Dirk Oneanddoneski
11-27-2015, 07:00 PM
http://www.salon.com/2015/11/25/i_fcked_a_republican_on_thanksgiving/
I met the man who would become my husband in the run-up to the 2004 presidential election. If I were more susceptible to omens, I might have looked at the timing as foreboding. We were — and remain — committed Democrats.*
D., my future husband, worked hard to make me come in those early months, but often failed. He held me and I wrapped myself around him, feeling his disappointment, his self-reproach, his yawning sense of inadequacy. I promised again and again it wasn’t him or us but me. And in fact it wasn’t really me, per se. There were all sorts of proper nouns conspiring against him. There was Lexapro. Yasmin. And also, there was Dubya.
At dinner I sat beside the only person remotely close to me in age, the son of some family friend or another who worked investment banking in New York but was in Chicago on business. His father, or his father’s friend, I couldn’t quite be sure, introduced him — as though he were a 6-year-old incapable of performing the social motions on his own — as Alex.
*“You’re kind of cute for a hippie.” He put half a slice of pie in his mouth in a single bite, chewed, almost winked. “We should exchange email addresses or something.”
I have a better idea,” I told him. “Why don’t you take me back to your hotel.”
I’ve never told anyone about the night that followed. Playing out a fantasy is a bit like trying to describe a dream. We were both drunk but the Chicago highways were empty on the holiday night. Alex was staying at a massive hotel on Michigan Avenue. He led me up to his room with a practiced assurance; it was very clear he had done this before.
If it had been D. I was with we would have reached the room, fallen together on the bed, inched and touched and kissed gradually toward sex. With Alexander that wasn’t how it would be. Before he could unlock the door I flattened myself against the hallway wall. He stood motionless for a second, then smiled slyly again. He shoved both of my shoulders against the wall and rammed his lips against mine. He forced his tongue into my mouth and I could taste the goopy, gelatinous residue of the turkey and gravy. So much the better. I spread my legs so he could finger me in the hallway. I thought I heard footsteps. Maybe the room next to his, maybe coming down the hall. I didn’t care.
Once in the room he gave me light but not-so-playful shove onto the bed, which I received without a fight. He stood over me, undoing his belt, pulling down his pants. The smile had faded into something more urgent. That was a bit of a disappointment. He asked if I had a condom.
“Don’t you?” I said.
He didn’t.
“Fuck it,” I said. God knew what frat house-incubated viruses were swimming around in him but at least I was on the pill. I pulled down his boxers. He was smaller than D. but I feigned surprise at his size. I turned around and lifted my ass into the air. I was giving myself to him. I was literallypresenting. This was it. This was my chance to be fucked by everything vile and soulless and cruel that I’d built a life out of despising. The country was going to die, the world was going to burn, so why not let one of the apocalypse’s shock troops bang the shit out of me while the flames spread. He lifted up my skirt and yanked aside my panties. With one hand he pushed my face into the bed, with the other he guided himself in. I didn’t need to apologize to anyone, not D., not myself, not my ideals. All I wanted was to feel this current of consuming disgust. It swirled through my head, behind my eyes, between my legs. He thrust and I gasped.
The swirling died down. Everything did.
Reader, he came.
Liberals for those of you that aren't total fags is eating bull jizz a requirement in your relationships?
I met the man who would become my husband in the run-up to the 2004 presidential election. If I were more susceptible to omens, I might have looked at the timing as foreboding. We were — and remain — committed Democrats.*
D., my future husband, worked hard to make me come in those early months, but often failed. He held me and I wrapped myself around him, feeling his disappointment, his self-reproach, his yawning sense of inadequacy. I promised again and again it wasn’t him or us but me. And in fact it wasn’t really me, per se. There were all sorts of proper nouns conspiring against him. There was Lexapro. Yasmin. And also, there was Dubya.
At dinner I sat beside the only person remotely close to me in age, the son of some family friend or another who worked investment banking in New York but was in Chicago on business. His father, or his father’s friend, I couldn’t quite be sure, introduced him — as though he were a 6-year-old incapable of performing the social motions on his own — as Alex.
*“You’re kind of cute for a hippie.” He put half a slice of pie in his mouth in a single bite, chewed, almost winked. “We should exchange email addresses or something.”
I have a better idea,” I told him. “Why don’t you take me back to your hotel.”
I’ve never told anyone about the night that followed. Playing out a fantasy is a bit like trying to describe a dream. We were both drunk but the Chicago highways were empty on the holiday night. Alex was staying at a massive hotel on Michigan Avenue. He led me up to his room with a practiced assurance; it was very clear he had done this before.
If it had been D. I was with we would have reached the room, fallen together on the bed, inched and touched and kissed gradually toward sex. With Alexander that wasn’t how it would be. Before he could unlock the door I flattened myself against the hallway wall. He stood motionless for a second, then smiled slyly again. He shoved both of my shoulders against the wall and rammed his lips against mine. He forced his tongue into my mouth and I could taste the goopy, gelatinous residue of the turkey and gravy. So much the better. I spread my legs so he could finger me in the hallway. I thought I heard footsteps. Maybe the room next to his, maybe coming down the hall. I didn’t care.
Once in the room he gave me light but not-so-playful shove onto the bed, which I received without a fight. He stood over me, undoing his belt, pulling down his pants. The smile had faded into something more urgent. That was a bit of a disappointment. He asked if I had a condom.
“Don’t you?” I said.
He didn’t.
“Fuck it,” I said. God knew what frat house-incubated viruses were swimming around in him but at least I was on the pill. I pulled down his boxers. He was smaller than D. but I feigned surprise at his size. I turned around and lifted my ass into the air. I was giving myself to him. I was literallypresenting. This was it. This was my chance to be fucked by everything vile and soulless and cruel that I’d built a life out of despising. The country was going to die, the world was going to burn, so why not let one of the apocalypse’s shock troops bang the shit out of me while the flames spread. He lifted up my skirt and yanked aside my panties. With one hand he pushed my face into the bed, with the other he guided himself in. I didn’t need to apologize to anyone, not D., not myself, not my ideals. All I wanted was to feel this current of consuming disgust. It swirled through my head, behind my eyes, between my legs. He thrust and I gasped.
The swirling died down. Everything did.
Reader, he came.
Liberals for those of you that aren't total fags is eating bull jizz a requirement in your relationships?