Blue Balls

The bruises would fall away in days, but the sting of "Faggott" would ring for weeks. The boy that lay quivering in a mass under the young man's fists was silent, in spite of the incessant cat calls of his tormentors. He could only look up at John sadly, crying for help in silence, through a battered and bloody face.
It wasn't the first time he had a beat someone up to keep things covered up, and like every time, he had hoped it would be the last. There were simply rules in his community that couldn't be broken; rules from the Bible, rules from the father, rules from the older brother, and rules from the bigger kids at school. Honesty would come at the expense of the trust of all these people - it would ruin the hard work of his teachers, coaches, parents, and self. Anything - anything - was better than being honest.
It was 7th grade, and John had some big choices to make.
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Outside the walls the world was as cruel as it had ever been. As leader of the Conservative Party of Canada, Mr. Baird was surrounded by the most powerful thinkers and organizers for the right in the country. Though many did call him friend, sincerely, many more simply bit their tongue and did the job. They hated him because he fucked men, and worse, he loved men. On occasion he would do it in public (the loving part), their ire kept only just barely below the surface out of a respect for their political movement. But, when the crowd was small enough, or the space safe enough, there was more than enough time for hate and scorn, of openly dreaming of another leader, or laughing at his weakness.
But here in this fleeting moment, they were safe from all that.
It had taken decades to be able to find that peace for anything longer than an instant - however it was a risk, with a cost often paid in blood, that simply had to be taken.
Laying there in his lovers arms their breath and heart beats came into sync, their chests raising lower with every breath, their sweat cooling. The arms were strong but held gently, never too much on the bad shoulder, and with a hand softly encasing his own. There wasn't time or space for talking here, the silence was filled with enough trepidation already, the sheets still humming with energy and passion, the walls and tightly drawn curtains whispering all the assurances a person could need.
Here minutes melted into hours, and would surely have melted into days had the world been different. But the world is what it is, and in the face of a cruel world, we all find love in our own ways. John found it in the arms of a boy he had once beat. Now they lay entangled, their cocks swelling with the anticipation of the touch from their partner.
Between the silence they made love, again and again, burying their faces into one another’s broad chests and drinking deep of their scent. As John rolled over he bit his lip in anticipation, drunk on the promise of their intimacy. He swam in that sea of bliss as his lover filled him, pushing through each breath, reading each sign and whimper as a captain reads the waves. This quiet dance, gentle and powerful like the sea, would wash over them until the day broke.
And then, once again, the world became cold.

Morning Redwood

A bolt of ecstasy shot through her as climax gripped them both. The sweet smell of sex hung heavy in the air; a tangle of sweat, cologne, perfume, and wine. Their hair was matted and thick with product; their stylists had spent an hour and a half of each of them, and now their work lay in ruin, plowed like fields of rape seed by strong fingers. It had to be ruined though – the perfect hair – because that was the icon of power that so many had come to see. The man was a name as much as anything else, but it was his hair that became a symbol of his movement; chaotic enough to be natural, perfect enough to be an elite, and desired by millions. She had made it unpresentable. She had made *him* unpresentable, unfit for the public. In a small way she owned him, for now. And it isn’t very often you get to own the Prime Minister. ================================================================================== Starting the morning off with a run made sense – a strong body and mind are essential for this business, and a bit of good press doesn’t hurt either. So, every morning, Canada has a firsthand look at their Prime Minister, running, honing the machine that is his body. It became a dirty little fetish for the media; the obsession ranged from passive to destructive. Everyone would make reference to him – his youth, his strength, his hair, his bright eyes, his smile. It was hard to ignore the sheer sense of command he evoked from people by simply looking at them. It was beyond sexual. There was a physical and mental thrall that pulled people in - that gave him the benefit of the doubt where he may not deserve it otherwise. Women either got wet thinking about him, or remembered getting wet thinking about his father. Men wanted him too, and those that didn’t want him, wanted what he could do to women. Some were content enough to let him be spark of their sex life – why compete with this sex icon when you could simply benefit from a pre-warmed pussy? So why not run for them every morning? Why not start the country off every morning with a bit of rise, a break from the long cold winters, with a warm glow between your legs? Such was Canada under Justin Trudeau. The cold cousin to the north had become cool overnight – and that cool was hot. The red weed leaf embossed over a Canadian flag soon replaced the popular sugar maple across the world – much to the joy of the provinces who saw their budget deficits drop, and their streets become safer. It seemed like everyone was just a little bit more at easy. It was *fun* and *cool* to be Canadian, and frankly, Canadian’s weren’t used to that. They weren’t used to getting to be themselves, to not quite conforming, and not conforming comfortably. It was a nation where everyone became teenagers, full of fuel to fuck in ways they had never dared. The legalization of prostitution a few years before his election helped fuel this wave – it wasn’t unusual to see whips being sold in store windows, and people could quite safely talk about their deepest, darkest needs. Repression was just so Harper. Trudeau became the collective wet dream of a nation. For a few lucky citizens, that dream would become reality.