Campaign Finance; or, Please Stop Sending Me Emails Asking for Donations (Obama/Clooney/Surpise Guest)
He sat slouched over upon his knees, his eyes focusing on the large toes of both feet. His wrists itched with the burns of the rope tied around them. As his back began to ache, he attempted to lean back upon the auburn velvet armchair but the gashes in his back stung like a thousand hornets, and again he heaved over the front of his seat. Regaining his composure, he focused on the events that took him to this room, this prison reminiscent of a Henry James bedroom.
The campaign was floundering and the HOPE that had been on the lips of many a Democratic minion four years ago had turned to disillusionment. Barack’s plan was to spend like a demon until the name Obama was so deeply etched into the minds of the voters that they were compelled to vote for him. He didn’t believe that Romney could win but he wasn’t going to take any chances. The taste of power whet his appetite too strongly and he wasn’t going to give it up. Barack Obama gives in to no one.
But this had gone too far. He had come in the middle of the night to the house in Los Angeles with two months left until the election.
“George,” he said with a smile half vixen and half saint, “we’re hurting for money. I know that you have been giving up your time and inviting those pricks to your house just to raise money for the campaign, but it just hasn’t been enough. Those arrogant New Yorkers have shut their wallets, and you know if I appease them I lose those Midwest swing votes. You know that everyone hates a New Yorker.”
George smiled his boyish grin. At the time at least, he was willing to help in anyway; he loved the feeling of being the president’s friend. His ego was constantly in need of inflating, and while money and fame had been satisfying, desire bred more desire. His father was a distinguished reporter, and what was he, a movie man. He finally felt that he was doing something of importance and it gave him a euphoric of power that he hadn’t felt in years. Yet, it was this feeling that blinded him to what was being planned.
The money would be sifted in anonymously. Barack had his connections in Chicago. Clandestine messages were distributed to all the previous wealthy donors as well as to anyone suspected to have an interest and the funds.
Spend an intimate evening with George Clooney, one on one. George has a hard-on and he wants you to relieve his pressure. Minimum donation of $200,000.
George knew he had a big head, but he didn’t expect himself to be so naïve. He anticipated some old widowed heiresses, disgruntled wives, and the occasional closeted gay man would suck him off. At most, he thought it would amount to five or six days of blowjobs, and who wouldn’t do that for a friend, especially when that friend was the President of the United States of America.
For the first ten, he had enjoyed himself. He was surprised at the amount of men showing up, but he would just close his eyes and picture a current or past girlfriend. He was disturbed by one middle aged man, with the flesh of his overweight stomach hanging out of his striped button down shirt, and comb-over that looked like it was dyed using Just for Men. Before he put his drooling mouth over George’s mushroom tip, he dug his pig nose into the space between George’s testicles and thigh and whispered the nursery rhyme, Georgie Porgie, while sniffing like a dog.
After the second ten, George had decided he had had enough. He was sore and bruised and his imagination was failing him; he couldn’t get hard no matter how hard he tried. He asked the secret service man who brought in the guests if he could talk to Barack, and received a piercing, questioning stare. George stared back, and the man nodded and walked down the hallway, but after locking the door from the outside. For the first time, George began to feel that he was a prisoner.
Barack entered. He seemed agitated and in a rush. His grey tailored suit was slightly crushed along his long slender legs, as if he had just been shuttled from a meeting, and George did not see the same friendliness that usually accompanied his friend.
“I think I’m done here.” George said with half a laugh, trying to make light of the situation. “ I’m not Eros.”
Barack did not smile. “There are already eight more signed up for the rest of the week and the money is already spent.” He spoke coldly, and George thought he saw a bit of Chicago gangster in the way he shifted his hands in his pockets.
“Hell, I’d do it if I could,” George joked, “ but there is only so much I can control.” He pointed down to his half exposed genitals.
“We have drugs for that.” Barack replied dryly.
“I won’t do it. This has really gone far enough. There is only so much I will do. I am not a whore.”
“Oh, you’re not are you?” A large bellow of laughter escaped Barack’s lungs.
“ You’ll do what you said you’d do, whether willingly or if we have to force you.”
They stared each other down. George was betrayed, but he didn’t blame Barack, but himself. They both were addicted to the power, and now George was suffering for it. Barack pivoted on his right foot and began to walk out of the room.
Just as he was about to exit the door, he turned and smiled.
“I’m glad we understand each other George. Remember, it’s for the Democrats”
George glared back and the silence was only disturbed by the slamming and relocking of the door.
Five minutes later was when he received his first beating. He was a man, he told himself, and a man must fight on. They tied him down to the chair he has spent the last week attached to like an appendage, and forced Viagra down his throat. When he refused to sit quietly while being blown, they gagged him, sometimes even letting the paying guests do the honor. A six foot three ex-marine would come in between sessions. He would throw George on the bed, and give him ten cracks on the back with his saber. His face never changed, remaining the blank dutiful stare of a soldier who knows his duty and follows orders. When George was unable to engorge himself, he was re-drugged.
There were fifteen more that week. Yet only a few hours ago, the guard entered with a big smile on his face, the first genuine smile George had seen in ages that weren’t plastered on the face of some rich pervert.
“Last one and you’re done! I’m sure you are a happy man Mr. Clooney. Just think what you have done for democracy.”
George wanted to feel happy but he was a broken man. His body hurt all over, and while he could not see his face, he could feel that the luster that had seduced a nation of women was no longer in his eyes. There was no more George Clooney. He was unsure of who he was or what he would become after he would be freed. He tried again to lean back in his chair, the velvet that should have been soft and comforting, just a reminder of the ghastly days and nights he was a victim to the lusts of the gluttonous. But only one more, he thought. Just one more time and it would be over. Tears began to build up in the corners of his eyes, and slowly cry down the bridge of his nose.
“This is a special customer Mr. Clooney.” The guard had re-entered and was carrying a green and white robe. George looked inquisitively at the cloth and suddenly realized that it was not an ordinary robe but priest vestments. “ He’s paying more than double the asking price, and so you’ll be required to put this on.” George didn’t know what to make of the situation. The guard untied his hands, and George sighed relieved. He looked at the red marks on his wrists and thought of the scars that would never really disappear, but it felt good to touch his hands. He felt an inkling of strength left in the tips of his fingers. The guard placed the robe over George’s head, and over his bare chest, leaving an opening around his crotch.
“What is this about?” George asked.
“Apparently, he used to be an altar boy and wants to relive some old fantasies, if you know what I mean.” The guard grinned wide and George was puzzled for only a minute before he realized what was meant of him. He felt a sickness grow in his stomach and he wanted to vomit. He would sit there and take it, but he would not be coerced into acting as a pedophilic priest. It was all too much.
There was a knock on the door. The guard quickly retied George’s hands behind the back of the chair.
“Didn’t think I would forget that did ya?” he laughed. He walked over and stuck his head out of the door. George only heard muffled whispers. He repeated to himself over and over to maintain just a little bit of his integrity, to hold on to a small part of himself so he would have something to start from when this ended.
“Here he is.” The guard opened the door wide and George’s eyes gaped. Paul Ryan stood before him in the entranceway of the little Edwardian bedroom. In short pants, a gold cross, and holding a Missal under his left arm, Ryan smiled bashfully. This was an event that even George could not understand. Was Ryan so desperate for this fantasy that he would donate against his own campaign? Couldn’t have found a real priest to do it?
The guard closed the door and the two men, a priest and a young boy, were left alone in the room. George kept his eyes on Ryan’s face, watching his every move and trying to guess what this all meant. Maybe it was all a ruse and Ryan was actually there to free him and reveal to the world the debauchery he had been tortured in. It wasn’t.
Ryan walked up to George and got down on his knees. He pressed his palms together and bowed his head down between George’s legs, as if he was about to say an act of contrition.
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned,” prayed Ryan, “It has been three months since my last confession.”
“I won’t do it. I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! Please, please just let me go!” George screamed in agony. He began to cry, exhausted of his whole existence.
But Ryan showed no sign of sympathy or the forgiveness he professed in his faith. He stood up, walked to the door, and whispered unintelligently to the guard. He closed the door and watched George, like a hyena waiting for the moment to steal the carcass from a pride of lions.
It was ten minutes, but to George time had stopped. In walked Barack, visibly agitated with a pack of Marlboro Red in his left hand. He slammed the door behind him and walked over to a small wooden chair in the corner, grabbed it by the back rail, and placed it in front of his frocked victim. He straddled the chair and packed his cigarettes. He pulled out one and lit it, taking a drag and letting the ashes fall upon the exposed thigh. George watched as the grey tobacco landed on his leg, and then looked up at his tormentor, once his savior.
“Now George, why do you have to start trouble now? This is the last thing you have to do for us, but still you make it difficult.” Barack inhaled another drag of his cigarette. “Don’t you know I have a country to run? Now you are an actor. This man is giving us a very big donation,” Barack glanced over at Ryan, who had started praying a rosary, the glorious mysteries, and beamed in the glorious irony. “Now our donor wants you to forgive him his sins, and I think you know what his penance should be.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” George sputtered out of his trembling lips, his composure completely gone. “You can have everything of mine. Please, just let it end now.”
“Do you realize who I am? I am Barack Obama, president of the fucking United States, leader of the damn free world. You think you can plead with me. You think that I have compassion for you.” Obama stood up, glaring down at George, a hunched over corpse of once a cocky man. He sipped his cigarette, sighed, and relaxed the tension in his face. “ You do this, and not only will you have protected the future of the Democrats, but you have will have helped millions of Americans.”
George was momentarily stunned, until Barack could no longer hold a straight face and was doubled up in laughter. George wanted to say something, anything to convince Barack to let him go. He wanted to find that man he played pickup basketball with and talked shit about the Republicans. It couldn’t have all been a trick, a ploy for George’s celebrity to help win the election. But George was too weak. His lips could find no words that could penetrate the man standing before him, proud in his victory.
“Do it or you disappear,” Barack asserted and walked out the door. George gave up. He stared down at the floor, totally shattered. He gazed at the paisley pattern on the Oriental rug, and tried to lose himself in the swirling maze. He was almost gone, until suddenly, he realized that Ryan had reinstated himself in front of George and was once again starting his reconciliation. George lifted his head and let his blood shot eyes cut Ryan’s with his despair but Ryan was impenetrable, a Republican to the end.
Outside the door, Barack took the last drag of his cigarette. It was these little moments he cherished. What bit him the most about being president was that he couldn’t enjoy a cigarette like in the past. Now he always had to be on the watch that someone would find out.
“Oh Father, I have been a bad Catholic. I have had lustful thoughts about other boys and I have been telling lies. Please Father, what shall my penance be?”
Barack heard Ryan through the door. He was mystified and somewhat disgusted about Ryan, but he knew it is wrong to judge others on what we don’t understand. He was just thankful he was not raised a Catholic. The tragic life of an altar boy.
Barack flicked his cigarette to the floor and put it out with the heel of his right shoe. The secret service agent returned to his post and informed him that Michelle was looking for him and that he had a meeting in a half hour about what to do about growing tensions between China and Japan. He looked down at the littered cigarette, and remembered that he was President of the United States. Him, a black man. Damn, it made him feel good. He nodded goodbye to the agent and coolly walked down the hall, smiling as he thought of seeing his wife.