You Can Count on Me, Rick Perry!

Governor Rick Perry of the Great State of Texas and I were attending the Bat Mitzvah of our dear friend Chai Feldblum's daughter, Hadassah.  Chai is Obama's Equal Opportunity Commissioner.  She and her long-time companion, Regina, have several children, all of them conceived through in vitro fertilization using the much sought-after sperm of Austan Goolsbee.

The formalities were over and we were all settling into a right nice evening of pastrami, Manischewitz and “Better Than Ezra” covers in the Enron Ballroom at the Dallas/Fort Worth Hyatt.  Cowboy Poet, Baxter Black, was there and thrilled us all with a number of knee-slappin' tales of his days as a big animal veterinarian in southern Arizona.  Ol’ Baxter was telling the audience about the time he had to deliver a Gelbvieh calf stricken with spina bifida by inserting his entire arm in the mother cow’s vagina up to his shoulder, sans protective latex sleeve, when Rick cleared his throat and nudged me with his elbow.

He leaned over to me and whispered in my ear with his warm, beer-soaked breath that he was in need of some fresh air and would I come with.  Baxter’s story had reminded Rick of something very important he needed to share with me.  I nodded my head and the two of us arose from the table, begging the pardon of Chai and Regina as we ambled out to the parking lot for a chat and a squirt.

Once outside, Rick motioned for me to follow him over to his Silverado crew cab where he dropped the tailgate and bade me join him for a heartfelt discussion.  The both of us sat there, legs-a-danglin’ off his tailgate like a couple of kids waiting our turn for barrel races at the county rodeo.  Rick was fidgety and had the look of a boy who was dreading the lick of his daddy’s belt for letting the goats out of their pen.  He jumped down off the tailgate, unzipped his fly and began to piss on the tire of the black Malibu next to his Silverado while looking over his shoulders for any Looky Loos.  I joined him and the two of us let loose of the few beers we had already had that evening while he related to me his big news.

Knowing he could trust me not to tip off the press right out of the gate, he said he was considering a run for el Presidente on a Socialist ticket with Senator Bernie Sanders, Independent from Vermont.  He said it might just be surrealistic enough for your average gringo to jump on board for the sheer electoral novelty of it all.  I reminded him of his Tea Party minions and that they might not cop too well to the idea, but Rick assured me they would fall in line nicely so long as he substituted the word “Socialist” with “Patriot” and stayed on the singular talking points of keeping the Mexicans in Mexico and bringing back compulsory school prayer.

I was having serious doubts about the man’s sanity for the first time in my life when he grabbed my head in his ample, ruddy hand, looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’ve got to bust out, Bill.”

“Bust outta what, Rick?” I inquired with a distinctly concerned tone.  “Outta the lie.” He said.

Seems Rick had grown weary of the dried up old cow flop on which he had cut his political teeth over the past twenty years.  He said he knew he was destined for bigger than Governor of Texas and had read many a pedantic tome on Hitler, Goebbels, Himmler and Hoess and their systematic approach to getting the “buy-in” of an entire nation.  He was convinced that the right brand of "Socialism" was just what the country needed at this historical juncture and that Senator Sanders was to be his Goebbels.  He described Macchiavelian plans to provide cradle to grave health care and full unemployment and child care benefits to all citizens in a brave new utopian imagining of American Exceptionalism.

I told Rick he needed to stick with Secession if he wanted to follow through on a good idea and stop taking political advice from Karl Rove.  That, and, I didn't think Bernie Sanders was the kind of "Socialist" he was lookin' for.

By that time we were both shaking the dew off our lilies when I noticed the reflection of Rick’s pecker in the black lacquered side panel of the Malibu we had pissed on.  One could reasonably call it a schlong.  It was thick and heavy with a foreskin like a wizard’s sleeve and it hung down to the middle of his thigh.  Rick saw that I had noticed and began to massage himself into an erect state.  He turned to face me and the both of us raced toward some imaginary masturbatory finish line, spilling our seed onto the asphalt of the parking lot like something straight of "Behind the Green Door," starring the inimitable Marilyn Chambers.  Rick shook his messy left hand twice and wiped the rest on the window of the black Malibu.

We packed it away and zipped up, gingerly adjusting ourselves as we sauntered back into the hotel, my arm around his shoulder.  On the way in Rick asked me if he could count on my discretion.  I asked, “About what, your dreams for a new America?”  “Nahhh,” he replied.  “About the gay stuff.”

“I don’t give a shit who finds out about my political ambitions.  LET THEM FEAR ME!" he laughed.  "I am from Texas, after all.”

“Once I’m President, I’ll be able to fuck whomever I please.  What are they gonna do, impeach me?”

The two of us burst into raucous chortles as we walked back into the Enron Ballroom and joined in dancing the Hava Nagila.  “Don’t worry, Governor!”  I yelled.  “You can count on me!”

The Night and Brit Hume

It was Summer 2010 in Denver.  Brit Hume was just back from Mombai where he had been compiling footage for an upcoming report on the Buddhist warlords of Ladakh and was jonesin' for a Big Mac.  He picked me up in his 1969 Granny Smith green Dodge Super Bee wearing a Sikh turban and sporting a month-old beard that smelled of coffee and soft cheeses.  His Super Bee was cherry as cherry gets; it had a snow white Naugahyde upholstery and was tricked out with the finest DeModa "Opera" wheels and a white Flat Spider convertible top.
I hopped in without even opening the door, landed in the passenger seat and gave Brit a long, incredulous once over, commenting on his getup with my left eyebrow raised so high it disappeared under the rim of my Stetson.  He was incognito for the weekend and was hankerin' to hit some of our old hangouts along South Broadway. We cruised Federal for about half an hour until we came upon our old friend Chucho.  We followed him on down to the domicilio at 38th and Umatilla and scored a quarter bag of primo kill bud to get us through the weekend.
It was already 11:00 when we parked the Super Bee in the back lot at the Compound and lit up a fatty.  Brit was doing his best not to succumb to jet lag after a marathon international flight and thought a quick handy might get him over the hump.  I proceeded to pettin' the hothouse cucumber while he held the fatty to my lips for another drag.
Brit climaxed into a Lufthansa moist towelette and put the top up.  We rolled down the windows and spoke of the viability of Petraeus' Afghanistan strategy, coming to the conclusion that we were gonna be there for a long time to come.  Brit quoted his favorite political philosopher, Antonio Gramsci, to cap the conversation: “I turn and turn in my cell like a fly that doesn't know where to die.”
A hard driving beat emanated from the back entrance of the Compound and we decided to go on in and sweat our prayers on the dance floor for a while.  I rolled up the window and, just as I was about to open the passenger side door, a gaggle of Mexican drag queens knocked on the glass with their oversized costume rings, motioning for me to roll down the window.
They raved about the Super Bee and asked us what we were doing the rest of the evening.  We said we were headed inside to, hopefully, engage in some authentic movement, assuming the dance floor afforded us ample space in which to do so.  They gleefully followed us inside where the music was thumpin' and the crowd was stompin' in unison to the sickest of tribal beats coming from the the record needle of DJ Zack up in the crow's nest.
We moved with the Mexican queens until we could move no more, said our farewells and headed back to the Super Bee.  Once outside, Brit took another Lufthansa moist towelette out of his pocket and wiped deep purple lipstick from my lips and cheeks.  At that moment our eyes met and we kissed long and gentle in the parking lot until passersby started whistling like prairie dogs.  I took off my Stetson and we got back in the car.  Brit was still feeling pretty paranoid and decided to leave the turban on as we drove around Cheesman Park talking of what happens when we die.  Brit parked the Super Bee, turned off the motor and began to weep softly.
I placed my hand on his right arm and he looked at me, eyes full of tears, and said India had cracked him wide open.  He didn't know where any of this was headed, but his heart was full and he looked forward to starting his spiritual journey right where he was, unafraid, hopeful, and with a profound sense of awe and humility.
It was clear he was in free fall, and I didn't want to insert my own ego where I knew it would do more harm than good.  So the two of us just sat there for a good hour holding hands in silence, looking out at the moving trees as the warm, dry wind caressed their branches like a lover.

Three-Wire Ecstasy

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.

Gordon was fresh off his Sonia Sotomayor menstruation comments on his radio show, having borne the brunt of much pointed criticism from those left, right and center. We were licking our wounds together for two glorious weeks of clear skies and fresh air up in Idaho, I having just finished the spring sheep drive back south in Goshen with my long-time cowboy companion, Galen Fagerland.  I was feeling that drive in my aching bones. Gordon was feeling the drive in another bone, finding refuge in the sexual as his preferred mode of escape from all that is painful in this world.
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.

Moshe and Me

Moshe Gafni and I were fly fishing in Wyoming one early summer morning in 2006 when a thunderous cloudburst drenched our heads as wet as our kreels, forcing us up under the sheltering arms of a ponderosa pine on the river bank. We removed our shirts and hung them over a tree branch to dry as the sun came out as quickly as it had earlier disappeared. It was then I realized I knew no other Jew fishermen save Jesus, and he was just a fisher of men.
It was Moshe who first tentatively, yet with utmost courage, reached out to touch my forearm under the dappling sunlight. I started at his man's touch and a wave of fear and excitement swept over me as my face flushed.
Nutshell, after an hour or so of long, deep kissing and authentic touch, we shared raw almonds and apricots on a flat boulder that seemed placed there just for us by some ancient glacier, unaware of the satellite overhead capturing our every move in digital HD, reported back to the highest levels of the Mossad.