The
New Yorker recently published
this item about conservative erotica, and it was really eye-opening: despite all their talk, conservatives really
do have an interest in sex! However, one thing is abundantly clear: as in many aspects, they're just not like us.
But I'm no xenophobe. I had an anthropology class in college, so I know how to relate to strange cultures. This in mind, I set out to write a piece of conservative erotica. I suppose it could be juicier, but then, I don't want to get banned from this site, and anyway, they're conservatives. I hope you like it.
Red Love
A conservative tale, liberally sprinkled with passion.
Smoke curled all around the bar. It was sweet smoke, Bill thought, the sweet smell of victory. "Cuban cigars in the East Village--who'd ever have thunk it!" Yes, it was true: just ten years ago, this haven of liberalism collapsed, and Governor Weld offered the rotting real estate on the open market, and who moved in? Why, the only people who had incomes that didn't rely on the collapsed government, of course: conservatives.
Putting down his cigar to take another sip of his beer, Bill reflected on President-Elect Jeb and Vice President-Elect Thune, and what this meant for his portfolio. "Major uptick," Bill said, quietly chuckling, "now that part of my dividends don't have to go to the UN or welfare mothers." Sweet, sweet victory, 535 Electoral Votes in the Republican column, all thanks to the One Income One Vote Act, which saved dear Dubya from certain impeachment a couple years ago.
Bill picked up the cigar again and saw that it had gone out. He bit down on it as he fumbled for his Zippo, but before he could flip its top open, long fingers moved a burning five dollar bill under the end of the stogie. The long fingers were attached to a long arm, which was attached to a thin, bony shoulder, which led up a narrow neck to an angular face holding a cigarette, smoke lingering like a halo around her long, blonde hair. Sucking deeply, the flame brought the cigar to life. Smiling at the kind stranger, Bill said, "Thanks."
"Don't mention it," said the woman. "But tell me: what's a nice guy wearing a Bush/Thune button doing smoking a Cuban cigar? Red staters don't buy red."
"I think of it as burning their crops," Bill said.
Halfway through a long draw on her Virginia Slim, the blonde paused. "Al Haig said that, didn't he?" she asked.
"I see you're a woman of taste," said Bill. "May I buy you a drink?"
"Of course," she said. "I don't look like some femin-nazi, do I?"
"Of course," said Bill, turning to the barkeep to request a strawberry daquiri for... "I didn't get your name, miss?"
"No, you didn't," she said. "It's Ann."
"Ann? May I call you Ayn?"
"We'll see how far things go."
After a few hours of impassioned conversation about the virtues of corporate farming on the international grain trade and the deregulation of the steel industry, the Bill and Ann found themselves on their way back to the Ronald Reagan Luxury Condominium Complex, in the location of the former Flatiron District. Ann crushed her body against Bill's as he fumbled with the doorknob. Wrapping her long, milky leg around his knees, she nibbled gently on his ear. "I've been looking for a man like you," Ann told him.
Finally he got the door open, and the two tumbled into his luxury condo, crashing on the floor, Ann on top of Bill. "Oh!" she cried, laughing the deep, sultry, throaty laugh that could only belong to a two-pack-a-day smoker. "Are you all right?"
Bill smiled. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said, awkwardly slipping out from underneath her. Darting across the room on tiptoe as if he had to avoid making noise, he made his way across the room and opened a door on the other side. Sticking his head back outside the door and beckoning with one finger, Bill said, "C'mere," and disappeared into the dark room.
Giddy, Ann bounded across the condo to the dark room and entered its pitch blackness. "Billy?" she asked. "Where are you, Billy boy?"
At that, Bill snapped on a lamp. Sitting in a burnt orange recliner, he looked down at the book and began, "Then was Jesus led up of the spirit into the wilderness to be tempted of the devil. And when he had fasted forty days and forty nights, he was afterward an hungred."
Ann stood there, patient and quiet, as Bill went on for a while, but something was clearly wrong. Ann knew it first, but Bill figured it out soon enough. "I guess you're a fiscal conservative, aren't you?" he asked.
"Yep. Free markets all the way, and abolish all taxes."
Bill's mouth cracked into a faint smile. "No fags marrying, ban all drugs, prayer in schools."
Ann smiled back. "So I don't suppose we're going to..."
"Never out of wedlock."
Fourth time this month, Ann thought to herself. "Well, I probably should be going."
"Yeah," said Bill, closing his Bible. "Say, you should probably take some of these." He handed her some religious tracts with pictures of aborted fetuses and blown-up images of chlamydia viruses. "At least we elected another great president, didn't we?"
Ann took the tracts limply in her hand and said, "Yeah. Good for us," she said, and turned to leave.
"So," Bill said, "If you're free Sunday..."
"I don't think so," she said. "Sorry." Picking up her purse, she fished out her last Virginia Slim and headed out into the brisk November night, wondering when the free market of love was going to pay off for her. It always paid off someone's hard work... didn't it?
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Well, I guess conservative erotica is harder to write than I thought. It always seems to come out that way when I try. Go figure, huh?
(Disclaimer: Any similarity to actual conservative pundits or philosophers is coïncidental, and not intentional slander, lies, or any such factor.)