Sarah Palin Porn!
At a certain point in my screwed-up life, I decided that wearing a uniform wasn't really for me. Sure, I like to spank guys, especially guys who are in their twenties, maybe a bit overweight, and geekily shy. So sue me. But do I really have to dress up like Cletis the Biker Dude to do it? Can't I make some still-pimply-faced college sophomore's butt redden up without having to put on a black leather vest, black leather chaps, black leather boots, and black leather underwear? If I wanted to dress for my job, I could have worked for UPS, right? It sure pays better than being an aging leather-top. I mean, I've lived long enough to give myself permission to be kinda pathetically perverted without playing Hell's Angels dress-up. At least in my opinion.
Now, I know that I'm potentially incurring the wrath of the cutting-edge sex rebels who express their individualism by dressing like all the other one hundred thousand leatherfolk at the Folsom Street Fair. And anyway, I'll confess: maybe I'm just too cheap to invest in a new pair of chaps that actually fit over my fairly recently acquired love handles. Yes, I confess, Father Holy Sodomy of the Sacred Shaft.
But in defense of my kink creds, let me also tell you—my very closest friends—that a couple of weeks back, I dreamed of Sarah Palin. I mean I dreamed of Sarah Palin. Yeah, as in sex dream. Now, usually when I wake up from a sex dream, I have only vague memories of big, throbbing, slithery dicks...and by the time I've made it to the toilet for my Jeez-your-prostate-is-shrinking 3am pee, I've forgotten even that. But this one I remembered. Sure, it started like most of my dreams, something about trying to find my way somewhere, because I have a really lousy sense of direction. I once spent a whole night in the backcountry of Yosemite shivering and waiting for dawn because I couldn't find the trail back to my tent and if it weren't for Jesus watching over me, I'd be out there still, fighting off bears and using my blood to write pornography on tree bark.
Um, where was I?
Oh, right. So a lot of my dreams have to do with being lost and not ever getting to some destination or another and in this one I make my way down some twisting road either riding my motorcycle or else butchly carrying it and I go into some rambling mansion and down a staircase into the basement—I know, grade-school Freudian moment, right?—and it's in fact a dungeon, way down there in my thinly metaphorical subconscious, and there she is, Sarah. Now, the very moment I first saw her doing her sneering shtick at the GOP convention, I realized she was every snotty, cliquish, full-of-herself, pretty-but-not-that-pretty alpha girl I hated in high school. Little did I suspect that Francine Goddamn Berger would someday grow up to be the governor of a very cold minor state, but there it was.
And now there she is, smack dab in the middle of my dream, America's favorite wolf slaughterer and serial liar, and she's in full dominatrix drag: A tight corset pushing up her hot rightwing rack, five-inch knee-high lace-up spikes on her "trample on the enemy and take no prisoners" feet, and where the crotch of her leather catsuit should be, is the wet dream of every rightwing man, or at least every rightwing man who doesn't spend his spare time in an airport toilet or blowing some crackwhore tranny hustler with a ten-inch schlong. Yes, my friends, it's Sarah Palin's twat.
And I am powerless before it.
Because in my dreams I'm at least vestigally bisexual. And because in real life when it comes to SM I'm actually a switch. And because, unlike me, Mistress Sarah really can dress the part, at least in my dreams. In waking life? Ask Todd. But mostly, I suppose, I get down on my knees because I am in the presence of the labia that can wake the dead, yes, even the McCain campaign. Yes, even McCain himself. The omnipotent vagina of Jesus.
Now, I'm really not gynophobic. I've even played around with a couple of clits—though they did belong to transmen, so I'm not sure that fully counts—and yeah, I know they weren't realy clits, but dicklets—listen, if you have a quarrel with me and/or my nomenclature, you can e-mail me, OK? And yes, I know that the pussy is the magic, sacred place wherefrom all life springs. But let me perhaps-regretfully admit that when Mistress Sarah snarls, "You lousy left-wing worm, get down on your knees and eat me out," I hesitate—until I feel the wrath of her flogger on my naked shoulders. But yes, I am a switch and when I feel that moosehide whip, I remember the sting of the riding crop that my erstwhile German Daddy used on me whilst cursing in Krautish, and my dreamshaft gets hard, and so yes, I get down on my knees, eye-to-eye with Sarah Palin's hoo-hoo and reach up and peel open her born-again labia and if I were a good Freudian it would be a vagina dentata, said hoohoo would have teeth, but when Mistress Sarah dilates, there, staring out at me instead, is Dick Cheney's miniature head, grinning at me, showing teeth, and my dream self thinks, as it occasionally does, Oh my God, this is a nightmare and it's time to call it quits and wake myself up and besides it's time for me to get up and take another piss.
In real life, waking life, I'd be more honed in, of course, on Palin's hunky white-trash son-in-law-to-be. I'd get him stinko drunk, then pantsless, and I'd lift up his muscular eighteen-year-old's thighs, stick my tongue up his no-doubt at least slightly musky butthole, and then screw him for the first time, brutally, until he came all over his muscular belly, big rich gobs of fragrant, snowstorm-white eighteen-year-old's jizz. "Tell Bristol to do that to you," I'd spit out, then kiss him real hard on his just barely legal lips.
I wish I weren't growing old, though it's really not all that bad. I wish my boyfriend would live forever, that I hadn't gotten lost in Yosemite and made him frantically worried. I wish there weren't a single rightwing Republican left in the whole wide U.S.A. I wish the end of the world would happen and all the Christians would realize, to their surprised chagrin, that their buddy Jesus wasn't going to show, after all. I wish that Rush Limbaugh would choke on his own bile. I wish that winning a book award would have resulted in selling a few more copies of Homosex, or at least that the Lambda Literary Foundation would update their website to let people know I won. I wish that Sarah Fucking Palin would look down at her own twat and think, My God, we're all just vulnerable flesh. Who am I to threaten war with Russia or tell pregnant rape victims what to do? I wish that after my next reading, the cutest boy in the audience would come up to me and say, "That piece was really cool, dude. Can I suck you off?"
And I wish you all a really happy erection, er, election.
copyright 2008 by Simon Sheppard