LIVING WITH A FETISH IS AN EXERCISE IN MAKING other things in your life important. Wake up on time (fetish) go to your office (fetish) work all day (fetish) remember, today you’re supposed to register to vote (fetish) and get home and cook dinner, and try to sleep.

Every day, every moment, the throbbing passion, the electrical pulse, the ticking-ticking bomb is waiting to ignite, to grow, to smile.

I go straight from work to my newest girlfriend’s house. I wordlessly pull her to the bedroom.

We push the dog off of the bed and she jumps on. She claws off the last buttons of my shirt. I hold her head steady, by the chin. I’m so nervous – she’s wanted this for so long (so have I), but… I’m so afraid. Every time I’ve revealed my… somewhat peculiar sexual tastes to a girl, they’ve reacted poorly.

If I was lucky, they’d laugh.

If not…

But I found this girl online, a singles-dating site for people of… my kind of feelings. She says she’s into it. I breathe deep and close my eyes –

“Do you want this?” I ask her –

She kisses me hungrily. That isn’t enough for me. But what the hell…?

“Give it to me –” she growls hungrily.

I reach under her pillow, and pull out a copy of “Let Freedom Ring: Winning the Fight Against Terrorism, Imperialism, and Liberalism” by Sean Hannity.

“I want it.” She moans.

Look, I don’t want this to get too graphic, so I’ll… substitute some words.
I recite a couple passages. She rubs her nipples.

“This is going well,” I think.

“America is the greatest and proudest nation in the world, and the last thing we should ever do is feel guilty about it, no matter what the liberals may think—”

“More!” She grinds herself against me. “More!” It’s hard to focus on the reading, (she said she needs it read to her in an authoritative, deep voice. I’m trying real hard.)

“The ‘Blame America First’ crowd needs to wake up and realize all they do is make us weaker –”

She can’t take it. She grabs the book from me, and rubs it on herself.

(She told me she’d ruined four copies of “Unfit for Command.” I now believe her. (Although, all those strangely placed paper cuts should’ve been a clue.)

Now I need to do this myself. What do I say? Can I be enough of a pundit to get this gorgeous woman off? But who am I kidding? I’m no Robert Novak, L. Brent Bozell… damn, if we had one of them here, we’d really be cooking –

“What’s your favorite qualifications in a political candidate?”

I assault her neck, begin biting her ears –

“A strong, no-nonsense leader who never backs down. Never surrenders, and never changes his mind –”

She screams my name, over and over again – I kiss her, then leave my tongue on her as I lick down, slowly –

“A compassionate, charismatic leader who gets results. Who isn’t afraid to…”

She yells with me, banging her head against the bed stand with each orgasm –

“STAY! THE! COURSE!!!”

She falls back, satiated. Her eyes droopy then closed, a beatific, child-like crooked grin on her face.

“Okay,” I think to myself. “I think that part was a success. Do we go for broke?”
I look at her. I hate to disturb anything that hopeful.

“Let’s appeal to some swing voters,” a rallying cry in my mind. “Time for some selective polling…”

“Uhhh… is it, could it be… my turn, now?” I stutter. She gets up on her elbows and looks at me.

“All right…” she mutters, and pulls out from under her pillow… oh my God, I don’t believe it. I’ve dreamed of this for so long –

Kitty Kelley’s “The Family: The Real Story of the Bush Dynasty.”

I gulp deep.

“Lay back.” She says – and pushes my back to the wall.

Again, I don’t want to get too graphic.

“There are three sources that Laura Bush sold pot when she was in college,” as her hand is… you know. The “Victory Brand Baby Oil” is used liberally… with shock and awe, so to speak.

She reads more of the book, and I’m grooving on it – I’m digging on it – I’m in it, man – I love this country, more than anything. Isn’t this what the founding fathers had in mind all those years ago? So what if it’s partisan, so what if it’s all, from both sides, mostly jealously and fear – aren’t those very important feelings and ideas? Aren’t those part of the foundation of America, too? The free expression of ideas – with no one to hold them back, all opinions out there, not just bared – but roaring. Passionate, loud – people defending and fighting for freedom. Isn’t that what this is all about? Isn’t it... hot? Just because something has a little dirt on it, does that make it any less beautiful, patriotic, erotic? I love it –

Except I don’t.

I’m losing the mood here.

I mean, the book, the girl, it’s all… missing something. But I can’t correct her!

She looks up at me quizzically – I guess she noticed it too.

A quiet moment.

We’re not politically affiliated – she’s not an elephant, I’m not a donkey. We just love the free exchange of ideas – doesn’t matter who’s talking, as long as they’re saying something that gets us off.

Even though this isn’t an election we have in bed, I feel bad that all of my voters didn’t show up at the polls.

Then she smiles at me again –

“What are your qualifications for a President-?

And freedom is marching on yet again.

I lay back – she fills in the blacked-out portions of my fantasies –

“A tough leader that’s clever, above all else –”

Yes.

“He’s charismatic. Much more than a regular person.”
Baby, don’t stop.

“He explains things simply, but you know they’re complicated, and he’s a step ahead of everyone else.”

More. Please.

“He believes in God, but it never influences his policy decisions, and he never makes it a part of his campaign –”

I’ve been dreaming of this since I got that poster of Maureen Dowd.

“He not only believes in the promise of America, he is the promise of America because he’s smart, successful, tough, and no matter what, he reserves the right to –”

I finish the sentence with her, screaming my ecstasy in tandem with her tolerance:
“CHANGE! HIS! MIND!”

We both fall back on the bed, spent. She puts her arm around my stomach, and drifts off to sleep. I close my eyes.

But I can’t sleep. I look around the bed, at the mess we’ve made – liquids and pages, Hannity and Kelley, all mixed together, beneath and between our intertwined bodies. She mumbles something in her sleep, peaceful and gentle. I love her so much.

It’s time like this I forget about getting off on politics at all. It’s kind of silly, really. It might even be counterproductive, but… in regards to what? I eventually get to sleep myself, my fetish impeached for a little while. But there’s another throbbing in my head, one I can’t quite place –

Was there something else I was supposed to do today?