by Susannah Indigo


When the oversized box arrives on my porch, I open it carefully, noting the "fragile" shipping label from Male Boxes Etc. and the many parental-advisory stickers running down the left side. My heart leaps at the thought of what it might be: my fantasy come true.

Itís not like I asked for him as a birthday present, but everyone knows that Iíve lusted after him since 1992. Iíve kept a campaign button with his fine face pinned to my wall for all these years. "Heís not stiff," Iíd say, defending him passionately among my friends, all the while wishing he was tucked away under my satin quilt, stiff as a rod. "Heís just Öshy."

Theyíd laugh, but I knew. One look at that smile on Tipperís face, and I always knew.

Iím sure she wonít mind. I bet she helped pack him herself. -- explicit content, indeed. I pull open the last panel of the box and he steps out and greets me with a kiss that erases all possibility of debate.

We dance. Dirty. To really dirty words. Itís only language, I whisper while I nibble my way up over his shoulder, sure that if Iíll ever have the ear of the leader of the free world, the moment is now, as soon as my lips get up and over his collar. Itís all in how you use it, I whisper. There is a world of difference between "fuck you" and "fuck me."

He laughs, and says he will indeed. I know all about vice, he murmurs as he lays me down across my big brass bed.

We lean to the left, and then slide over to the right. We roll across passion and boundaries and light, but when he gets near my bush, the dirty tricks begin. I invented the Internet, he whispers -- I know from things that are new. The silver-tongue they claim he doesnít have runs liberally up and down my thighs, licking, kissing, nipping, biting, unsafe at any speed. He pulls all my levers, polls my ballot, rushes my limbaugh, presses my flesh and whistle-stops straight into my heart.

And then he takes off his tie.

Health care, I whisper passionately into his ear. Gay rights, womenís issues, the children who live in poverty.

"Soon," he promises, campaigning every stitch of our clothing right onto the floor.

I ride him like the national debt, rising and twisting and turning and then rising again -- wooden is hardly the word, except for where it matters. Kennedy, Carter, Clinton, I shout out as we rise one last time into that stratospheric place where explicit content is all that ever exists.

I try to keep him loose for the ride home, but he just knots his tie and says he has to hurry. The earth is in balance, he explains, and I must go juggle.

I nod democratically. We shake hands, firmly, and I slip a copy of Doing It For Daddy into his left suit pocket. Smut, I whisper, sealing his box and stamping it US-Slut-Approved. I ship him safely off through the hazy skies and slip happily back into my plan to lust, learn, laugh, love, listen, and vote.