Paul Ryan Porn!

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I’m in the locker room at the gym when I see him, the man I’d later come to know as Paul Ryan.

He’s wearing a sweat-soaked gray T-shirt and blue mesh gym shorts. His legs look a little skinny, but that’s okay because he stinks. Stinks a lot. And there’s nothing about civilization I find more depressing than deodorant. All that hot stench going to waste…

Paul Ryan peels off his shirt. When he does, his armpits send a wave of body odor my way, and I get hard beneath my spiffy Ralph Lauren Denim and Supply gym shorts, which I bought when they were way marked down at Macy’s.

Now, my basket is not exactly small, especially not when it’s stiff, and sorry if that sounds immodest. But facts are facts, and it’s plenty large enough for Ryan to quickly clock it with his big pale blue eyes. He smiles just a little, maybe nervously? He runs his right hand down over his somewhat chiseled chest with its sprinkling of hair on the pecs, down over his abs, gleaming slickly with sweat. When he reaches the waistband of his shorts, he very deliberately slips his thumb under the elastic, then runs it around his waist. Verrrry slowly, he peels down the nylon shorts and lets them slip to his feet. His white jockstrap is apparently well filled. He smiles again, more broadly this time, almost cocky now that he’s sure he has an admirer.

His jock descends. His equipment is pretty large—big nose, big hose, right?—semi-erect, and nicely uncut. And I love foreskin. I look around to see if anyone else is noticing this. No one in particular. But then, it’s a gay gym. Ryan has kicked off his running shoes, which I bet smell absolutely terrific, and steps out of the shorts and jock. The only things he’s wearing are white athletic socks and a big, white-toothed grin. He runs his fingers through his glossy black hair, which doesn’t seem to budge. He turns his back to me, then slowly and deliberately bends over to pick up his shorts. There’s a dark black line of hair running up the crack of his pale, semi-muscular butt. He stows the sweaty socks and shorts in a locker, then pads off in the direction of the showers. A few steps away, he pauses and looks back over his shoulder. He doesn’t wink, but he doesn’t have to; I know an invitation when I see one.

I anticipate a fervid few minutes in the shower, each of us soaping up our stiffies in the steam. But Paul Ryan heads to the toilets instead. He walks into a stall, and leaves the door ajar. I follow him in. He nods, blue eyes full of anticipation, and locks the door after us. I lean up against a partition, ready to be sucked. Paul Ryan, fully hard now, head peeking out of foreskin, a little drool of precum at the tip, gets on his knees and pulls down my gym shorts. My big member leaps forth. For the first time, I notice there’s a Catholic crucifix swinging, pendulum-like, from his neck. He opens his mouth. I grab his somewhat protruding ears, and then I…

Oh, screw it. Sorry, I can’t do this any more. Sure, in the past it was fun to write pieces portraying Sarah Palin as a domme, Glenn Beck as a piggy bottom, and to do a send-up of Marcus and Michele Bachmann, who, truth be told, are pretty damn near past parody.

But this time? Folks, I’m just too dispirited, too angry, too…too…

I know that bile is no good for my blood pressure, but I just hate the Republican party. I mean, I truly despise it.

Yeah, yeah, I’m sure there are perfectly sweet, even noble Republicans, but, well, at this point I don’t really care, any more than I can feel for some minor Third Reich functionary who loved his puppies.

Full disclosure: A few months ago, thanks to the tender mericies of Craigslist, I ended up in the bed of someone who, he confessed to me post-coitally, is a Republican.

”People in San Francisco just can’t accept that,” he said, just short of self-pity.

Well, I couldn’t accept that. “But you must know the GOP is on an antigay pogrom.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad. And I approve of lots of things about the Republicans.”

Which turned out, upon further conversation, to be cool things like demonizing immigrants and the undeserving poor. I looked out the window of his lovely Nob Hill apartment, out at the lit fašade of Grace Cathedral. I know that bedfellows can make strange politics, but I didn’t figure I’d be fucking this guy again anytime soon.

Of course, he wasn’t anywhere near as odious as a bleached-blonde middle-aged woman I saw Chris Matthews interviewing at some public scrum or other. “Obama’s a Commonist,” she said.

“How is he a Communist?” asked Matthews.

Looking immensely proud of herself, the woman said, “You should learn the facts, bud. He’s a Commonist. That’s the fact. A Commonist.”

Now, I know I’m supposed to be kind of adult about this stuff. But at that instant, I had visions of her and her vile little poodle being shipped off to a re-education camp, of being put on a show trial in some stadium and, if not put up against the wall and shot—because good us progressives don’t do those things—then having her makeup forcibly removed and her hair returned to its natural color by a detachment of mincing hair-burners.

So maybe you can see why lately I’ve been too out of sorts to happily engage in my usual clever fantasy-sinning about some political figure, who in the case at hand is be the almost-attractive—non-God help me—Paul Ryan and his magic widow’s peak. Sure it would be kinda funny to have an arch-asshole like Ryan bukkaked, my leftwing atheist sperm all over his face, dripping down his cheeks, between his lips, down to his pretty-damn-nice chest. But you know what? I ain’t gonna go there.

Because I’m pretty effing fed up.

I’m fed up with some total jerkwater in magic underwear getting so close to leading this country.

I’m fed up with crypto-racist birthers and “love the sinner” homophobes who are too gutless to even fess up to their hat. Yeah, and I’m also fed up with this guy I have acrush on playing games with my heart, with my well-honed, prize-winning erotica selling next-to-nothing while that schlocky “Fifty Shades of Gray” has made its author a zillionaire. Hell, I’m even fed up that part of me actually would like to eat out Paul Ryan’s lean, rightwing tuchis.

But mostly, well…I grew up in the ‘60s, and though deep down I always knew that Age of Aquarius stuff was nothing but bullshit—sorry, 5th Dimension—I really, really, really would like, before I shuffle off this mortal coil, not to have to wince while I watch the news.

Our non-father, who sure as shit ain’t in Heaven, please grant me the serenity of never having to watch or even think of Rush Limbaugh, Pope Eichmann, Ann Coulter, or the gag-inducing Mitch McConnell ever again. Oh, John Boehner, I forgot John Boehner.

And since I’m asking for cosmic lollipops, please, O cosmic void, make sure that the disappointing candidate wins this thing, instead of the nauseating one.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Like H. L. Mencken said, nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.

But I can dream, can’t I?

Oh, and just for the record, Paul Ryan give amazing head.

copyright 2012, Simon Sheppard