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.