Mittro-sexual: A Mitt Romney Erotica
The majority of my depressive period in 2012 was spent hunched over a bar booth in Seattle writing poorly edited erotic fan fiction about then Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney. Poking fun at a political party that’s essentially a tax-exempt corporation with racist, cryptofacistic tendencies was fun back then. These days? Less fun. Regardless, here’s an excerpt from a project that 15-ish people, their literate cats, and a previous incarnation of The Daily Dot seemed to enjoy for a brief, beautiful moment in time.
It should also be noted that this was written before a man named “Rick Santorum” ran for office.
----
I: All Rhoades Lead Home
Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire
The dappled afternoon sun painted an ultraviolet fresco on the granite countertops of the Romney vacation home. Mitt was perched behind the kitchen’s island slowly peeling a particularly voluptuous artichoke. As he methodically pulled off the vegetable’s reptilian scales, he looked out the kitchen’s massive bay windows. He could see the home’s neat backyard, and beyond that, the private dock where the Romney children were joyfully swimming in Lake Winnipesaukee. Nearby, a secret service agent, clad in a cheery Hawaiian-shirt, continued to smother his partner’s translucent flesh with gobs of SPF 50. Ann was out shopping for tonight’s supper; however, Mitt’s appetite couldn’t be controlled.
He turned his attention back to the seemingly impregnable artichoke and lost himself in his subconscious. It was Thursday, a brief week of calm amidst the Dionysian orgy that was the campaign trail. It was merely a week ago that Mitt was seated in the back of his campaign bus, thrusting its way through America’s heartland. The bus was thick with sweat as he looked out at the living wax museum he called his campaign team. The faces were uniform for the most part: craggy, wrinkled, Caucasian, male. He felt like he was being swaddled in a gigantic living version of a chamois leather polishing cloth. As he took the scene in, one face emerged from the beige haze. The face happened to belong to his campaign manager, Matt Rhoades. At the tender age of 37, he was the youngest person on the campaign bus, and most likely, in Romney’s entire constituency. And it showed. Oh, did it ever show. His neatly combed hair contained the subtlest gradient of white, creating a near-angelic halo in the bus’s humid atmosphere. Mitt’s eyes continued to work their way down the man’s irregular, pear shaped body. A light blue Ralph Lauren button down was delicately stretched over his masculine curves like a sack of potatoes. The waistband of his khakis bulged to accept the southern hemisphere of Rhoades’s abdomen. Its graceful curvature caused Mitt to subconsciously bite his lower lip in childish want. As Rhoades looked up from a sheet of polling data, his sultry brown eyes met Mitt’s own hazel equivalents. The look they shared was intense. Ancient. It was as if the passion, rage, lust, and insecurities of the entire Anglo-Saxon race was distilled into a fragrant musk and wantonly sprayed everywhere. Two alpha males, two lone wolves, mutually marking each other as coveted, sinful territory; the sweet perfume of destiny.
A particularly stubborn artichoke segment snapped Mitt back into the present. A thin mist of sweat formed on his crinkled brow. He was close to the Artichoke’s tender heart. So. Very. Close. His hormones raced as he focused all of his dexterity to the task. After a few more segments, the foreplay was over. Before him lay the nubile flesh on which he would feast. Mitt instinctively reached for the butter dish disregarding the fact the heart was raw. As he removed the lid he noticed the soft croon of a Cadillac CTS in the driveway. Ann was home. He looked again at the softened butter and thought of her. He remembered the smell of her flaky neck…the aroma was unmistakable: Vick’s VapoRub and expired potpourri. He put a finger to her side and traced his way down her buxom curves. She had the grace of an infant hippopotamus. He halted his advance at her ridge-like hips. Mitt’s pressed chinos began to swell. He grasped the moist vegetable heart and dipped it into the unblemished butter slowly, sensually. He traced serpentine lines in the congealed dairy as he thought again of his wife. He imagined pulling her blouse out from under her pantsuit, slowly working his way under her pantyhose and past the border of her control-top undergarments. He added pressure to the artichoke and made a slight impression in the butter. His fingers became submerged in the velvety embrace of the soft, silky substance as he kept jamming the artichoke deeper and deeper into the stick of butter. Ann was now walking toward the kitchen carrying groceries. He pulled out and slowly brought the gooey confluence of dairy and vegetable to his longing mouth. He closed his eyes and took an indulgent bite, immediately lighting up his brain’s pleasure centers like a million suns going supernova. When the ecstasy passed, he opened his eyes and saw Ann staring at him from the breakfast nook, two compostable grocery bags in tow. Mitt’s entire being throbbed with desire.
“Hi honey.” He crooned after swallowing his appetizer whole.
“Hi,” she responded, slightly taken off guard. “I picked up some heirloom tomatoes and quinoa from the store. I was thinking I’d toss a salad for dinner.” Mitt couldn’t control himself any longer. He pounced on her like a ravenous jungle cat. He closed the gap with three powerful strides, grabbed her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes.
“Ann, I love you.”
“I love you too,” she breathed with the uncomfortable beginnings of a smirk manifesting in her makeup-caked face. Mitt’s grip grew tighter as he pulled her close enough to be nose to nose.
“A salad sounds great,” he said, “but I’d also like something more…carnal.” Ann looked hesitant.
“They’re called sins of the flesh for a reason, Mitt.” Ann stated, trembling. “God may not forgive you for this transgress…”Mitt put a finger to her stuttering lips, silencing her.
“I think the future leader of the free world may have less than noble needs at times.” Mitt said with a glint in his eye. He leaned into her corpulent body and she felt the tangible urgency of his point. He licked the side of her face like a dehydrated beagle lapping up water. Everything inside of Ann melted into a rich artichoke dip of mammalian instinct. Breathing heavily, Mitt whispered into her ear:
“We both know the wrath of God may not be real.” He said, drooling. “But my penis…is very, very real.” He continued to kiss her face as she struggled with his zipper. After she succeeded, he pulled away, and noticed a greasy smear of residual butter to the left of her nose. His territory was marked. Now Mitt would truly feast. A lone F-18 buzzed the home as Mitt ripped off his shirt, buttons scattering like Brooks Brothers branded shrapnel. He turned his wild face to the heavens and released a primal yell:
“I am a beautiful animal! I am a force of nature! I will be satisfied!”