G. Gordon Liddy and I were repairing a three-wire fence on Dick Cheney's Bitterroot Valley Ranch one Friday afternoon in June 2009. Sheep kept getting obliterated by 18-wheelers on the highway a hundred yards to the east.
About three o'clock, Lynn appeared in her Grand Cherokee, bringing us milk and eggs as a much needed refraichement. She climbed down from the driver's seat kicking up a small whirlwind of dust with her embroidered Lucchese boots. She wore a denim miniskirt with suspenders slung loosely over a linen blouse with a v-neck open to her sternum. The wind blew a wisp of blonde hair across her deeply-etched lips and I was struck dumb. She brushed it away and asked us if we wanted a little amuse bouche. The top of Gordon's head nearly popped off as he reached into his dungarees and immediately began to pump his penile prosthesis.
What happened that afternoon is for the CIA annals of history, I'd reckon. Secret Service agents watched ambivalently as the three of us sneaked away behind a haystack-looking knoll and proceeded to caress one another's bodies with our lips. At one point Lynn's left breast grazed my bare knee and I surrendered to ringing the devil's doorbell with my tongue as Gordon proceeded to pleasure me in ways Dick never could, heart condition and all.
The soundtrack to that afternoon included selections from Manuel de Falla's El amor brujo and an extra-soulful collection of songs by Pastor T.L. Barrett and the Youth for Christ Choir. Milk and eggs are surprisingly refreshing on a hot Idaho summer afternoon.