:: Sliptongue Magazine

Leon’s Lament

by Flavian Mark Lupinetti

I can tell, young lady. You’re stereotypin’ me. Soon’s I walked into the Volunteer Lounge of the Knoxville Holiday Inn and introduced myself, I knew what you were thinkin’. “Leon Burns, senior senator from the great state of Tennessee? He’s a powerful man. And kinda good lookin’ for an older guy, with that nice tan and that thick mane of gray hair . . . I could fuck him.” But then--and here’s where the stereotypin’ kicks in--you tell yourself, “Uh, but he’s a Republican. And that means he won’t eat my pussy.”

And to prejudge me like that is just not fair. Because there are three principles I hold sacred, and they are lower tax rates on capital gains, prayer in public schools, and lickin’ your loins to a lather. Fact is, I consider it a damn shame I can only put two of those on my campaign litrature.

So don’t stereotype me, sweet thing. Oh, I grant you, like most stereotypes, whether it’s Chinamen who can’t drive or white men who can’t jump or black men who can’t keep their damn mouths shut in the movie theater, there is an element of truth. I regret to say that many of my brethren in the Grand Old Party will not munch your muffin. And it is also true that the average Democrat politician will chew on you like a hound dog on a pork chop, and that goes for Reid and Dodd and even 90-year old Bobby Byrd. Hell, Teddy Kennedy came back from havin’ half his brain cut out, and first thing he says to me is “Leon, let’s cut this hearin’ short so I can go stir me some puddin.” I’m paraphrasin’ of course.

Yeah. Democrats do enjoy a box lunch. But baby doll, that doesn’t mean I won’t put a lip lock on your love muscle.

That’s why I have a dream. A dream that someday, I’ll be judged not by the color of my campaign committee, but on the content of my cunnilingus. You like that? That’s my Martin Luther King impression. Now if Martin Luther King were hittin’ on you, you wouldn’t be sterotypin’ him that way. Of course not. And you’d be right. Because Dr. King’s oral skills weren’t limited to public speaking, no ma’am. And J. Edgar, he got the tapes to prove it. Come to D.C. some time and visit the FBI Buildin’. I’ll get you into the VIP room and you can hear ‘em for yourself. That black sonofabitch made a lotta trouble, but he made a lot of women free at last, free at last, good God almighty.

One of the reasons for your stereotypin’ is that for all the muff divin’ those librals do, they talk about it even more. And they talk about it the way they talk about workin’ in the soup kitchen in high school, like it was community service. Or like it was that “whole year” they spent in the Peace Corps in Africa. “There I was, beatin’ through the bush. It was hot and humid and the natives were restless. Kinda scary first time I went in.”

And why do the French get so much credit for nibblin’ the nookie? Makes my blood boil. Wish we could change the expression, like we did with freedom fries. I have tried, you know. I’ve encouraged my acquaintances to say, “Hey, Leon baby. Gimme some more of that neocon.”

Naw. I don’t see it catchin’ on either.

And it’s frustratin’ ‘cause I don’t think you’ll find many Frenchmen or Democrats who have studied on the science of givin’ head as much as ol’ Leon has. See, to do it right, you gotta understand the tongue. Did you know, for instance, that the tongue is composed of a complex system of extrinsic muscles that attach the tongue to the jaw and intrinsic muscles that allow a great range of movement? Did you know that the tongue muscles can be strengthened with both isometric and isotonic exercises?

Furthermore, as in similar acts of an athletic nature, the art of Tongue Fu requires the development of the supportin’ muscles as well. Even the strongest tongue can fatigue early if you neglect the deltoids and the traps and the sternocleidomastoids, which could lead to your lettin’ up on the reins just as your filly is nearin’ the finish line. Which is just plain embarrasin’.

Fact is, you should be aware that Leon will tongue plow your furrow irregardless of anatomic imperfections, tonsorial predilections, or pudendal accessorization. I’m very broad minded, and I don’t care whether your naturally tight, whether you’ve had that cunt rejuvenation surgery, or whether you have those long, hangy down pussy jowls. Don’t matter if you have a bush like the Everglades, or if you’ve been defoliated like Nam after Agent Orange. Whether you don’t much care for piercings, or whether you got enough metal to get traction on icy surfaces.

I gotta say, ol’ Leon likes some jewelry on the cooter. Kind of a visual aid. Sorta like when the airplane is pullin’ up to the gate, havin’ those big orange flashlights helpin’ you find your way. “Bring it on in, big fella. Park that nose right here. Drive. Uh. Mamma. Uh. Home.”

Now. I’ve hoped you’ve learned somethin’ this evenin’, baby doll. About stereotypin’. And to make amends, I hope you’ll join me upstairs in my room, where I will tie your legs round my neck and wear you like a feedbag. Oh, darlin’, it’ll all be good. I’ll take care of you like you were Eye-rack. I know I will be greeted as a liberator.

* * *

He was right. I was stereotypin’ him. But I don’t think it’s entirely my fault. As the senator himself pointed out, it is well known that Republicans are seldom connoisseurs of the bearded clam. So when he came over to me and offered to display his talent at gobblin’ the gash, I was surprised. But what I can I say? I do love a sweet talkin’ man.

As much as I appreciate the distinguished gentleman’s generous offer, though, I will have to demur. A tonguin’ of the love pita, as popular as it is with some girls, is not everyone’s cup of Co-Cola. I do, however, believe he’ll be more than satisfied with a trip up my Hershey highway.

The way I figure it, Senator Burns, bein’ a good Republican and all, isn’t gonna mind gettin’ his dick stuck in the shit. Whether we’re talkin’ foreign policy or domestic, the senator is rightly famous for dispensing a good ass fucking now and then. I just hope he likes stickin’ it in the nasty place in the literal sense, too. Some may call it the soft bigotry of low expectations, but having just met me, don’t you think the senator would be happy to score a bogey on the second hole?

And it’s my guess that as an ardent advocate of the free market, the senator wouldn’t take exception that most guys who drill for oil in my protected environment pay five hundred an hour for exploration rights. Oh, but I won’t be commercial about it. At least not for now. I want him to know that the one and only question on my mind this evening is, “What can brown do for you?”

I think the senator might even be flattered to know that I came to this bar knowin’ he would be here. Hopin’ he would accompany me upstairs to my room. Where I will get him naked in a New York minute, get his pecker harder than calculus, and then . . . Shazam! Into the poop chute, congress-boy.

He’ll be so happy givin’ me a meat missile mud bath that he won’t mind if I insist on keepin’ the lights off. I mean, I have my reasons. First, it’s more romantic. Second, I am kind of shy. And third, it might spoil the moment if he sees the size of my cock.

Yeah. I think we’ll both be happier in the dark. I’m certain he will be. I’ll let him just pound away, ‘cause I know he’ll have no exit strategy. And finally, when it’s e-mission accomplished, then and only then will my boyfriend Enrique come out of the closet, turn on the lights, and start taking pictures of Senator Leon Burns. Balls deep in my mangina.

And after that, Senator, we’ll have a conversation about the costs of reconstruction. It’ll be shock and awe then, baby.

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Flavian Mark Lupinetti is a writer and cardiothoracic surgeon in southern Oregon. His recent and forthcoming credits include Barrelhouse, Bellevue Literary Review, Cutthroat, New Fables, and ZYZZYVA. Samples of his work can be read at www.lupinetti.com