring, he'd been hired as a low-level communications staff member for the presidential campaign of Elizabeth Whitefeather Thompson. Governor Thompson of the great state of Montana was a no-nonsense farmer who had no political experience or desires eight years ago. She was also a member of the Chippewa tribe. She was the least likely person to run for office—at the time, she was 31 years old, she had a husband who was a pastor, she had four children under the age of six, and she ran the small dairy farm that had been in her family for five generations.

However, a rightwing Republican governor was destroying family farms and she'd had enough. She confronted him at the statehouse over a bill that would have foreclosed on most of the small farms in Montana. The speech of her confrontation went viral. His response was dismissive and sexist. "Little lady," he said snidely, "Why don't you go back to your husband and your family and come back when you've learned a thing or two about how we run things here." He dismissed her with a chuckle and a wave of his hand.

"Little Lady," became her campaign slogan and rallied the women of Montana—Democrats, Republicans, and independents—who'd had enough. Two years later, she was elected the youngest governor in America in a landslide against the "old coot" as she called him, on a platform that included raising the minimum wage, protecting farms, investing in solar and clean energy, and making child care more affordable. Four years later, after a series of impressive wins—which included breaking up a violent cell of white nationalists—there was minimal opposition in her re-election. She won as a progressive Democrat in a ruby red state by more than 40 points. That launched her improbable campaign for the presidency.

Ross had been hired by Thompson's Communication's Director Angela Waterstone, a large woman who cussed a lot, drank the men on the campaign under the table, was ferociously brilliant and loyal, and was considered one of the greatest political communicators and speech writers in American. Ross was politically astute and while he had little experience, he and Waterstone formed a close professional bond. Ross was confident without being cocky, admired Waterstone's intellect and experience, and she enjoyed mentoring him. Throughout the campaign, she gave him more and more responsibility to the point where he was now acting as a Deputy Campaign Secretary.

Ross and Angela spoke every morning at 6:30am about the day's events and the comms plan. So on this Thursday morning, when Waterstone hadn't called by 6:45am, Ross grew concerned. He texted and called several times to no avail. By 7am, the young man got hotel security to open the door of her suite, to find her slumped over in bed, barely breathing. The 54 year old woman had a heart attack sometime during the night. As a cool breeze hit Ross in the face, he couldn't get the paramedic's words out of his mind. "Good thing you called when you did, kid. Another 20 minutes and we would have called the morgue."

Ross went back inside the hotel where the candidate herself and the lead campaign staff were waiting. The mood was somber but focused.

Thompson spoke first. "I trust everyone is saying their prayers for Angela—whatever and however you believe." Her words were succinct and measured.

"Ross," she said. "I've never been the most orthodox of public leaders," as the dozen or so people in the non-descript hotel conference room chuckled in bemusement. "But I know talent when I see it. You're a smart guy and I like what you're doing with our social media and communications."

Ross smiled and found himself turning slightly red. Thank God he had dark black hair and dark olive skin; otherwise, they would have all seen him blushing.

Thompson continued. "Waterstone thinks highly of you. And while I'm confident she'll recover, she'll need some time off the campaign trail. It is 36 days till the Iowa caucuses. I'm in a dead heat with the Senator from Florida and the dumbass former Governor of Michigan. We don't have time to do a big hire. Stevens, you're our new Press Secretary. Dean Andrews is an old friend of Angela's. He's worked for a firm in DC for the past few years after he won the presidential race 10 years ago. I just got off the phone with him. He'll come on as an advisor to the campaign and help you out." She smiled, she was no-nonsense, and she wasn't waiting for a response.

Ross was stunned. He was just named Press Secretary for the Presidential Campaign of Elizabeth Thompson—who had a strong chance of becoming the Democratic nominee and President of the United States! He had turned 23 but two weeks ago and had never so much as run a campaign for Mayor.

As the principals in the room began to talk, Ross raised his hand. Michael Davis, a focused and kind African American man who served as campaign manager, paused. "Yes Ross?"

"Mr. Davis. Governor Thompson. I'm honored and I'll do my best to get you elected. But I don't want to cause any trouble for the campaign and you should know..." his voice caught in his throat. "I'm gay and if that's a problem, I'll step aside. I don't want to do anything to hurt your chances. America needs you." He looked as he might cry.

Governor Thompson looked at him and smiled. "So?" She asked.

"Let's get something straight everyone. And yes—I made that pun intentionally." Davis chuckled but the rest were quiet, including Thompson's husband Daniel, a Lutheran pastor who rarely spoke during meetings, but always observed what was happening.

The Governor continued, "We're working hard for the folks who this asshole in Washington has left behind and treated like they don't matter. This campaign is about making sure everyone gets a fair shot. That includes gay people. My husband's sister is a Lesbian. She and her wife have two kids. They're our family. So Ross, this is personal. Anyone who gives you shit about being gay, send them my way. I spent my life on a farm. Bullshit stinks, but it doesn't scare me."

Ross smiled, nodded his head, and said a very simple, "Thank you ma'am. I'll make you proud."

The meeting continued for another 30 minutes, they broke for the rest of the day, and soon Ross found himself live on several local new stations and national cable networks. More than 12 hours had passed before he had a second to catch his breath. He made his way to the hotel bar—this was a hotel in Des Moines they were staying at for the week—and ordered himself a Jack and Coke.

Ross was average height—just over 5'10, skinny from years of running track—and one drink would definitely give him a nice buzz. As he sat at the bar nursing the drink and scrolling through texts and email, he was delighted to get one from Waterstone. "Thanks for saving my life, kid," the text message read. "Don't kill the campaign while I'm gone."

He smiled. Several campaign staff entered the bar, include Michael Davis, the campaign manager. Next to him was the hottest man Ross had ever laid eyes on! He was 6 feet tall with wavy blond-brown hair that had hints of grey at the temples, a full beard that was shaped nicely, and broad shoulders. He wasn't fat by any means; but the man was solid. He was dressed in tweet blazer, white dress shirt, dark blue jeans, and cowboy boots. A bit of his chest hair poked out from his dress shirt. Fuck! Ross had a thing for hairy men and had to keep from drooling.

Davis made his way over to Ross with the stud. "Ross Stevens," Davis said as he put his arm on Ross's shoulder, "This is Dean Andrews. He's here to help with communications." Dean and Ross caught each other's eyes as they shook hands. Ross noted how firm Dean's handshake was. Dean, for his part, was quite taken with the younger, handsome man.

Ross stood up and spoke first, "I've heard so much about you, Mr. Andrews. I'm honored to be able to work with you!" He was enthusiastic and without guile. Dean was smitten.

"It's nice to meet you as well, Ross. And if you call me Mr. Andrews again, I'm gonna make you buy my dinner!" Ross's mouth dropped for a second and they both laughed.

As Ross and Dean started to chat, Michael took a call on his mobile phone and walked away.

The chemistry between Ross and Dean was undeniable. Ross had come out at 18, dated a few guys in college, and had a healthy sexual life for a 23 year old. He was enjoying the conversation with Dean and trying to keep it professional with a new colleague who he would have to work with intensely for least the next seven weeks, if not longer. And besides, he knew nothing about Dean, other than he was a communication's genius and had won two campaigns for the White House.

Dean, despite his professional expertise and experience, was not nearly as comfortable in social settings. He generally kept his cards close to his chest. But after they ate their dinners—a burger for Dean, a salad with chicken for Ross—and a few beers in, he was starting to relax. So when Ross asked him if it was hard to leave DC on such short notice, Dean paused for a second and looked down.

"I'm sorry," Ross said quietly over the din of the bar. "I didn't mean to pry."

Dean was taken by Ross's sincerity and realized that he was jaded and guarded because of his own experience; it had nothing to do with Ross.

"Naw, it's ok," he said taking a sip of his beer. "I was planning on sitting this campaign out. I've done two presidential campaigns and the last six years worked on 10 different Senate campaigns. It's been a lot. And, I turn 40 next year."

Ross was incredulous, "No way!" He said a bit more energetically than he'd intended.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What? I look older?" He said with a slight smirk.

"No! No!" Ross assured him. "I thought you were like 30. I mean you don't look 40. Not that 40 looks bad. It's just... Oh fuck, I'm gonna shut up now," Ross babbled and took a large gulp of his drink.

Dean laughed and his blue eyes sparkled. "I'm just giving you shit," his said placing his hand on Ross's shoulder, causing the younger man to shudder. Dean felt the electricity as well and moved his hand away but kept his gaze affixed to Ross.

Dean took another sip of his beer. "So I was planning on sitting this campaign out," he continued. "Eric, my partner—now I guess you'd say my ex—hates this lifestyle. He didn't like me traveling and on the road so much. He was jealous... Not so much that I'd cheat on him—I'm just not that guy and he knew it—but jealous I was in these fast moving campaigns and I guess he felt left out... Anyway, I took a job with a DC firm and was making money just like he asked..." Dean's voice trailed off.

Ross was intuitive and heard the depth of hurt in Dean's voice. "But even when you gave him what he wanted, it wasn't enough," he said with wisdom far beyond his 23 years.

Dean looked at him; they'd only met an hour ago. How the hell did Ross understand him—without him even saying it aloud? "You sound like you know what I'm talking about?" He asked the young man.

Ross nodded. "Not from my personal experience. I mean, I've dated some guys and it didn't work out, but nothing like this... No, my parents," he said with a hint of sadness in his voice. "My dad spent 20 years trying to make my mom happy. Nothing he did was ever good enough. He got different jobs, we moved, he bought the house she wanted and the cars and jewelry and joined the country club with all the right people... He tried everything, but she just was never satisfied. My dad was miserable but he kept at it because he believed in marriage and vows. He was a traditional guy, you know?" Dean nodded in understanding.

"But sometime during my junior year of high school, my mom met a rich banker at the country club and had an affair with him. It broke my dad's heart. She was such a bitch. They got divorced when I went off to college. It took my dad a few years to recover, but I told him he was better off without her. She's a selfish narcissist who only cares about herself. He would hate me saying that—'She's your mother, Ross!' he would say—and mean it. About a year ago, my dad was set up on a date with a teacher from my high school. They've been dating ever since. She treats my dad well and he finally seems genuinely happy. And funny thing—my mom got dumped by the banker. For his 24 year old secretary. So damn cliché."

Dean was mesmerized and listened deeply to Ross's story. He found himself enamored by the young man—not just because he was sexy as hell—but because Ross was wise and compassionate.

"Thank you, Ross," he said. "I needed to hear that. My ex kept telling me that he wanted to settle down and have kids. We were together for five years. We were saving up for a house to buy in Maryland. Three months ago, he came home from work and said that he was offered his dream job in Chicago. Before I had time to respond, he told me that he was taking it and that he was going alone. When I asked him why, he said that while he loved me, he hadn't been in love with me for some time." Dean found himself getting more emotional than he wanted to, especially with a new work colleague. "We were adults about it. We split everything 50/50, he moved out a week later. I heard from a friend that he's got a new boyfriend in Chicago." Dean finished his beer and motioned the bar tender for a refill. He was a big guy and could handle his beer, so another one simply meant he felt a good buzz, but it would take another few for him to get drunk.

"The truth is, Eric was right. We were going through the motions but we were just missing "it"—whatever that means," he finished.

Ross listened to every word and wanted to keep it professional. But damn—he liked this guy! "What a dick," he muttered under his breath.

Dean was startled. "What?" He asked.

Ross shook his head. "Look, it's none of my business. And I'm probably just projecting because I have baggage with my mother. But your ex is a dick. If I ever had a boyfriend like you, I would treat him like a prince."

Dean chuckled, slightly incredulous. "Oh yeah? How would you treat him?" He asked as he smiled.

Ross was buzzed from his drink, so his inhibitions were down. He took the question. "Well," he said, "First, I'd communicate with my partner. If we were having trouble, I'd bring it up early so we could work on it. But more than that, I'd make him feel valued and wanted. I'd text him every day and call him when I was on the road. I'd make us dinner. I'd find us fun stuff to do together, like go to the movies or travel or go camping and hiking and mountain biking. We'd go to concerts and to dinner. We'd take a cooking class and dancing lessons. I'd organize barbeques with our friends and family. I'd take him on fantastic vacations to Costa Rica or Israel or Iceland or Vietnam. I mean, I'd need to make a lot more money than I do now," Ross laughed. "But you know, treat him well and make life good for us, as partners, as a family."

Ross was feeling uncharacteristically bold and leaned over to get closer to Dean's ear. "And I'd make sure every night before we go to sleep, that both our needs were taken care of and that I showed him how much I want him and need him. As a man..." He smiled seductively and turned back to the bar.

Dean was hard. Ross might be younger, but he knew what he was doing. They were both adults. He hadn't been with anyone since Eric left... Fuck it. He leaned over to Ross and whispered in his ear. "Room 731."

Ross was confused. "Room 731?" He asked.

Dean looked at him with serious eyes. "Did I misread this?"

Ross got it and immediately felt a twinge in his crotch. He slowly shook his head. "No, you didn't misread it. I just wanted to make sure I understood what you're asking," he stated gently but firmly. "I'd love to." He smiled confidently and took the last sip of his drink.

"Great," smiled Dean. "Give me 15 minutes. I've been on a plane all day and I need to shower." He signed for the drinks and got up to leave.

Ross got up with him. "Why wait? Showering together sounds hot."

Dean shivered. "Who said I invited you?" he asked coyly.

Ross took the last sip of his drink and placed the glass on the bar. "Look, we don't have to shower together. But you want it. You want me as much as I want you. So. You can play cat and mouse," he looked Dean right in the eyes and held his gaze. "Or we can head back to your room and figure out which one of us is going to bottom first."

Fuck! Dean liked how direct Ross was. No games. No bullshit. And he was into him! A guy almost 40! Dean was done holding back. He liked this guy—what the hell. "I like the way you think," Dean said to Ross as they made their way to Dean's room for the night.

TWO

They stepped into the elevator and were the only two on the ride. Ross had never been an overly aggressive lover, but he really wanted to be with Dean.

Dean, on the other hand, was direct and assertive in public, but often assumed a more passive role when it came to partners and sex. He'd grown up with a lisp and while it was now gone, the shyness never left. He was often reluctant to make the first move. Rejection, at any age, just sucks.

As the doors to the elevator closed, Ross leaned over to Dean and ran his hands up and down the bigger man's back, causing a slight moan to escape Dean's mouth. Ross leaned in and kissed him—hard—pushing him against the wall of the elevator as he probed his tongue into Dean's receptive mouth.

The passion was mutual and they made out for the few seconds of the elevator ride. When the doors opened on the seventh floor, they made their way silently to Dean's room at the end of the hallway. "Life hack on campaign," Dean said to Ross as he opened the door, "Always get as far away from the elevator as you can. It's quieter."

"Good," said Ross as he followed Dean into the room and locked the door behind them. "Because I like loud sex," he said definitively.

Dean's eyes widen as Ross playfully pushed him onto the bed and started kissing him again and unbuttoning his shirt. Ross ran his hands over Dean's furry chest as he kissed and licked Dean's neck and his hand made its way over Dean's stomach to pull the shirt out from his pants and then over Dean's rock-hard dick. Ross flicked Dean's nipples with his tongue, causing him to moan as he rubbed Dean's crotch harder, feeling the wet spot from Dean's precum on his underwear.

Ross looked up at Dean as he pulled on the waistband of the older man's underwear. "Unless you tell me not to, I'm going to suck your cock," he said.

"Please," Dean responded and lifted his ass off the bed, thrusting his cock toward Ross's face. Ross took the invitation to pull off the underwear and admire Dean's cock. It was hard maybe six inches, nicely thick, and cut. He licked the head of Dean's dick, causing the man to shudder and moan.

Ross loved sucking cock and majored in deep throating as a college student. So he made Dean gasp aloud as he swallowed his cock in one swift motion.

"Fuck!" Dean moaned and Ross worked his cock with his tongue and throat. It felt so good—Dean hadn't had sex in months and it wouldn't take him long, especially as Ross started to probe his ass with a finger, rubbing his prostate.