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Gay Tea Party Witch Sex: Three tales of erotic political fiction

Hot, throbbing election special: Palin/O'Donnell, Kerry/Brown, and Stewart/Cooper/Maddow
By PHOENIX EDITORIAL STAFF  |  November 1, 2010

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THE PEOPLE'S SEAT: JOHN KERRY AND SCOTT BROWN

John's legs burned, his shoulders cramped, his hip ached. It was par for the course during the final stretch of the 190-mile bike ride from Sturbridge to Provincetown, the last leg of an annual charity event he'd come to look forward to — a chance for a man, even an aging senator, to take the measure of himself.

But this time, John's pain ebbed beneath a wave of fresh exhilaration. He could focus on only one thing: Scott Brown, sheathed in Lycra, gliding ahead of him. The junior senator pumped furiously, occasionally arching his back to flash a glimpse of those Cosmo-worthy glutes — truly, the People's Seat.

For the first few months after the election, John had bristled whenever Scott was near. And Captain Tea Party was always near, sitting next to him in the cafeteria, dropping by his office to discuss "bipartisanism." One day in April, when Scott had rattled his last nerve, John stormed off.

He needed to clear his head, and he'd decided to take a walk on the Mall. He was starting to feel better, his heart rate slowing, when a car backfired.

Just like that, he was back on that boat in Cam Ranh. His body surged with panic, and the sound of the swift-boat engine roared in his ears. But distantly he could hear something else — a voice saying his name.

"John! John, it's okay! I'm here . . ." Someone was pulling him to his feet. It was Scott. "I followed you," Scott had said, and before John could protest, the younger man had scooped him up and was carrying him to his truck, parked nearby. The scent of Scott's leather barn jacket filled John's nostrils and stirred his groin as Scott helped him into the cab. "I was worried," Scott cooed, suddenly very close.

John would never know who made the first move. Their lips met: gentle at first, then ravenous. But John felt his tell-tale heart flip-flopping back and forth. He pulled away. "I don't know about this . . . I just can't," he croaked. And they had driven back in silence.

That had been months ago. But the encounter had left neither man's mind. And now, as the senators' long bike ride to Provincetown wound down, John's lust was becoming exquisite torture. He knew what he needed to do.

Steam rising from his freshly showered body, Scott was toweling off in his suite after the race, when he noticed an envelope pushed under his door. He opened it.

Inside was a key card and a note that read: Room 34. I'm ready to show you my Purple Heart.

Down the hall, John sat on the edge of his bed, heart racing, when he heard the knock. Cautiously, he opened the door. Before him stood Scott, wearing only the barn jacket, zipped to the top of his hairy thighs. He shut the door behind him, approaching the bed as he slowly tugged down the zipper. "I found a place where you can dock your yacht, John," Scott said, his breath ragged. John unbuckled his belt. No waffling this time, he thought. He cleared his throat. "The senator," he whispered, "will yield."

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