October 28, 2003

I dream of Rovey with the light khaki trench coat.

I had another one of my dreams last night. Faithful readers of my old site will find some similarity to the ones I was having back before Election 2K, but the candidate of course has changed.

Here goes. It's late on a weeknight, and all of my fellow volunteers at the Dean For America office have long since gone back to their hotel rooms, or the homes where they've been staying. We're somewhere in the middle of Iowa, prepping for the Democratic Primaries, and I've still got some poll figures to go over. I'm in desperate need of a nap, a snack and a nice, relaxing shower, but work comes first. I pour myself a cup of stale coffee from the pot and am trudging back to my desk when I hear a firm, steady rapping at the front door. Figuring that one of the addle-brained army of local college volunteers went one toke over the line and left the keys to his minibus behind, I groan and shuffle over to unlock the door, bracing myself against the anticipated stench of pachouli and general unwashedness. "You know, I really wish you guys would…"

My voice trails away, as I am momentarily overcome by the heady scent of french fry oil and Gold Bond, and the unearthly glow of the cloudily-haired orb floating just above my eye level -- is it a full moon tonight? I can't remember. I blink once…twice…no…it can't be. I must have fallen asleep at my desk because…

He stands there, pasty and smirking, his khaki trench coat belted insouciantly around his prosperous middle. "Well, Virginia - aren't you going to invite me in?"

I stand blinking for a moment and compose myself enough to retort, "Why do you need a special invitation? Well then again, it wouldn't surprise me. Republicans aren't that different from vampires. You're both known for sucking the life blood out of people."

"Well, I was just being polite, but if you're going to be that way about it, Virginia…" He uses his girth as a battering ram to flatten me against a file cabinet as he penetrates our modest campaign headquarters. Once inside, he surveys and sneers, "Nice digs you have here. I see that landmark internet fundraising has netted you what, a couple of folding chairs and some plywood desks? And what's that I smell? Sanka? Faaaancy."

"Wait…how do you know?…"

"Your name, Virginia? Oh, sweet child…" He cups my ashen face in his fingers. His hand is warm and moist and meaty - like shrink-wrapped ground beef that's been left to thaw to room temperature on a countertop. My brain is telling me that I should be repulsed - he's the embodiment of all that I loathe and rail against, but my skin is…my skin is…oh, against all rational reason, it's saying something quite different. I stand stock-still and wait for the balmy hurricane of his next spittle-flecked words. "Little girl, you know who I am, don't you? Do you really believe there is anything about this campaign that I don't know?"

I nod gently so as not to loosen his gentle grip on my warming flesh. "You're…you're…hiiimmmm…"

"Say my name, Virginia. Say my name."

"You're…Karl…Rove. Bush's…brain. You…run the country. You…stole the presidency…"

He leans in closer, brushes his soft, moist lips across my cheek and earlobe. They feel like raw bacon again the now-sizzling griddle of my skin, and I can feel my stomach starting to rumble. He moos, low and soft into my arching neck, "Stole is such an ugly word. Besides, all's fair in war and…" He presses up against my quivering thigh, and through the exquisite roughness of his poly-blend Sansabelts, I can feel his Chief of Staff standing at attention. "…war and…oh what was that other word? I always forget…starts with 'L', I think…"

My head is whirling, my skin blazing and I wrench away, though it feels as if the move will extract my very heart. "Mr. Rove, I have no idea why you think you can just wander in here and…and…behave so provocatively and…and…I still have some polling figures to go over and…"

He smirks again, and marches me backward until I am pressed against my cheap, wooden desk. "Oh I assure you - you're going to be taking MY poll soon enough. As you can see, the numbers were soft before but," he takes my hand and molds it along the monument he's erected, "those poll figures are rising." It seems for a moment as if he's going to show me some hard data to back that up, but my stomach rumbles. Loudly, this time. He chuckles, chins wobbling gently, hypnotically, and guides me back until I am flat on the desk, blinking blearily at the cracked, acoustic tiling. "If you were volunteering for our campaign, we'd have had you sated many hours ago, with some apple pie to boot." He gestures around the room, "What's this clown saving his money for, anyhow? It's not like he's got a chance in hell of overcoming me…I mean President Bush. He might as well spend a little on the welfare of the nubile young things who are naïve enough to think he's ready to play with the big boys. I'd say that's bush league thinking, but he's obviously not in Bush's league."

The gleam of the fluorescent light off his moonstone scalp momentarily obscures my tantalizing view of his limpet lips, and the spell is broken long enough for me to collect myself, and I sit up. "Mr. Rove, your arrogance is appalling. I'll take such pleasure in seeing you go down. I'll…"

His moist, hammy palms press against my shoulders, guiding me again to my desktop recline, and I am again helpless against the raw force of his appeal. "Oh Virginia - I'm sure you'll be watching me go down, and I assure you there will be pleasure, but not like that. Shhhh…lay back." With a lugubrious sweep, he skims up the hem of my sweater and with another, guides down the waistband of my cotton skirt, enough to expose my winter-whitened stomach to the cool air of the stingily-heated office. I shiver.

"Poor little Democrat girl. Well, this should warm you up. It's been in my pocket, next to Rovey's big, warm body for hours now." With that, he reaches into an inner pocket of his grease-stained trench coat, pulls out a crumpled paper sack and removes a foil packet. My back arches involuntarily as he rips the gleaming edge open with his yellowed teeth, and he…he…squeezes the body-warmed fast-food mayonnaise into the well of my navel. He plunges again into the bag, extracts a tepid chicken nugget, grips it gently with his mouth and slowly…oh so torturously slowly dips the breaded lump into the creamy condiment and then..ahhh…ahhh…between my famished lips. I savor and I swallow and he repeats this ecstatic oral ballet again and again until all half-dozen have been consumed. I lay back on the desk, satisfied for the moment until…no! It can't be! My Rovey is heading for the office door! I spring from the desk and cling to him, mashing my mayonnaise and crumb-slathered torso against the expanse of his hindquarters, and plead, "Mr. Rove, Mr. Rove, you can't just…feed me and leave like this! Have I done something that displeases you? Don't you still want me to…take your poll?"

He grins - his eyes crinkling down like two currants gently pressed into an uncooked sticky bun. "Had my pager not just gone off in my pocket, I promise you, you'd be taking my poll again and again right now, but W. calls." He dips down, presses his raw cutlet lips against my throat, while loosening my arms' attempt to span the expanse of his midsection, and I sigh when he brushes a pale gob of mayo from the corner of my quivering mouth, and glosses it over his protruding tongue. "I think next time, dinner will be 'on me'". I swoon for a moment, and when I rouse myself back to full attention moments, my Rovey has gone, and all I have to remember him by is a greasy navel. Until next time…

Posted by Virginia at October 28, 2003 04:29 PM