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From: Christine W Indigo <christineindigo@juno.com>
Subject: {ASSM} US Presidental Election 2000: That's The Ticket! Part 1 (MM, caution, hum, celib, slash)
Date: Fri, 3 Nov 2000 01:10:04 -0500
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That's the Ticket! Part 1 (MM, hum, celib, caution, slash)
by Vali (loki@netnitco.net) and Mary (viedma9@yahoo.com)
DISCLAIMERS AND DISTRIBUTION RIGHTS: This is a work of political satire,
and as such, is protected by the US Bill of Rights. It is not intended
to portray any of the actual activities of the real people in this story.
It should not be taken as a factual portrayal of the public figures
within, their beliefs, private lives, or sexual proclivities. You may
repost this to any free newsgroup/forum/whatever, as long as the author's
names and this disclaimer remains intact. However, any archiving (except
for the ASSM archive) may only be done with permission from the authors.
SLASH IS: MM/FF romances and erotica, mostly written by and for
heterosexual and bisexual women. Most, but not all of it is fanfiction.
*******
Bill Bradley, erstwhile contender for the Democratic presidential
nomination, stood alone and disconsolate in the empty auditorium where he
had announced his withdrawal from the race. The red-white-and-blue
bunting was faded and wilting, the balloons were deflated, the audience
had deserted him and his basset-hound features were even more hangdog
than usual.
He'd known all along he wouldn't be able to pull it off, of course...it
would have been nice to get one of those quirky little New England
states, the ones that delighted in giving the finger to the party
establishment (which one had the socialist governor, was it Maine or New
Hampshire? He could never remember...). But the writing had been on the
wall ever since that fateful debate--ever since Al Gore, his blueblooded
stiffnecked nemesis, had challenged him on his health care plan and he
didn't fight back.
Bradley sighed, running a hand through his thinning thatch of
salt-and-pepper hair. Why hadn't he defended himself? He had the plans,
the charts, the stats to prove that he was right, that Al was full of it.
So why hadn't he defended himself? Goddamned fair-haired-boy,
favorite-son Al...everybody's pick, this election's prom king, the
popular kid (dammit, that basketball career should've counted for a lot
more), the smug, self-assured handpicked winner, always walking around in
that insouciant, completely confident manner, his body lithe and athletic
even in midlife, thick dark hair framing his wonderfully boyish, handsome
features that--
No. Bradley shook his head forcefully, dispelling those thoughts back to
the lower surfaces of his mind. Don't go there. Not tonight. Especially
not tonight.
He sighed and reached toward his feet, picking up the prop he had
brought to this final campaign event: a basketball, now half-deflated and
looking rather forlorn. A little joke, really; nothing more. But it
suited his mood tonight perfectly. He tossed the thing up and caught it a
few times, then regretfully put it aside and headed for the door.
Already, the reporters were asking why he'd only said he supported Al.
Why he hadn't used that magic word: endorsement. Endorse Al. No. He
wanted to talk about Al Gore, and think about Al Gore, as little as
humanly possible. Any other path was terribly dangerous.
How could he do it? How could he go on like this, first locked in
competition, then serving as sidelines cheerleader to Al Gore, his
unfairly favored rival, his tormentor, his persecutor...
Al Gore. How could he continue to stay silent in the presence of the
only man he'd ever truly loved?
*****
Loved? Is that the right word for what he was feeling right now?
When he first met Al on the campaign trail he was immediately drawn to
the statueque vice-president. So confident of his position in life, so
totally unafraid to step back and let another man take charge. And then
had the good sense to remain perfectly silent while this self-said man
was going around sticking his foot and tailor-made cigars in his mouth.
So smart, Al was. Bill always admired him when back in his New Jersey
senator days.
Al was so sure of himself, so damn confident, it drove him crazy. But
there was that undeniable attraction even then. He felt so deeply for him
that he swore that he would never take the low road and attack him on the
issues. Issues, haha. Yeah, I've got issues, but abortion and raising the
minimum wage weren't the ones I had in mind, Bill thought with a
frustrated sigh.
Then there was that point in the campaign were Bill said to hell with it,
the gauntlet must be thrown down. He had to see what lay underneath that
implacable demeanor. He wanted to get under his skin, to see Albert get
angry with him, to totally lose it in a blaze of red-faced furious lust
for..
Whoa. Bill shook his head in vain to clear the jumble of thoughts. Of him
laying on his stomach in some random hotel room, pillow under his hips,
feeling Al's fingers inside him, opening him up, preparing him for the
most mind-blowing fuck of his entire life.
Well, maybe the second most. Super Tuesday won the Olympic gold when it
came to world class reaming, Bill thought. His ass still hurt. Hell, Joe
Schmoe in cousin-dating country won as many primaries as did, he thought,
shifting in his seat to try to get a little more comfort. The
Preparation-H hadn't worked its magic tonight.
No, what Bill needed was something to take his mind off the incessant
nagging that he'd pledged his support to this beautiful man. He'd exposed
himself to the entire country and he didn't care what anyone thought of
him anymore. He was Al's forever and ever, amen.
Bill climbed into bed and lay there, staring up at the ceiling. Finally
he sighed and gave in to the guilty pleasure of it all. Rolling over and
reaching under the bed, Bill's fingers fumbled around until he found what
he was searching for. He pulled up his treasure and held it in trembling
hands, his fingertips lightly caressing the embossed cover of "Earth in
the Balance".
Such a wonderful man, Bill thought. Such intelligence and compassion
coupled with the fierce courage of his convictions. Definitely a
one-handed read.
Bill turned to his favorite chapter in the book and got comfortable. His
right hand slipped underneath the tight elastic of his fruit o' the
looms, hand crafted by the good American factories that moved overseas
and forced little old ladies in the South Pacific to work 18 hour days
for pennies on the dollar, and slipped into a red-hazed fog of want and
unrelieved desire.
"Save the Earth, Bill."
"Submit to my superior campaign finesse, Bill."
"Fuck me harder, Bill. Harder...faster...yeah, that's it, oh god, right
there, oh yeah, do it again, make me beg for it like a cheap slut, Bill!
YES!!!"
Bill came down from the heights and wiped his hand clean on page 23. Time
to buy another book soon, he realized. In the post orgasmic calm, he knew
what he had to do. He reached over to the nightstand and picked up his
cell phone.
"Al Gore here."
"Hi, Al. It's Bill." An uncomfortable pause.
"Is everything all right, Bill?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, I was just checking up on you, making sure that there
aren't any hard feelings between the two of us." Bill took a deep breath.
"And that if you ever need anything, anything at all, that I'll be here
for you. You've got my support."
You've got me, period.
"Hey, Bill, it's all right. We're partners now. And together, I know
we'll beat Bush in the fall."
There was a small giggle on Bill's end of the line.
"What is it?"
"Um, nothing, Al, never mind. And one more thing. I really l-" Bill's
voice faltered. "I really loved having you as a presidential nominee
rival. You're the best."
"Why thanks, Bill, you're a fine man yourself."
Bill's breath caught in his throat. At last, some small validation of his
existence.
"I won't keep you up, Al, I just wanted to say hi."
"Well, feel free to call anytime, Bill." The call ended with a soft
click.
Bill looked at the phone for a moment and placed it on the table and
snuggled deep in the blankets, restful slumber within his grasp once
again.
*********
Al hung up the phone and rolled his eyes. Whatthefuckever, Al thought.
Fucking loser, just wants to get with the winner, and we all know who's
got the biggest Democratic alpha male dick around here now, yes sir. Al
turned back to his task at hand.
"Hey honey, who was that?" the white haired man asked. He was older than
Al, but somewhat oddly alluring with a tight compact frame of an
ex-military man, one of the few that actually kept in shape after he left
the service. He lay on the rumpled white sheets, fists gripped tightly in
the sheets, waiting for the next application of ink and searing heat to
be applied to his bottom. The tattoo on the left cheek of his ass read
"Property of Al Gore, future President of the United States of America".
They'd started it on Tuesday and still hadn't finished it. It was
starting to spread onto the right cheek and halfway down one thigh. Holed
up in Arizona consulting with advisors my a--
"Ow! That hurt!" John wailed.
"Relax, hon, I'm almost done," Al said, blowing on the cherry red ember
at the end of the stick supplied with the Tom Fontana E-Z prison tattoo
kit.
Al massaged the insides of John's thighs and sat back to admire his
handiwork, at the way he plan was unfolding so fucking perfectly.
Oh, yeah, Al thought. They're all my bitches now.
END?
***
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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