A Lifelong Progressive Takes A Woman - With The End Of Days At Hand, Rutting Was His Only Salvation

Bob Muzelle listened to the fading cheers on Pennsylvania Avenue as the last group of USAID bureaucrats were herded into cattle cars, off to a gulag in North Dakota in the far reaches of a Lakota Reservation. 

It had been a heady day for Elon Musk, the Genghis Khan of Washington, storming, pillaging, murdering from north to south, heads on spiked up and down the Mall, marshal phalanxes of newly minted storm troopers at the ready for the next call; but it had been a dark, sad, and disconsolate one for Muzelle who had given his lifeblood for the cause of progressivism, for the promise of a new, verdant, peaceful world. 

 

The end of days had arrived unexpectedly, for he and others like him were as sure as shootin' that their candidate - a black woman of stature, experience, fight, and charisma - would prevail; that right and good would out.  Instead this interloper, this wanton character had barged into Washington, an illegitimate usurper of American values, the very incarnation of a Miltonian evil, and Bob could only watch. 

The words of 2 Timothy 3:1-5 rang loudly in his ears:

But understand this, that in the last days there will come times of difficulty. For people will be lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, heartless, unappeasable, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not loving good, treacherous, reckless, swollen with conceit, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God, having the appearance of godliness, but denying its power.

'Lovers of pleasure', Timothy had warned.  Bob knew exactly what he had meant - the gluttonous, ravenous appetites of sybarites and epicureans - this lot of MAGA boors only anxious to rape, abuse, and satisfy themselves and in so doing reduce this great land to one of destitution and ruin. 

There was a problem, however.  Deep in his heart of heart, Bob knew that he had missed out on anything resembling carnal delights.  Yes, he shared the marital bed with his wife of many years, an old crone who farted through the night and never had been much to speak of, but where were his cojones when it came to the perennial crop of lovelies that came into Washington as interns looking for influence and love? Why had he never made overtures to these blonde young women from the Midwest who would faint at the opportunity of spending time with a political roue, a man of political savvy and good intentions?

 

The election of Donald Trump and the first two weeks of his presidency when the tanks rolled and the Gestapo reigned were epiphanic - Bob saw for the first time that his Old Testament fears of God's almighty retributive power were actually the stuff of reality.  The sound of God's anvil was ringing through the streets of Washington, and the clanging and banging that signaled the end of days meant only that. 

Yet the awful sound of God's anger stirred more than just Biblical angst.  The end of his days meant that he was to go to his grave without feeling the silken skin, soft, the luxuriant blonde hair, the wet full lips, and hearing the moaning desire of a young woman.  He felt cheated and angry.  He had spent his whole life on stinking busses to Selma and Montgomery, marching with pleated, rancid women on the Mall, speaking to congregations of febrile thinkers and black wannabees, and tucking himself into bed without one consoling thought; and here he was at history's existential moment, dry, shriveled, and sexless. 

As much as he tried to focus on the battle at hand, storming the barricades once again in a moment of defiance and righteousness, he could not. He could see only the full-breasted, lithe, supple, and desirous women walking to and from the White House and desperately wanted each and every one of them. 

He looked down at his shabby suit and scuffed shoes, pulled at his stained, crumpled tie, and ran his fingers through his thinning hair, and sighed.

Such lecherous thoughts, he knew, were unbecoming of a progressive whose mind was - like a Carmelite nun - to be focused only on grace, goodness, and light; and here he was wallowing in the mire of sick sensuality.  He, not Donald Trump, was the object of Timothy's scorn; and yet....and yet, the urge to act, to once and for all purge himself of the frustration than had been eating away at him for years, was irrepressible.  

As he walked back to his office, Bob saw a pretty young thing sitting on a bench in Lafayette Park, eating her lunch and looking out at the brilliantly white, luminescent mansion across the way.  The White House, her home for four years, his Victorian house of horrors.  Bob smiled at her as he walked slowly by, testing the waters; but the girl paid him no mind.  It was as though he did not exist.  A 'fuck off' would have been preferable, at least an acknowledgement of his desire, his sexual being; but her vapid, transparent indifference was far worse. 

Moping home, straggling through the door disconsolate, beaten, and humiliated, he met his chipper, ignorant wife.  'I made pot roast, Bobby, your favorite', she said, bussing him on the cheek, and went back to the kitchen.  No greeting could have been more discouraging, more reeking of failure and dismal, unfulfilled manhood.  He slumped into the worn, sagging armchair and closed his eyes.  It could not get any worse. 

Now, in his feminist days - those between peace and civil rights and gay pride - he learned of Giselle de Larrimore, the Madame of K Street, the sexual impresario who had serviced the Washington elite for two decades, and whose clients would be familiar to all Americans.  He and his lesbian colleagues took on the hypocrisy of the male establishment and with it the reputation of Madame de Larrimore; but bad publicity for a successful sexual enterprise only enhances its allure.  The women of her house were not just cheap hookers, bare-titted, high-shelved black women from the inner city; but luscious, tempting, gorgeous white women whose favors were prized from Dubuque to Santa Fe. 

Bob wanted them then and more than ever, now. If he could not seduce a woman on his merits and given that this was a final desperate period, and existential time, paying for sexual delights would not be the misogynist treachery he had once disavowed.  It would be resolution in the face of anarchy, release at a time of frustration. 

But how? and where to begin? Who should he call? 

Because Madame de Lattimore's establishment was so well known and so often frequented by so many, it was not hard to find.  At first stunned by the prices - as a good progressive, he shopped with coupons at discount stores - he hesitated, but then in a grand, explosive, ejaculatory 'Fuck that!', he made an appointment with la creme de la creme, a burnished gold, tawny-skinned, tall and luscious beauty, a night with whom cost more than a Lamborghini. 

At first he hesitated.  Perhaps he should work his way up the ladder, test out the lower rungs, get his confidence up and mojo working before scaling the walls; but once again as the end of days loomed, the realization that he had wasted his pitiful, misspent, dutiful life, and his dismissal from anything worthwhile was on the horizon, he paid the price of admission to the bower of bliss. 

No happier, jaunty, chipper and cheerful man walked K Street the following morning.  Bob was in seventh heaven, master of all her surveyed, a mensch, a lover, a macho man. Like millions of men before him, Bob felt in charge, on top, at the pinnacle of life.  He passed the White House and smiled at the goings on within, to the victor go the spoils, and now that he had tasted that booty, he forgot his hatred for Trump and patted himself on the back. 

'What's gotten into you?', asked his wife immediately noticing the difference.  Not only in posture and attitude but indifference.  He didn't seem to care about equity, the black man, the oppression of women and gay men, the despoiling of the environment, the warming planet.  He was in his own happy cocoon, read the sports page, watched movies, and went out when he pleased. 

The end of days of course was only the measure of fickle, overwrought imaginations; and the wild and wooly trampling of the bureaucracy was only a statement of foundational reform; but Bob now didn't care one way or another.  He was happy in his skin now that he had been properly laid and shed every last pretentious, soggy progressive notion he had ever held.