Her beauty left him incapable of speech, like Barack Obama without a teleprompter. He walked toward her with the hungry ferocity of Bill Clinton approaching a cheeseburger.And at his smoldering glance, the last shreds of her will evaporated like war protestors after February 2009.
He stripped off his leather workman’s pants, wet with labor and the June Argentinian sun, revealing a pulsating manhood that seemed to fill the room like a road production of Evita.
“Ay Dios Mio!” she exclaimed, shaking her maracas in desirous fear. “Es is no possible!”
But he continued moving towards her, his sleekly massive member flexing and coiling like the snake that ate Jon Voight in Anaconda. Slowly, he began to move his mouth, yet no words were made, nor were they necessary. She was hotter and wetter than an illegal crossing the Rio Grande. He fumbled with her bra like Matt Millen with a Lions draft pick. He tore the fine silk binding her globes of passion, freeing them to his smoldering gaze. They glistened in anticipation of his touch. He whispered words to her, words of fiscal conservatism and smaller government, and she found herself growing damp with desire for his sword of energy independence. He treated her body like a margarita – gulping her sweet liquid before licking her salty breasts. He dipped his man-spoon into her quivering cup of lady-chowder. He urgently drove into her, like a drunken Teddy Kennedy into a lake. His erect governorship was engulfed by the warm impeachment of her Appalachian Trail. He flowed into her, and she flowed into him, neither knowing where one body ended and the other began, although, both were pretty sure the boundary was somewhere near their genitals.
He began to bang his soulmate harder and faster than a wise latina judge would bang the gavel against White men, but without the empathy. He plunged repeatedly into her depths, bombastic and brutal yet tender and reverent, like a Holy Communion delivered by Billy Mays. He rode her hard and urgently, like the gauchos upon the pampas of her native Argentina. He moaned with pleasure like a howler monkey adding a new female to his social group.
Juices flowed like warm syrup as he plastered his baby batter onto her smoldering sex skillet. Sated, he rolled off her glistening, supine form, reached across the nightstand for his cigarettes and the lighter. The flare of the lighter illuminated her teeth like a string of pearls.
“Eat your heart out, Edwards,” he said aloud. He blew a smoke ring. It floated lazily toward the ceiling, dissipated, gone. Kind of like his career.
“Who is Edwards, my love?” she asked.
“Nobody, baby,” he said, squashing out his cigarette in the hard plastic ashtray. “Nobody at all.”