A forbidden love.
just some good ol american smut
As he walks in the room, Joe gasps. A man is perched delicately on the corner of the leather Chesterfield sofa, leaning ever-so-slightly forward, giving Joe a clear view down the nape of his neck.
Joe clears his throat and heads toward the man. “You’re beautiful,” Joe whispers.
Joe watches the man’s golden hair dance in the breeze from the open window. His bronzed, macaroon-yellow cheeks are dewy from the morning fog. His jowls are supple, elastic, alluring.
The man inhales sharply as Joe reaches out and runs his hand through the man’s soft, velvety locks.
In a moment of blind yearning, Joe leans over for a kiss, smiling as their lips meet.
“I love you, Mr. President.”
“I love you too, Mr. President.”
The two presidents embrace.
The current Mr. President guides the former Mr. President up from the couch and, with a brush of his hand, sends him into a slow, gentle twirl.
“You were born to dance,” the current Mr. President remarks to the former Mr. President.
“We were born to dance,” the former Mr. President says to the current Mr. President.
“But we cannot,” Joe reminds him.
“I know, but…”
“They would never allow it.”
The 46th President of the United States sighs and caresses the face of the 45th President of the United States. His eyes well with tears.
“Oh beautiful, for... for.....” Joe’s voice trails off. “For spacious skies,” Don croons.
“Oh, Don. You are my purple mountain majesty, above my fruited plain.”
Don takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, grasping the back of Joe’s head and gently pulling him to his chest. He can feel Joe’s warm tears through his Brioni button-down dress shirt.
The faint shadow of a balloon can be seen in the window, floating silently, perhaps Chinese, perhaps not.
Joe looks at Don. “I... I will always love you. From now, until I die, and after I die. Forever. I will love you, Mr. President. I will love you.”
Joe pauses, but Mitch McConnell’s rich, agile tenore contraltino can be heard from down the hall, softly brushing away the ensuing silence.
Joe smiles lightly and carries on. “From sea,” he says, running his hand through Don’s pillowy-soft mane for the second time.
“To shining sea,” they whisper together.
Mitch McConnell’s calm, honeyed rendition of Death Cab for Cutie’s “Foxglove Through The Clearcut” drifts in the room, heavying the air.
But then, somewhat abruptly, Don steps forward. He lightly raps his knuckles on the windowsill, pacing the room.
“Stand up, Joe,” Don remarks. “We can do this.” There’s a buoyancy in his step that Joe hadn’t seen for some time. “Who says there can’t be two presidents?”
Joe stands up slowly and steadies himself on Don’s arm.
“Let’s be presidents together,” Don says.
“Are you sure?” Joe asks.
Joe kisses Don’s cheek. “Let’s do it, my love.”
Don takes Joe by the arm and leads him to the window. The two men see Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell outside, strolling merrily in the rose garden.
“Nothing lives long, only the earth and the mountains,” Senator McConnell coos, gently lofting his voice up from the rose garden and through the open window.
“But you are the earth,” Don interjects, squeezing Joe’s arm lovingly.
“And I am the mountains.”