The President's Love Affair With AOC, That Girl From Queens

The press had noticed it first - the President had his eyes on AOC, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.  This, they first thought, was a gesture to the racial corner of liberal Democratic politics, giving a young Latino national prominence.  Of course AOC was no shrinking violet, and she had managed to attract more attention than either her ideas or the political weight of her district merited, so there was something there more compelling than just electoral influence in the President's interest.   

The President liked her.  She was as beautiful as a tropical flower, as graceful and feminine as Venus de Milo, her smile as enigmatic and enticing as the Mona Lisa, her warm, cafe-au-lait skin and dark brown eyes irresistible. If only.....and there the President felt ashamed at what he was thinking.  She's just a girl. She could be my daughter! but the images persisted well into the night when in a febrile moment, half-asleep and half-awake put his arms around his wife thinking she was Alexandria, and whispered, 'Darling'. 

 

'Why, Joe', Jill whispered back, surprised at an attention she had long forgotten.  Ah, the good old days, she remembered, when they were young lovers stealing kisses in the back seat of his old Hudson Hornet; and here he was, the President of the United States with so much on his mind, reaching out to her, wanting her. 

The President, at first unsure who this old woman next to him was - maybe the maid who had gotten her days mixed up - but realizing it was his wife of forty-five years, he mumbled something about Putin as he rolled over to his side of the bed, and tried to go back to sleep.  Yet the horrible contrast of lovely Alexandria, so soft and patient, so silkily sweet and desirous, so beautiful! and Jill, her skin as dried-out as corn stalks, her hair in pin curlers, and the scent of Thursday's curry on her breath kept him awake. 

Now, this desire for younger women is nothing new to men the President's age who resent God's most cruel irony - having given men a lifelong, irresistible sexual desire and only a few short decades to fulfill it.  Be that as it may, cruel irony, or some Darwinian twist in survival of the species, it was a painful, frustrating thing.  When every day you are surrounded by sweet, young things who never even notice you're there let alone give you the time of day, you feel diminished, a sexual supernumerary, a man in name only, even if you are President of the United States. 

It was at that moment that he felt an even more despairing notion. Why was he still lying next to this desiccated old woman when every President except him had enjoyed the pleasures of younger women. He was sleeping in the very bed on which JFK had made love to Marilyn Monroe! Sexual adventure was a perk of the office.  Can you imagine Vladimir Putin sleeping with an old crone?  No, on every trip to Vladivostok, Crimea, Petersburg, or Irkutsk there was a blonde, blue-eyed woman waiting for him.  

Even that ugly old Kissinger had had 'em by the dozen.  His 'power is the greatest aphrodisiac' wasn't just idle dreaming, the old fucker lived it.  Things will have to change around here, the President decided. 

He had always had trouble keeping his hands off younger women, and used electioneering as a convenient cover for his hugs, and when the young, blonde, Prime Minister of Italy came to the White House to visit, he gave her a kiss on the forehead, not quite the affectionate gesture he intended, one he might have given to a daughter.  The scent of her perfume and the feel of her soft, nubile body near his was overwhelming, aroused pure desire.  That contralto voice, that sexy flip of the hair, always slightly  disheveled, never coiffed, young and insouciant drove him mad. 

 

'I am a eunuch', the President thought, 'a sorry do-nothing sexual dope'.  The balm of the Presidency had no effect.  At 81 death was staring him in the face, he was about to lose the election, and he was still as celibate as the day he was born. 

'I'll just do it", he decided, and had his secretary call AOC for a meeting; and like a schoolboy, he couldn't sleep the night before.  He practiced his opening, his smile, his embrace.  Would he be able to move her from moments of political reserve to something more personal?  Would he be able to charge innuendo with sexual purpose? Would he be able to dance without misstep?

Of course the last thing in the world the young woman had on her mind was any liaison with this old man.  JFK, without hesitation; but this?  This man who would soon be out to pasture, on a chaise lounge somewhere in Florida, erased from all but dull histories. 

So the meeting which had no real foundation, no purpose, and no sense was an awkward affair; and AOC on her way back to her Congressional office wondered what it had all been about? There had been none of the usual prepared agendas, talking points, or policy references.  The President had just smiled, was very attentive and curious but wobbly.  

She had tried a few gambits, "Your initiatives on women, Mr. President, are most appreciated"; and "You have my ardent and full support for your re-election, Mr. President", both sallies to derive some purpose out of the meeting, but nothing but that trademark goofy smile came of it. 

'I'm such a jerk', the President shouted to a portrait of JFK after AOC had left, 'a real first-class jerk'. 

And so it was that the last few months of the Biden presidency ended with a whimper.  He had his claques and shills do his stumping for him.  Not only was he a sexual eunuch but a wimp on the campaign trail, a zero compared to that freak, that circus performer, that braggart who still drew thousands to his every appearance. 

A fait accompli, the President thought.  I want out of this game, hang up the jockstrap, call it a day.  If I can't have AOC as President of the bloody United States, I might as well.....Might as well do what? he wondered. Oh well, someone would figure it out.