THE EROTIC POLITICIAN BY GREGG W. BOITA

May, 2005

          There was a man born once, in between the times of the Great City and the Mean one that followed. This man, and I use the term “man” for lack of a better one, was the embodiment of beauty. His was a soul determined to see through the betterment of the city. For his soul and the city were inexplicably tied. As outsiders would marvel at the structure of the city they too would marvel at the structure of this man. For this man was beautiful on a way that no person ever has or ever would be again. It matters not the color of his skin, his eyes or his hair. For whomever cast their eyes upon him, he was to their eyes, all at once their vision of beauty, the pinnacle of perfection.

          Of course being sound of mind as well as body, he recognized that something about him made him so unique, so special. As he grew he welcomed their stares, the admirers. He would walk down the streets of the city and the gazes of beholden eyes would trace his steps, follow as if hypnotized. A few brave souls, man or woman, would approach him from time to time and he would have his way with them. Their unions were neither an act of ugliness or hatred. Furthermore they were not acts of love and compassion either. These acts of consummation were indulgences of the flesh, in it’s most raw form. Flesh that would be left glistening in sweat, as brows furrowed and toes curled and voices shouted noise in sexual tongues understood only by their lover, if at all. And every man and every woman who was had by him would die a thousand deaths to spend yet one more evening with him and yet none would. Some claimed it was the availability of flesh at his disposal, for why would any man in good conscious settle for just one when all were available. But to believe this would be to believe a lie.

          As I said earlier this man was different. For as striking as his body was, so striking was his mind. When he walked he felt their desire. When he excused themselves out of their beds he felt their desire, their craving for more. He felt this want and need and he thrived on it--the glow of an eye staring at his body, the heat of craving, of unabashed hunger that gnawed through the air as eyes lingered at his crotch. He realized that by leaving them with the memory of but one night’s pleasure, one evening in heaven, that they would love him forever. They would be left dreaming that perhaps one day he might cast his time and his love upon them once more.

          He grew up, this man did. As he grew older he left more and more behind, all holding onto their memory of one day. It was still a big city back then and there were thousands and thousands to be had. He was fortunate to exist in the time that he did for there were many arms open to him then. It must be stated too, that he was a fair man. Beauty mattered not to him, \sans\ his own. Flesh, to him was flesh, loose or tight, young or old.

          So it came to be that he decided it would only be right to pay back the city that had given him so much. The city, no longer great, had still remained in the control of those with the wealth and the influence. He pondered that while in no ways was he a wealthy man, he certainly had influence in abundance. He believed in the city and, more than that, he believed in his beauty. So it came to be that one day at the beginning of one magical summer, he decided he would run for mayor of the city.

          The first posters that arrived announcing his candidacy were mostly sparse. It included his name and informed the populace that he was running for office. The people who picked up the pamphlets glanced over this information quickly, perhaps preparing to toss it off as rubbish, when they saw something that would change their lives profoundly. Inside the pamphlet was a picture of a foot, his foot, bare and beautiful. Perfectly arched with just the right amount of hair. Toes so perfectly proportioned that those who looked were gasping for air before they even realized that they had been holding their breaths. One did not have to be a fetishist to admire the beauty and craftsmanship that had gone into it. It would be minutes later before their eyes filled with want, and their blood rushed towards genitals, that they would happen to let their eyes wander to the words written underneath the picture. There was no elegance in the lettering, no raised text, no fancy font. It simply stated that in the future constituents could plan on seeing more pictures as the election neared.

          All at once, rallies were organized and a campaign committee put together. A headquarters was erected and in the whole of the city, the picture of the foot came to find a prominent place in which to be displayed in the homes of the young and old alike. Many framed theirs, placing it above the mantle, straightening it from time to time, never certain that the positioning was right. Others, some with less substantial incomes, simply taped theirs to the refrigerator or on the ceiling above their beds. From time to time, all would find themselves staring at it in amazement. They would find themselves waking a little bit earlier to peer into mailboxes or gossip with neighbors over when they thought the next picture would arrive.

          The election, which was still months away, was already beginning to swing out of the hands who pull the strings. So these men behind the scenes, huddled together, deciding, bickering over what to do. It was agreed upon, that they would elect one of their own, one of the privileged, to fight this monster who had descended upon the land, who threatened to take away that which was theirs. Even as their wills were strengthened and their determination to defeat this threat built, each found themselves staring over at the foot on the wall. As the votes amongst them were cast and tallied their groins would quietly be filled with longing at the sight of the foot, which was soon joined by an earlobe, and a preciously unique one at that.

          Outside, in the streets, people marched and screamed when they saw him. He was a crafty one though, and as he felt the swelling of desire mounting in the populace he took to hiding himself when out in public. His tight legs, chest and arms were now hidden by baggy clothing, and the face, the face of an angel, was likewise hidden, with a hood he drew tightly down and around his head. Eventually he would take to removing himself from public, locking himself away in his apartment, asking others to pick up and drop off his essentials, a job of which there was no shortage of applicants.

          Six months until the election, and the campaign was in full gear, all without him ever haven given a speech, made an appearance or spoken to the press. He, the beautiful one, had not set foot into his own headquarters, which was run by volunteers, many of whom had never seen him in person. Still, he had joined no debates, set fourth no guiding principles on which his election into office would consist of. Simply put, he let the desire of the masses guide his hand through the garden.

          In the homes and the apartments, the condos and townhouses; in back offices of restaurants and waiting rooms of doctor’s, the image of the man began, slowly, to fill out. For now, one could not only gaze up and see a foot and an earlobe, but a thigh, wrist, neck and forehead, ridden by a luxurious mane of hair. The image of a god was coming into sight.

          When only two months were left, the powerful men again gathered in the room high above the city. They smoked fancy cigars and sat in leather chairs. They sipped old scotch from various vintages. They spoke pompously to each other, attempting to validate their own existence on their ability to manipulate and control others. As these men dined, each of them would reluctantly admit to the one that he felt most close with, that they had no chance of winning. They would whisper that their time had come, that change was in the horizon. With each person that made this utterance to a friend, the confidante, in turn, told another and so it spread. Soon it came to be that everyone in the room knew that everyone else was nervous and still felt as if their own secret was safe. With everyone still empowered and yet knowledgeable to the fact that the end was coming, they agreed that they must reach one of two conclusions.

          The first was that they would leave. The Great City was gone, and times were bound to get worse. For they had all served the City, and served it well. They could take what was to be took, pack their bags, and head out in search of another city; a city that could be just as grand and, more importantly, just as profitable. The men nodded their heads, each in his own mind pondering how and when they would strike down the others in this fabled new city.

          The other option, they decided, would be to not leave. They would stay here and stay in power. The men in the room liked this idea very much. It gave way to applause and whistling. At some point a toast was proposed. Less risk, more capital, risky venture, were all words used in this toast though not necessarily in that particular order. When the excitement grew dim and the drinks had been drunk, one of the braver men, the youngest, inquired how this would be possible. The older men who had come from old money, and really knew nothing about making it, but who knew plenty about how to keep it, hooed and hawed. The man of new wealth, who was just as much a snake as they were, yet a little more cunning, knew how to make money. He was dangerous to the others particularly in more peaceful times. Dangerous because he might be able to take what was theirs and make it his. If the first option were to be adopted, it surely would be him whom the pack first turned on.

          They agreed to meet together in the same room thirty days from then. Each would bring with them a presentation on how to make option two happen. If, after that meeting, no viable solutions had been formed then they would assent to option one, and rob the city that night, taking off immediately in search of the new city that would be theirs.

          The next day, however, arrived the newest part of the collection. It was a close up of his abs and the ladies openly feigned in the streets upon opening the packages. Those whose neighbors saw them, ran over not to help but to grab the dropped pictures and run into their own houses. The men generally held their composure better, waiting for the cover of darkness; and with flaccid penises dripping ejaculate over their tummy’s, they would pass out, gazing dreamily at the photo.

          The city was in frenzy and even the most ignorant of onlookers could feel the electricity in the air, the knowledge that something big was about to happen. It would be something that might change their lives and their worlds forever. They marched on towards the election, and he, the erotic politician, waited silently in his apartment, over his block. Taking note of reactions, assuming unscientifically that it was, at best, a random sampling of the population of the entire city. He liked what he saw. In his home, he walked over to the wall that adorned the entire north side of the living room and stared at himself in the mirror. Truly he was a symbol of perfection, a symbol of greatness. He was desire, and he admitted that were he not himself he too would be helpless but to succumb to his charms and advances.

          So it came to be that again, the rich men gathered in their fine room, with staircases adorned with mahogany, crystal glasses filled with wine, lush carpets made of only the most endangered species fur. They gathered and drank, gathered and smoked. Talking and laughing they mingled with each other fully confident that while none of them had come up with a plan brilliant enough to relieve them of option one, somebody else had to have. Their group was based on the strength of the whole. While they were more than occasionally inclined to destroy one another, when their club was threatened, when they banded together they always won. They knew this and it bestowed upon them a cockiness that was so blistering and staggering in enormity that it almost teetered on the edge of over-confidence, an attribute which surely would have destroyed them. So they sat in their plush chairs and sipped and listened. Some of the men, who were normally eloquent speakers, fumbled their words. The stress and fear was evident in all, as men who spoke in loud booming voices were one by one humbled into speaking in whispers.

          As all of their proposals were met with unsavory reception, they would sit and the next man would take his place. So on and so on, throughout the room until at last it was only the young man of new money who remained. He stood, eloquently, with a great confidence about him. He stood and sipped from his crystal glass of wine. He did not clear his throat, nor shuffle papers, nor, perhaps, brush perspiration from his brow. He stood with the grace that only knowledge and absolute certainty could bring. As he spoke, the others, who had previously been inclined not to listen, who had hoped to strike down his proposal, turned their ears towards him. They, who had only partially listened and only that much so because he had represented their last hope, grew smiles. They started slowly at first, not comprehending the magnitude of his words but letting the idea nest in their heads and grow.

          When he was done with his proposal the others stood and clapped. For any problems that they might encounter with him, the realization that they would have to destroy him when he too became threat, lay in the future. It was a future that he had secured for them. Now they lay in the glory of the present. Now they could pat each other on the back and toast their accomplishments. The past, which had for so long belonged to them, would rise up and become tomorrow.

          A week before the election, another picture was sent out. This was his face, and it was the most valuable of all of his mailings thus far. People wept upon opening it. They cried at the beauty and the majesty that unfolded before them. Careful though, were they to not let tears fall upon the face many regarded as an angel. So up went the face into the life-sized picture of him that now adorned most walls, in most homes throughout the city.

          The day before the election, a note arrived. When the people came out of their homes to check the mailboxes they became excited, for the return address was one which they all recognized. Inside though, was a note, and any immediate disappointment they had felt vanished when they read the words printed upon the page. Tomorrow, Election Day, they would all find the missing piece of the puzzle. After the ballots were cast, the votes tallied, they would all return to find the one piece of himself he had kept hidden throughout this entire time.

          They would not let themselves think about what it could be. They couldn’t risk letting themselves think what they thought, only to face the overwhelming disappointment that would accompany a mistake. So they ran to their homes and searched the walls. Counting fingers and toes, eyelashes and joints. Collectively a sigh was let out in the city that night. For in every house or office, everywhere that a shrine in his dedication had arisen, there was but one missing piece. His dick (for penis is not nearly strong enough a word to represent it) would arrive tomorrow.

          The streets were empty that night, and the sounds of ecstasy could be heard throughout the city as people pleasured themselves or their lovers. It mattered not who touched or tugged what, for in all of their minds they made love to him over and over. The next day, blinded by desire they awoke and rushed down to the once Great City hall. There stood the brethren of the rich, and in front of them stood the young man from new money. When they paused, not so much to listen, but to hurry the event in order to get home more quickly, they laughed when he announced his own candidacy for mayor. Surely such a futile effort was not worth their time. But again, as he spoke, his words floated down amongst the people and filled them with a desire previously only given to one other.

          He explained that when, not if, he was elected, he would take the man they were so enamored with and chop him up equally, and distribute a piece to every man and woman of voting age. They filed into the hall, not believing their ears, not wanting to pull the lever that they did, but blinded by the modest proposal put forth by the young man.

          The day after Election Day, the new mayor, the young man with new money, sat alone in his room high above the city streets. Below him in the streets of the city the people were sedate. Some had placed their piece of the man on the wall, between his thighs as a representation of something greater. Others slept with their piece nestled between their heads and the pillow. Others ate theirs, believing that in a way he would become a part of them, that each time they touched themselves they were making love to him.

          And high above the city sat the mayor, who lit up a fancy cigar and drank from a crystal goblet.

Gregg W. Boita is a twenty-five year old writer currently residing in picturesque, Trenton, NJ. Intelligent and subdued, he quietly mulls the fate of humanity one control is wrested from the powers that be, into his own hands. It will not be pretty.