June 01, 2008
Secretary Gates’s Dream
Night after night these exotic beauties would come to War Secretary Robert Gates. They’d both go at it in some public place. Last time it was in a shallow shopping-mall fountain pool. There was never any full-blown penetration. He pulled her pants off her skinny suntan ass, licked her tiny tits, and fingered her bald pussy. Sometimes the hook-ups were with total strangers. Sometimes he recognized them. There was an ex-girlfriend who really knew how to get it off. They’d go at it hot-and-heavy the way they used to, but at the last minute his unit would malfunction. Everything else about him was pretty normal. Gates was neither too dumb nor too smart, neither an athletic cripple nor an outstanding physical achiever, neither burdened by an over-active interiority nor without psychology altogether; the perfect mouthpiece for the most fascist government in the history of the United States of America; master of everything but his own dreams, Gates started losing sleep. What bothered him most was that these women who were having intercourse with him in his dreams were somehow telepathically projecting their desires onto him. Every time he encountered one of them he recognized outside of his dream-state he felt at a distinct disadvantage. “Did she know what they had done together the night before,” he wondered. “Did she know he was impotent? Did all of them know about his male sexual dysfunction? Is that why they came to him at night? Was it a conspiracy to torment him in his own sleep?” Other things started to go wrong — little things, nothing to worry about at first. His legs would lock up mid-step, his fingers would cramp like some stricken bug, he would lose power in his limbs at exactly the moment he needed them most, they would start twitching at the most inopportune moment, and, in the midst of his romantic seduction, his DAMNED crotch began to emit a strange embarrassing whirring noise like gears grinding to a halt. The Cold-War Right Wing paranoid nightmare was that everyone EXCEPT the protagonist was turning into some kind of alien inhuman monster — everyone BUT the protagonist. Conservative war hawks weren’t supposed to grow an eleventh hour conscience, they weren’t supposed to start worrying the monster was actually already inside them, but that was exactly the fear that came over Gates at the moment of penetration. He started to worry if the torment these sexually liberated women visited upon him wasn’t his own mind playing tricks on him, inventing these frustrated erotic interludes in order to reveal something, something buried in his memory, something about himself he had long ago repressed. Over the next few nights the encounters started heating up. Even though he couldn’t satisfy even one of these ladies, the beauties came to him now two-three-four at a time. Gates grew desperate with his own inadequacy and decided to lay a trap for them. If he could only expose them, maybe he could somehow save his own fragile male ego. The War Secretary carefully laid the bait where he knew they would find it, and heeding the advice of his boss Darth Cheney, furtively hid himself, in anticipation of their nightly arrival, in the dark “shadows”. It took a while for the first one to spot it. Gates sat perfectly still and said: “Go on now, tell your FUCKING friends.” He said it quietly, under his breath, he didn’t want to waste the trap on just one of them. At first he only saw her hourglass silhouette as she came in from the light. Gates couldn’t believe how fantastic she looked. “Man,” he sucked his breath in, “How FREEKIN’ gorgeous is that!” He couldn’t get over her silky hair, big round eyes, small mouth, and little perfect teeth. The blinding white light behind her made her pert round breasts, smoothly rounded pelvis, and rounded mound of pleasure amply visible through the translucent pattern of her flower dress. As he tightened his grip on his foam gun, Gates almost lost his nerve. He wanted to yell out: “Put down the shiny bauble!” It was like an obsession with them, it was like they couldn’t think straight when they were around the glittering crystal. “Put down the shiny bauble,” he wanted to say, “And step aside,” but it was useless. The beautiful creatures with their peacock feathers and golden painted sexual organs were now stepping out of the light in numbers he could not have possibly imagined. They passed the jewel around modeling it on their necks, breasts, fingers and ears for each other, oblivious to the grinding gyroscope noises Gates’s seized foam pump was making. He tried to muffle the sound, desperately hoping the beautiful women wouldn’t notice there was something seriously wrong with his pump, like maybe his little spray gun was jammed. Man, how he wished the dream would end right then and there before all these fantastic exotic women realized he was some kind of Right Wing android-replicant-robot-FREAK. Synthetic sweat poured from his brow as his limbs began to spaz out, knocked things over, and in general caused a major commotion. Gates was understandably mortified by his lack of self-control. After an excruciatingly long time flailing about behind a curtain, one of the beautiful creatures put down the sparkling gem, came over, gave his pathetic ass a once over and, quoting a Bank of America advertisement, said: “Do we let the sun shine wherever it wants; do we let the wind blow in any direction it pleases; do we let rivers flow freely? No! This is America. We put them to work!” Another one came over to him and said: "Scientists have invented a flavor that makes room temperature soda taste like it's freezing cold!" Together they both said: "We are fembots!" So there you have it. It wasn't just him. The beautiful women were robots, too. Everyone in his dream was a GODDAM robot! And they all lived happily ever after in a New World Order where perpetual wars are waged to ensure that petroleum-based replacement parts, like foam pumps and plastic tits, remaine always and forever plentiful.