Aramis
04-17-2008, 9:14 PM
I had been a Clinton supporter for some time, but ended up in the Obama camp for a number of reasons that aren’t important here. I was at an Obama rally one night, and after the event was over, I remember being in warm conversation with some friends, and some strangers, about how the two candidates were similar, and yet not. Issues and personality; campaign management and style. Having once been a Hillary backer I was not going to trash her even though I’d changed sides. I recall mentioning at the time something like, “I don’t dislike Hillary. I like a tough and in-control woman. If her boots needed cleaning, I’d do it. But I don’t think she can win.”
Well, “my friends,” as John McCain says, someone in the Clinton camp must have heard my words because I don’t remember getting out of the parking lot! I don’t remember any encounter actually, but I did come to after being knocked out (one way or the other). I came to on my belly, prostrate, and not too far away from me were the shod and weary feet of one Hillary Rodham Clinton in a motel room, ready to relax the rest of the night!
“He’s waking up,” I heard someone observe. “Yes I can see that,” I recognized the voice of Hillary Clinton. Her voice continued from above,
“Hello little man! You are now in the presence of the future President of the United States of America. You were across town at Barack’s rally, but you said you’d clean my boots if they needed it! What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
I paused. I breathed. I thought. Then I said, “I support him, but I have always wanted to be your servant.” I thought that as far as replies go, the shorter the better.
There was another pause, this one hers. “You want to be my servant, but you would vote against me. Why should I trust a person like you? Why would I want someone like you to do me a damn thing?”
“I’m sorry, Senator, I’m sorry, please, let me go.”
“GO?! I think not! It’s not every day an Obama man wants to clean my boots! And though I don’t have any boots with me now, I do have these pumps, lover boy, and they are a little dirty. Would you be willing to clean them for me tonight, while you’re on the floor . . . please?”
Her feet moved seductively before me on the carpet. She put the weight on her heels, lifted the soles, and slowly waved them before me as if to tempt a starving man with a meal. Which, to be honest, in a way she was.
I suddenly thought of the press. Foolish thought, I know, but it came to me as I do have a somewhat public job, and I said, “Are there cameras running? Is this going to be taped or put on the internet?”
She guffawed her free power-laugh. I heard her hands clap. “Oh, no,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “Heck no. Do you think I want Fox or any other network to know I have a man groveling at my feet and licking my shoes and feet? You will be kept as under-wraps and private as humanly possible!”
Licking her shoes and feet? How had it come to this? I should have never admitted to those strangers that I would be willing to clean her boots; they must have been some kind of undercover insiders. But here I was, and I did long to give her tired, wide, fleshy and demanding feet some love. Before I could think for long, she repeated her question, rather impatiently:
“So, are you going to clean my shoes or not, boy? Slither over here on your belly and let me know if you adore me or not. Lick my shoes, all around, and if you do a good enough job, I’ll tell you to take them off and then give my feet the oral massage they deserve. It’s been a long, hard day, and you’re cute. But I only reward hard work, so get busy my friend.”
I was in a daze. But I did indeed grovel forward, scarping my bare chest skin against the motel carpet, until I reached her shod feet. She was sitting on the edge of one of those nice plush hotel room beds. Her foot-waving slowed down and almost stopped.
There I was, inches away from what could end up being the feet of the most powerful woman in the world. I groveled before her. I paused.
“NOW!” she said loudly from above.
I stuck out my tongue and began to lick clean the tops of her pumps. I licked and licked and licked. At the start I heard pleased laughter overhead. Then it became silent, and I think she fell asleep, for the muscles in her feet and ankles relaxed a lot. I cleaned her shoes thoroughly, including the soles and spiked heels, and pondered my next step. Should I bolt while she was asleep, and hope her aides were also asleep, or, should I remove those nice pumps with my teeth and go to work on her overworked bare feet? For she did not wear hose that warm day.
Well, “my friends,” as John McCain says, someone in the Clinton camp must have heard my words because I don’t remember getting out of the parking lot! I don’t remember any encounter actually, but I did come to after being knocked out (one way or the other). I came to on my belly, prostrate, and not too far away from me were the shod and weary feet of one Hillary Rodham Clinton in a motel room, ready to relax the rest of the night!
“He’s waking up,” I heard someone observe. “Yes I can see that,” I recognized the voice of Hillary Clinton. Her voice continued from above,
“Hello little man! You are now in the presence of the future President of the United States of America. You were across town at Barack’s rally, but you said you’d clean my boots if they needed it! What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
I paused. I breathed. I thought. Then I said, “I support him, but I have always wanted to be your servant.” I thought that as far as replies go, the shorter the better.
There was another pause, this one hers. “You want to be my servant, but you would vote against me. Why should I trust a person like you? Why would I want someone like you to do me a damn thing?”
“I’m sorry, Senator, I’m sorry, please, let me go.”
“GO?! I think not! It’s not every day an Obama man wants to clean my boots! And though I don’t have any boots with me now, I do have these pumps, lover boy, and they are a little dirty. Would you be willing to clean them for me tonight, while you’re on the floor . . . please?”
Her feet moved seductively before me on the carpet. She put the weight on her heels, lifted the soles, and slowly waved them before me as if to tempt a starving man with a meal. Which, to be honest, in a way she was.
I suddenly thought of the press. Foolish thought, I know, but it came to me as I do have a somewhat public job, and I said, “Are there cameras running? Is this going to be taped or put on the internet?”
She guffawed her free power-laugh. I heard her hands clap. “Oh, no,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “Heck no. Do you think I want Fox or any other network to know I have a man groveling at my feet and licking my shoes and feet? You will be kept as under-wraps and private as humanly possible!”
Licking her shoes and feet? How had it come to this? I should have never admitted to those strangers that I would be willing to clean her boots; they must have been some kind of undercover insiders. But here I was, and I did long to give her tired, wide, fleshy and demanding feet some love. Before I could think for long, she repeated her question, rather impatiently:
“So, are you going to clean my shoes or not, boy? Slither over here on your belly and let me know if you adore me or not. Lick my shoes, all around, and if you do a good enough job, I’ll tell you to take them off and then give my feet the oral massage they deserve. It’s been a long, hard day, and you’re cute. But I only reward hard work, so get busy my friend.”
I was in a daze. But I did indeed grovel forward, scarping my bare chest skin against the motel carpet, until I reached her shod feet. She was sitting on the edge of one of those nice plush hotel room beds. Her foot-waving slowed down and almost stopped.
There I was, inches away from what could end up being the feet of the most powerful woman in the world. I groveled before her. I paused.
“NOW!” she said loudly from above.
I stuck out my tongue and began to lick clean the tops of her pumps. I licked and licked and licked. At the start I heard pleased laughter overhead. Then it became silent, and I think she fell asleep, for the muscles in her feet and ankles relaxed a lot. I cleaned her shoes thoroughly, including the soles and spiked heels, and pondered my next step. Should I bolt while she was asleep, and hope her aides were also asleep, or, should I remove those nice pumps with my teeth and go to work on her overworked bare feet? For she did not wear hose that warm day.