Famed erotica writer Lauren I. P. Somme plunges readers into the unexpectedly steamy world of US politics
By Rebecca Peterson, Staff Writer
Marco Rubio walked the halls of the convention center with nothing but the cold desolation of failure in his heart. His losses overwhelmed him, as did the number of reporters on his heels asking if he would be supporting Donald “Good people don’t go into government” Drumpf now that his campaign had come to an end.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Rubio choked, hoping they could not see the sheen of defeat and misery in his eyes, nor the tears on his cheeks, nor the “Kick Me” sign Drumpf himself had stuck to his back 15 minutes earlier, during a consoling embrace that left Rubio feeling very confused and uncomfortable.
In truth, there was only one candidate Rubio wished to support. Only one who had captured his mind, his political viewpoint, 37 potential victims in the Bay Area between the years 1965–1974… and his heart.
Suddenly a hand closed around Rubio’s wrist, and a familiar voice leaned in to whisper: “Let me take you away from all of this.”
Before Rubio could call for the secret service agents to help him (as they’d buggered off to arrest a #BlackLivesMatter protestor for getting in the way of a Drumpf supporter’s swinging fist), he was pulled into a nearby closet, the door closed and latched behind him.
“Wow, again?” said an onlooker. Nobody seemed very surprised.
Inside the closet, Rubio folded his arms in the darkness and glared at the shadow standing between him and the door. “What do you want, Theodore?”
The light switched on, and there stood Republican candidate Ted Cruz, an uneasy smile on his face. Cruz was perfectly at ease—that was just how he smiled.
“I was wondering if you’d given any thought as to whom you might support, now that…” Cruz cleared his throat, dropping his eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss, Marco.”
“I’m not Ben Carson, Theodore,” Rubio snapped, tears gathering in his eyes. “You can’t just pull me into a closet to ‘discuss political agendas’, I’m not that kind of politician.”
Cruz took an ineffective step backwards, colliding promptly with the closet door. Pretending this and his birth in Canada never happened, he continued: “Marco… is that what you think happened?”
Rubio stared at the man, chin lifted in defiance. “I think that’s exactly what happened.”
“Oh, Marco, no, I would never discuss political agendas with Ben Carson,” Cruz said, closing the two inches between himself and Rubio to put his hands on Rubio’s shoulders. “We had sex, that’s all.”
Rubio’s lips parted in equal parts shock and an uncomfortable upwelling of lust. Could it be? Had he had everything pegged wrong from the beginning? Was the true pegging here simply a physical act between enemies?
“That was all?”
“I mean, there was foreplay first, I guess,” Cruz said, frowning. “But Marco… I only ever wanted to discuss political agendas with you.”
Those were the words that Rubio, in his heart, had wanted to hear his whole life (aside from the words “President of the United States Marco Rubio,” of course, but it was pretty close). He felt his heart welling, his pants swelling, and more tears cascaded over his face, only now they were tears of joy. “Are you saying…?”
“I’m saying, I’ve only ever wanted your public support,” Cruz said, ripping the “Kick Me” sign from Rubio’s suit jacket in a single, bold gesture. “Together, we might just have a chance to defeat the evil of Donald ‘You can never be too greedy’ Drumpf. Together, we can take back this country. Together, we can keep the evidence of any wrongdoings and murders either one of us could have potentially committed from ever seeing the light of day.”
“Could we defund Planned Parenthood?” Rubio gasped.
“For you, Marco… anything,” Cruz whispered.
Rubio smiled ecstatically, reaching for his phone. “I’ll call a press conference right away!”
Cruz chuckled darkly and pushed Rubio’s hand away from his pocket, twining their fingers together. “That can wait, Marco. We should first consummate this alliance properly; don’t you think?”
Rubio bit his lip. “But Ted… I’m straight.”
“What’s more important, Marco?” Cruz murmured smoulderingly. “Sexual orientation… or ideological orientation?”
Rubio put his hands on Cruz’s chest, feeling daring, adventurous, and politically relevant for the first time since his defeat was announced. “Mr. Cruz, you have my vote.”
Cruz smiled the arresting smile of a serial killer, and together in that closet, they forged their political alliance with passion and a passable amount of mutual respect.
