Political Playgirls
by Seymour Whitefisch


INTRODUCTION 

In these days of Watergate, it seems easy to believe that the entire 
political history of our country has been tainted with the evils of secrecy 
and deception. If you're a party man, then you would probably blame only the 
Democrats or the Republicans, but the truth is that corruption and chicanery 
has been practiced on all levels of political life by both parties. Most 
people, in fact, take it for granted that American political life is 
essentially corrupt. True enough, the very nature of power seems to imply 
political repression and the "by any means necessary" kind of thinking 
necessary to maintain that power, despite the gradual evolvement through the 
ages of more democratic systems of government. Our own political system is 
called one of the fairest and most responsible in the world, and yet, 
despite our Constitutional safeguards, many politicians find it necessary to 
abandon political ethics in the midst of a hotly contested election race. 

The basic problem is that to win an election, you must have a majority of 
the votes, and the only way to win a majority of votes is to sway the 
majority of the people over to the particular ideas and emotions represented 
by your candidate. To sway public opinion is to mold and influence power 
itself. Abraham Lincoln, in an address made in Illinois in 1858, spoke of 
the tremendous potential inherent in what he called public sentiment: 

Public sentiment-is everything. With public sentiment nothing can fail; 
without it, nothing can succeed. He who molds public sentiment goes deeper 
than he who enacts statutes or pronounces decisions. He makes statutes or 
decisions possible or impossible to execute. 

What is perhaps most revealing about Lincoln's statement, according to 
Melvyn Bloom, author of Public Relations and Presidential Campaigns, is that 
Lincoln made this statement in reference to a President's use of public 
sentiment to guide the nation once he was in office. In comparison, a modern 
President's investment in what is now termed public relations is largely 
undertaken for the purpose of gaining office. In the early days of our 
democracy, power and politics were items of discussion for only a small 
group of the wealthier men of the community. As time passed, more and more 
democratic procedures were enacted. Communication, also, in the early days 
of our country's history, took days at a time for a single message. Today, 
communication travels at the speed of light. Politics became more accessible 
to the masses, and, as time went on, the power of the vote became available 
to everyone. 

The function of the public relations man in politics today is an 
indispensable one. Even local elections, involving seemingly the most minor 
of positions, are conducted with the close advice of public relations 
consultants. The influence of television, where every message must be short 
and therefore "packaged" more tightly than printed material, has given rise 
to a new breed of public relations man, the media specialist. From primary 
to convention, the presidential hopeful is surrounded by a large corps of 
public relations men, journalists, and advertising executives whose sole 
purpose is to make sure that whatever information reaches the public is 
beneficial to the general image that their candidate is trying to present. 
In effect, they form a buffer zone around their candidate, shielding him 
from intrusion while making sure that his best face is always forward. 

They must constantly research the myriad of sociological and demographical 
factors which shape the issues in each of the many districts their candidate 
plans to travel to. Of central importance to the efficiency of the campaign 
staff is the ability not only of the candidate but of another figure, one 
who is deliberately shielded from public view, the campaign manager. The 
candidate, like the actor, is in the public view, "on stage," twenty-four 
hours a day. Speeches must be made, dinners to be attended, and there is 
always one more hand to shake. Running for high office is a lot like 
surrendering your body willingly to all the cameras and lights and questions 
of an entire nation. 

The campaign manager's essential duty is to organize the staff that 
organizes the candidate. Countless negotiations must be made with media 
agencies as well as with local and regional political figures. While the 
candidate is memorizing speeches, the campaign manager is deciding what 
should go in them. Stephen Shadegg, a former campaign manager who compiled 
his experience in a volume entitled How to Win an Election, believes that 
the campaign manager must have the final word on all decisions: 

Frequently he must say "no" to the candidate. And when he makes a commitment 
it must be kept. ... In this regard candidates have much more latitude. They 
can, by innuendo or suggestion, imply a promise for future delivery. When 
the manager says something will be done, it must be done-and before the day 
of election which ends that campaign. 

The power which the campaign manager wields is delegated to numerous 
specialists, each hired for the duration of the campaign for some specific 
task, a task for which, supposedly, they have been well prepared by their 
usual occupation (campaign workers have very unsteady employment, and the 
pay is usually very low). Because of the isolation of the candidate from the 
actual planning and axecution of the campaign, and because of the multiple 
layering of public relations personnel in the campaign staff, every activity 
of the campaign can be supervised by only one man, and this man must be the 
campaign manager. However, no man can hope to supervise completely the 
activities of so many individuals; he can only hope to direct the collective 
energy in the right direction. 

The campaign staff and manager of today in no way resemble the staff and 
manager of the American election ten years ago, or even the staff and 
manager of the last election. These organizations undergo rapid evolvement 
in terms of both structure and the types of talent represented. According to 
Bloom, the American election process has been changed dramatically by the 
advent of television. This new media, as it has grown, changed, and 
multiplied, has called for new methods and skills. Bloom cites Theodore 
White (from The Making of the President 196b): "The direction of television 
in a political campaign is comparably the most important. Here is where the 
audience is; here is where the greatest part of all money is spent; here is 
where creative artistry and practical commercialism must join to support the 
candidate's thrust." Bloom points out how different the 1952 election (the 
first in the television era) was from its predecessors. Ever since this 
election, the effects of television on the society as a whole and especially 
the election process has brought about a tremendous change in the nature of 
American politics. 

Closely related to the effects of television is the question of image and 
the tremendous impact of personality upon the voter. Because our rapid 
electronic communicating equipment tends to bring the two American political 
parties closer together, concentrating on issues rather than ideology, 
American political candidates cannot rely on party ideology alone to insure 
the loyalty of the voter. More often than not, a candidate is elected due to 
some non-ideological aspect of his own personal appearance which reflects 
favorably on the voter. Bloom relates current opinions regarding the effects 
of personality upon the national political scene: 

Scholars such as Daniel Boorstin and Marshall McLuhan have engaged in some 
pioneering attempts to deal with this question of personal charisma, 
particularly as it is reflected in the visual images that have become so 
important in political campaigning. Boorstin contends that national politics 
has actually adopted the Hollywood "star system" and is dominated further by 
that system with every election. Some of the evidence presented ... 
particularly with regard to the rise in the presidential arena of such 
individuals as Ronald Reagan, would seem to bear this out. 

As campaign tactics in general have shifted, so have the patterns of 
campaign abuse. "Dirty Politics" used to consist mainly of the art of the 
political smear, a media program designed to discredit the candidate from 
the other party. Usually the smear consisted of allegations and facts, mixed 
rather indiscriminately together, which showed the opposing candidate to 
have advocated or voted against some issue important to the electorate. 
Rarely would the smear concentrate or, some aspect of the candidate's 
personal life; however, quite a few American elections, especially for the 
Presidency, have been marred by a very low tone of propaganda exchange 
between the two major parties. Behind the scenes a great many lies are 
fabricated and truths distorted to suit the aims of the campaign. 

Some political observes have remarked that political corruption in this 
country is not as bad as it seems. They compare the corruption of the 
American businessman with the typical politician and find a meaningful 
difference. As Gilbert Geis summarized in his study of the White Collar 
Criminal: 

White-collar criminality in politics, which is generally recognized as 
fairly prevalent, has been used by some as a rough gauge by which to measure 
white-collar criminality in business. ... John Flynn wrote, "The average 
politician is the merest amateur in the gentle art of graft compared with 
his brother in the field of business." And Walter Lippmann wrote "Poor as 
they are, the standards of public life are so much more social that those of 
business that financiers who enter politics regard themselves as 
philanthropists." 

The recent revelations stemming from the Watergate affair attest as to how 
convoluted and nefarious political corruption during the Presidential 
election can be. Politicians in today's electoral contests are under 
tremendous pressures, both from those in their own party and from other 
parties who want to simplify the process of getting elected by taking the 
illegal shortcut. There are still many campaign workers who openly practice 
smear tactics. Some of them, like those indicted in the Watergate incident, 
have suffered criminal prosecution, but there are still many such 
professionals available to the candidate who feels at his campaign would 
benefit from their services. But net all politicians accept this state of 
affairs, since they realize that smear tactics are contagious and even 
honest politicians must be aware of these activities. As Frank Jonas, the 
editor of a study about the smear artist, entitled Political Dynamiting, 
points out: 

Only the scratchy and uncomfortable details of the scandals and smears and 
slanders of some of America's more disgraceful election campaigns of present 
memory can give the reader anything akin to an emotional comprehension of 
the vicissitudes which some of the nation's most distinguished public 
servants have borne, sometimes philosophically, sometimes bitterly and in 
frustrated rage. 

Bruce Felknor, himself a former campaign worker in several national races, 
warns that the real danger in political corruption is its effect on the 
public. He reasons that American government is viable only as long as the 
participation of the people is ensured. When the people no longer 
participate in the system, they abdicate their government to others. "The 
voter who deceives himself about political realities by falling back on 
cynical mottoes like 'politics is dirty business' enables politics to become 
a dirty business." Felknor wrote a book entitled Dirty Politics describing 
the behind-the-scenes workings of many of our past elections. Apparently 
there has always been an element of smear tactics and dirty tricks in 
American campaigns, but not always have these tactics altered the course of 
rational political thinking on the part of the electorate. Felknor 
concludes: 

The American political system is under threat from the Communist world and 
from the radical right. The system can withstand nuclear threats, and spies, 
and traitors, and agitators of every persuasion, but there is one threat 
from within it cannot withstand nearly as long: cynicism and apathy. The 
gravest enemies of the American people are in their own ranks. 

Of course, no measure of public scrutiny and interest can hope to completely 
insure the morally fair election. Some of the laws being enacted to 
compensate for some of the excesses revealed in the Watergate affair will no 
doubt go a long way to protect the public from political chicanery, but they 
should not be thought of as a final cure-all. Nothing but sustained public 
interest, not only at the present time but in the future, and public 
education as regards American political procedures will guarantee the honest 
election. 

There is reason tc be hopeful. Great campaign excesses, of various kinds, 
have been committed in the past, with no long-lasting negative effects, for 
as long as the excesses cause some notable harm, there will always be 
watchdogs from the other party to blow the whistle. Even if the excesses are 
covered up in Washington, there always remains the American public, which 
should realize its role in the political process and the necessity of 
constant vigilance over its elected officials, There is a greatness to the 
American people that neither the social scientist nor the average 
businessman is aware of, a greatness that transcends party lines, that 
refuses to be defined by any party's narrow ideological orientation. Emanuel 
Lubell, author of the tract, The Hidden Crisis in American Politics, 
believes that this greatness is "that the American people are unashamed in 
their sense of self-interest ... although their sense of freedom is colored 
by their self-interest, they will accept disciplines and restraints and even 
higher taxes to keep this country from being torn apart." 

Therefore, during this time of national concern and anxiety over the 
legitimacy of the American political process, it behooves every American to 
examine his own knowledge of American politics and judge his leaders 
according to moral and ethical standards which he himself lives by. This is 
the time for the people to demonstrate their confidence in the system, to 
show by means of purification that the American political system is 
completely responsible to the American people. Politics is for the people, 
not the politicians. 


CHAPTER ONE 

Sex and the Single Politician 

The rain fell in gray sheets, sending a haze of smoke and steam up through 
the canyons of the streets, making the world below unreal and further away 
than ever. I loved the view from my apartment, both above and below, 
enjoying the many dimensions of New York at its best. New York was my city. 
Now more than ever. 

The view from my apartment never looked as good as it did that rainy 
afternoon. It was symbolic, my being on top of it all, my looking down and 
over my environment. I was about to get what I'd wanted. At last. Lighting a 
cigarette, one of the four I allowed myself each day, I settled comfortably 
into the plush window seat I'd had made, and enjoyed the hiss of the 
downpour against the windowpane. Multicolored light streamed through the 
panel of stained glass, tipping the edges of my Persian carpet with a 
rainbow streak. Everything in the room was the best of its kind. I wanted it 
that way. I insisted on it being that way: And now I would be the best of my 
kind, too.... 

Of course the term "my kind" was the last way I'd ever think in reference to 
myself consciously. But this was an extraordinary day. "You're an 
extraordinary woman, Alicia," Brian had said earlier. I didn't always agree 
with my husband, but this time he was right. He had sighed the statement, 
because some of the factors that made me "extraordinary" were not to his 
liking. But we had made our peace, for the most part, years before. This was 
an extraordinary day. A simple phone call had guaranteed me the future of my 
choice. I Would be the first woman councilman of the district. I would be 
the first Puerto Rican councilman of the district. The fix was in. 

I puffed contentedly on my cigarette. I never bandied words to myself. It 
was a fix, and the price I had agreed to pay was a stiff one. But my 
objective was far more important to me than the steps I would have to take 
to achieve it. I hadn't intended winning the election this way, but when my 
competition decided to bring in the heavy guns, I had no choice but to take 
necessary steps. 

Thirty-one years ago I had been born in the shadows of this building, in a 
strong-smelling, filthy, dangerously deteriorating apartment house. It was a 
four-room apartment, and into it were crowded my parents, my two sisters, my 
brother, my aunt and uncle and their baby. They hadn't needed me at all, and 
maybe that's where it all came from-the desire to be someone, to matter, to 
make my place in the world. It had been a long fight from the slums below, 
and it wasn't over yet. But I was almost there. 

I wasn't like the other children I knew. I seemed to come into the world 
with an awareness that I was meant for better than I had. I lived for 
school, and was the delight and enigma of my teachers' lives. I insisted on 
learning far more than they were hoping to teach, arming myself for the 
future I wanted. I became interested in politics very young, particularly 
when I realized that although my neighborhood was predominantly Puerto 
Rican, we had never been represented. I thought about things like that while 
the other kids stole and played hookey, when their big dream was running 
numbers and making money. 

In the apartment across from ours lived another large family, and the oldest 
boy was Ricardo. Ricardo was my age and seemed to seek me out in spite of my 
coldness toward him. Rico was darkly handsome, with a thin, agile body and a 
precocious desire for women. I knew he wanted my body from before the time 
it was really a body at all, but I wanted no part of him. I was a smart 
girl-J had only to look around to see what feeling like a woman could do. I 
saw my own mother burdened down with eight children, my aunt with six, the 
other women in the building with their broods.... 

It was not for me. And a woman's place, as they called it, was also not for 
me. I knew I'd never tolerate a drunken husband and a slovenly home, nor 
would I allow myself to be the doormat to another human being simply because 
a few hormones in my body made me want the pleasure a man could bring. I had 
better things to do with my life. 

Rico seemed to think the best thing I could ever do was let him inside my 
body. He laughed at my ambitions, though he fully expected to realize his. 
He began to run numbers earlier than the others, and intended to become the 
numbers overlord for our area when he grew up. 

"I will have all the money anyone could need someday, Alicia," he'd tell me 
in his softly accented voice. "And you will be my woman and help me spend 
it!" 

I'd look at him coldly and tell him exactly what I thought of him and his 
idea. Then, I was a child of my streets rather than the angel of my school 
classes. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate money. I intended to have a 
great deal of it myself, eventually. But I had no intention of being the 
"woman" of a numbers man. 

As I got older and Rico and other boys continued to pressure me toward sex, 
I began to see that I was one girl who would not be pushed by instinct 
toward the life-style I hated. I had no control over my body, which 
developed with abundant curves, or my features, which matured in such a way 
that I was considered beautiful even as a child, but I seemed to be able to 
control my feelings very well. Boys did not interest me at all. I thought 
the other girls insipid and shortsighted, wondering why they would condemn 
themselves to a future of misery just for a few hours of something they 
called pleasure. I got a reputation early for being cold and a snob, and the 
fact was that it was true. I was cold, effortlessly able to resist the 
thrills that other girls insisted were so desirable. The thought of letting 
men make love to me didn't excite me at all I didn't want their hot hands on 
my soft breasts and belly, their wet kisses, their whispered words of 
passion. 

The schools I attended were-anything but demanding. The teachers were 
ecstatic if their students showed up on a more or less regular basis. I was 
easily able to hold down a steady job and still pull down straight "A"s, and 
I had no trouble getting accepted at a local college. 

No one in my entire family had ever thought in terms of college before. No 
one had even finished high school. I felt as removed from my family as I 
felt from the others on the block, yet I loved them all in a strange, 
impersonal way. I wanted very much to help them, but I in no way wanted to 
be part of them. Politics intrigued me, and would allow me to do my bit for 
my people while I lived a life as removed from them as possible. 

Rico had made his stab for the big time by the time I started college. He 
was doing well by then, dressing like the flashy son of a millionaire, 
driving an expensive car, and traveling with women too rich for his blood. 
Even so, he still tried to get next to me. I had known him all of my life, 
and in some ways thought of him as a friend, but he could never accept the 
fact that I didn't want him. His ego was too big for that. 

"It's the numbers, isn't it?" he asked once, when I'd rejected him again. 

I answered him honestly. "No, Rico. I understand about the numbers and 
poverty. For pennies, they get a chance to dream of hundreds of dollars. 
When they make a hit they are no longer poor, if only for a little while. 
Numbers are not the social disease-poverty is. I don't blame you for what 
you do. I'm just not interested, that's alL Stick to your wild women. You 
don't need or want me." 

His dark eyes had looked into mine for an instant. "I may not need you, but 
I shall always want you. What sort of woman are you, Alicia? You are not a 
child any longer. You should know what it is like to be with a man. You 
would not have to spend your entire life with me. Just one night...." 

That was not the first time I had laughed at him. Later I would wish it had 
been the last. 

It was at college that I first met Brian. He was taking over a class for a 
friend of his while the friend was out of town on some emergency. Brian 
wasn't a teacher, though he'd taught at college level years before he'd gone 
into law. I was surprised to find a stranger teacher in class, and more 
surprised to find that his eyes remained on mine all through class. 

I have no idea what it was that Brian saw in me from the first. It wasn't my 
large dark eyes and long black hair, nor the body I tried unsuccessfully to 
drape plainly. He had never been as interested in those things as even he 
wished he could be. lie was older than I by twenty years, obviously 
successful and wealthy; I found myself watching him closely, sensing that 
this day would have great meaning in my life. 

I had just negotiated a scholarship under the poverty program, and with some 
of that money and my part-time job, I'd moved myself into a small apartment 
near school. It was a tiny and unexciting apartment, but for someone like 
myself, who had always lived as tightly packed as a sardine, it was 
spectacular freedom and privacy. At home alone in the evenings I'd find 
myself thinking of Brian and wondering why my thoughts would stray to him. 
He was slightly built and rather attractive, with the sheen that good living 
and money lend to a person. But I was certainly no more attracted to Brian 
than to any other man I'd ever met. Yet there was something.... 

He was well established and single, and his family was well placed in New 
York's important circles. As soon as his friend returned to school he went 
back to his own life. But I continued to wonder about him. It more than once 
passed through my thoughts that to be married to the right kind of man could 
be of enormous help. 

I made a point of dropping by the house about once a month, to check on the 
family. Sometimes I saw Rico, and once I made the mistake of letting him 
drive me home in his latest car. I was instantly sorry, because he pushed 
for an invitation inside my apartment, and it was a grim twenty minutes 
before I was able to get out of the car and go home. I should have realized 
that that wouldn't be the end of it. 

Late that night I was in bed, but not asleep, when the sound of someone 
working on the doorknob startled me. I got out of bed and went to the door. 
Rico was there. 

I knew it would be bad. At first I tried to reason with him. Then I let him 
know that I would do whatever was needed to get him out of my apartment and 
keep him out. Instead of the hot anger I expected, Rico began to cry. He was 
a little high, maybe a little drunk, and more than a little emotional. 
Through his tears he told me that he loved me, had always loved me, and knew 
that unless I'd let him make love to me, he wouldn't want to live. Some of 
what he was saying was nothing more than the alcohol and drugs, but I should 
probably have been sensitive enough to know that Rico was leaving himself 
wide open for me. He was crying in front of me, begging me to love him. I'm 
sorry, in retrospect, that I hadn't thought ahead to the mornings after when 
Rico would remember. I could have turned him down in some way that wouldn't 
have crushed him. 

But there was a part of me that wanted to crush him. It was the same part of 
me which had nothing but disdain for those who chose to stay in the world 
I'd vowed to escape. 

"Please, Alicia, please don't send me away...." 

His whimpering filled me with impatient contempt. I didn't stop to think of 
what I was doing. I just walked up to him and began to laugh. It was not 
just any kind of a laugh-it was a nasty, ugly, full-blown laugh, too deep to 
seem natural coming from my small body. While he stood there, crushed, I 
continued to laugh. , I wasn't sure when he backed out of my apartment. I 
was still laughing when his footsteps dwindled down the hallway. A part of 
me knew it was a mistake, that-I didn't need Rico for an enemy, that what I 
was doing was malicious and unnecessary. But it was also funny, his whining 
and pleading. ... What did he mean to me? 

A few months later I ran into Brian again, on the campus. He was just 
leaving his friend, my teacher, and when he saw me heading for some hot 
coffee, he invited himself along. We ended up at the lounge until late in 
the afternoon, talking and laughing together. The twenty years between us 
didn't matter, and I felt totally unthreatened. I was used to dodging men 
who wanted only to get into my pants, and I sensed that Brian wasn't after 
that. We talked about life and outlook, philosophy and methodology. I was 
still uncertain of what to do with my future, which way to go, and I 
listened carefully as Brian talked of the law. When he heard that my 
ultimate goal was to get into politics, he really became enthusiastic. 

"It's the best way, Alicia! A legal background is essential in politics on 
any level. Second most important to a background in crime." He smiled, 
showing a fine set of white teeth. 

I saw Brian very often after that. At first our relationship was difficult 
to define. We seemed drawn to each other somehow. But as time passed I knew 
that I intended to marry Brian. Not only would it be an enormous step 
upwards socially, but it would also be the helping hand I knew I had to have 
to accomplish my ends. I was rather fond of Brian, in my way, and I knew 
that he was building himself up to asking me to marry him. My being younger, 
from a poor family and a Puerto Rican seemed to bother him not in the least. 
I suspected that my being exactly what I was, was rather a plus, in some 
rebel eye in his soul. 

Love didn't enter into the matter for me. I loved what I felt we could do 
together, in the way of achieving my ends. I knew what Brian could do for me 
with his wisdom, money and connections. I thought that he might be getting a 
little lonely, now that he was older and his family was gone. The fire of my 
ambition seemed to excite and delight him, renewing his interest in politics 
and education. He was naturally a fine teacher, and I was a hungry sponge, 
soaking up his thoughts and expounding on them with my own individuality. 

I saw Rico the day before I eloped with Brian. Rico was on the old block, 
and he tried to look right through me as I passed. But when I left my 
family, Rico was still there. The cold expression on his face didn't change, 
but he came up to me. 

"That was funny, that night, huh, Alicia?" 

I backed away uncomfortably, not wanting trouble, now less than ever. "I'm 
sorry, Rico. I thought we were friends, and should remain friends." 

Slowly the corner of his mouth turned up in a faint smile. "Friends, huh? 
Well, friend, remember, I'm always here...." 

Brian and I were going to Connecticut to be married, and then we planned to 
spend a long weekend at the country home of a friend of his. I'd given a 
great deal of thought to marrying Brian, and almost none to the sexual side 
of our relationship. I was a virgin, and didn't really have any desire to 
give up that status. But sex went with marriage, and I invested a small 
amount of time to assuring myself to do the best I could to give him 
whatever he wanted. He had never pushed the sexual side with me, limiting 
our touching to casual kisses and hugs. He was older and sensitive, and I 
suspected he knew I wasn't overly passionate. 

We were married in a simple ceremony, then drove to a fabulous restaurant 
for a light dinner. From there we went directly to our home of the weekend, 
a magnificent mansion beyond a long twisting road. 

Brian had brought a bottle of champagne. He iced it while he told me, for 
the first time, that he loved me. "I didn't expect it, Alicia. I adored you, 
of course, but I had no idea I loved you until recently." His attempt at 
lightness wasn't overly successful. 

I bought a soft cream-colored nightgown, rimmed with antique lace, for my 
wedding night. It was my concession to what had to happen, and I put it on 
after my shower with mixed emotions. I was nervous and uncomfortable, and I 
wondered if it would be possible to get through the next hour without being 
entirely conscious. I also wished I'd had another drink. 

Brian was already undressed and wearing a silky dressing gown. He had all 
but one light off in the plush master bedroom. He was sitting at the edge of 
the king-sized bed smoking a cigarette. He smiled when I came into the room, 
but my feeling of apprehension was strong enough to block out any warmth 
that he might be sending my way. 

He stood up, stepped out of his robe, and stood naked before me in the 
instant before he killed the bedside lamp. His body was well formed, and his 
penis was limp but sizeable. 

I slipped into the bed next to him, trying to ignore the stiffness in my 
limbs and mind. This, I thought, was the penalty for the coldness, which 
kept me from falling into the trap of the other women in my family. I 
shivered delicately when Brian reached for me. 

Had I been knowledgeable, I'd have known there was something wrong from the 
beginning, and I wouldn't have thought it was me. But I was a log, remote 
and unaware, and when my new husband kissed me, I did the best I could to 
return his embrace. Slowly he removed the pretty gown from my body, his 
hands moving over my breasts, over the flat expanse of my belly, back up to 
my breasts and then down again, this time dropping lower than before. I 
cringed inwardly as his smooth hand probed my inner thighs, sliding softly 
over my vagina. 

His body was against me, but I felt no hardness, just a cool, even clammy 
pressure. There was a moment when I even longed to feel some sensation 
anywhere, so that I could do more than lie there unresponsively. But there 
was nothing in me to give to him, other than the empty gesture of my body 
alone. 

The tempo began to pick up, so that there was a hint of desperation to his 
probing of my body. He took my hand and brought it to his thighs. I did as 
he wanted. His flesh felt hot and strange in my hand. In minutes I could 
feel an answering surge of energy through my fingers. The flabby flesh began 
to thicken and become less pliable. I moved my hand faster, pumping lightly, 
doing what the rocking of his hip told me he wanted of me. 

As if to take immediate advantage of the moment, Brian moved over me, 
blindly separating my thighs, inserting himself between them. 

The whole thing took less than a minute. I felt a stab of pain as he thrust 
himself into me, but barely was the wave of pain over when something strange 
was happening. I could feel him dwindling inside me, retreating from the 
flesh he'd just bruised. I was startled and confused, and I didn't 
Understand much more than a girl half my age might understand. It wasn't 
until Brian began to speak that things fell into place. 

"I ... I'm sorry, Alicia," he said, rolling off me, his voice small. Then, 
with great suddenness, he smashed his fist on the bedside table. "God damn 
it!" 

Shaken, I turned to him, not knowing what to say. 

"I thought ... with you. ... I thought I could do it." His words were 
ragged, bordering on anger and thick with frustration. Not looking my way, 
he told me that he had always had trouble completing intercourse, that he 
was barely able to penetrate most women, and even not that for the past year 
or so. He had thought that with me it would be different. In his youth he 
considered the possibility that he had homosexual tendencies. "I gave that a 
try for a while, but I only discovered I was right. I couldn't face society 
as a queen. I've resisted all such impulses for several years." He looked at 
me then, his eyes desperate and intense in the near darkness. 

"Look, Alicia, with your help, perhaps I can get out of this. Let's work on 
it together, okay? I'm sure I can get over it and be a real husband to 
you...." 

"Of course, Brian," I said sweetly, smiling into the night. A warm bubble of 
happiness and contentment spread through my insides, obliterating even the 
lingering discomfort of my torn vagina. The last thing in the world I wanted 
was to restore Brian's sexual potency. I could have a perfect marriage 
now.... 

"I know it will be fine, honey..." he said, kissing me gratefully. 

I was sure of it. 

In the next few months I did three definite things. I made opportunities for 
sex scarce, I acted impatient and nervous when we did attempt the act, and 
the third thing was to employ a male secretary. Mark was closemouthed, very 
attractive, and discreetly gay. He understood his real purpose in our 
family, and within two months he had wormed his way into Brian's bed more or 
less permanently. 

It took Brian a long time to realize that I had put Mark there, and then he 
understood that I wanted things just as they were between us. I was Brian's 
beautiful and intelligent young wife, and when I went to law school it was 
worth noting in a popular newspaper columnist's daily observations.... 

For the first year or two I was at a loss to understand the bitter struggle 
raging inside my husband. In spite of his homosexual background and confused 
sexuality, he was in love with me. He wanted that love to be a normal, 
passionate thing. But I only offered my presence, my facade and my loyalty 
to him. At the end of two years he came to accept things as they were, and 
attempted to find contentment in our relationship. He lost some of the 
feelings of adoration, but in their place was a nice dose of healthy 
respect. 

For my part, I worked hard at school and began to make a name for myself. 
Whenever possible I involved myself with community affairs and politics. We 
moved to a larger apartment, and I began to decorate it with the help of two 
decorator friends. School, Brian, my new friends, and money did the work of 
rounding off the rough edges left behind by my environment. A touch of the 
sing-song accent of my people was detectable in my voice if one listened 
carefully enough, so I got a teacher to get rid of that imperfection, too. 

I went home now as a stranger, visiting a family I barely remembered. Brian, 
who had never met my family, was nevertheless generous to a fault, but the 
money I sent home didn't seem to make a difference in their lives. It was 
the same slovenly past, there forever, and while Brian enjoyed the fact of 
my origins, I was painfully aware that he never came to face them 
personally. 

In my new apartment I had my own bedroom suite, while my husband and my 
secretary had their rooms in another wing. As school progressed and I was 
busier and busier, I thought little of sex. But during vacation breaks when 
I caught up on missed sleep and my personal life, I'd sometimes find my mind 
swaying to thoughts of other women, other days. I'd wonder at the ecstasy 
shared by the two men down the hall, hints of which I'd sometimes overhear. 
I'd think about the girls I had known, and wonder if what they felt in their 
lovers' arms was all that worthwhile. Once in a while, when I was very tired 
yet unable to sleep, I'd catch myself wondering if it was possible that I'd 
missed something along the way. 

But then school was over, and I passed the bar. I quickly became involved 
with a civil rights center, then with a political investigation. I was out 
there to make points. 

I avoided the crime-fighting campaigns, however, wise enough to the ways of 
the streets of New York to understand that no politician could get very far 
by bucking organized crime. I had other causes, however, and I worked hard 
for them. 

I didn't see Rico until the night of my thirtieth birthday. I was going to 
meet Brian at Vicente's, our favorite restaurant, but first I stopped by at 
home to see my mother. He was driving by as I was getting into my car. 

He looked at the expensive, classy little foreign car and smiled his old 
slow smile. "Doing pretty good, Alicia," he said, no longer looking at the 
car. "Looking good, too. I must admit that you are more beautiful than 
ever." 

I nodded at the compliment, though I didn't trust his intentions. 

"I understand that you will run for the councilman's seat next election. I 
am familiar with that office. If you need any help...." His smile broadened, 
exposing teeth which were yellowing as he aged. 

Rico's connections were not unknown to me. "I don't think that will be 
necessary," I answered softly, controlling my irritation. 

"We shall see," he said, waving as he started his car. 

As it turned out, Rico was wiser than I. He knew who my main competition 
would be, and what connections he had. He also knew my competition would 
pull his strings as tight as he could. 

My campaign worked very well. I stated my intentions clearly and with the 
right amount of verbal manipulations. Brian hired an agency who helped me 
carry my message to the people. It was a frantic, exhausting and totally 
fulfilling time in my life, and up until the end, I was obviously in the 
lead. Then things began to change, subtly, behind the scenes, and my sources 
told me that the string-pulling had begun. 

In all fairness to myself I have to maintain that I held out as long as 
possible. Then one night I came to understand that I would either pull some 
strings of my own or forget my ambitions. It was a bitter pill to force down 
my own throat, but I made myself swallow. 

I reviewed the facts. I was a woman. I was Puerto Rican. I did not currently 
hold office. I was young. It would take all I could give it to put me in 
that seat. This was one place where Brian's money alone couldn't help me. It 
was very important that I win this first election. Later ones would be less 
crucial I had to launch my career with a success. 

Rico was my best connection. I didn't have to probe very deeply to know that 
he wax the numbers racket in that part of the city. Everyone knew it. The 
numbers were big, and Rico controlled a great many important people. I had 
money to offer the insatiable Rico, but I hated going to him for help. In 
the end, however, I knew I had no choice. Buying Rico meant going easy, 
afterward, on his operation, of course, but that was part of the price I had 
to pay. I discussed it all with Brian. In his usual, intelligent way, he 
drew me out enough to make me admit to myself that I wanted the office badly 
enough to do anything to get it. 

The man I was running against was a front for the organization, and I knew 
that I had to get in for my people as much as for myself. I would soft-pedal 
numbers, of course, but I would still be the only Chance for the true Puerto 
Rican representation. This was another factor convincing me to do whatever 
necessary to get what I wanted. 

I waited through the next day, thinking deeply and privately. By evening I 
was ready to talk to Rico. I was calm by then, my mind settled and again at 
peace. I hadn't come this far to lose out on principle. 

It took ten minutes to get Rico on the phone. "Yeah?" 

It struck me funny that in all the years I'd never heard his voice on the 
phone before. I explained my position without spelling anything out Rico 
knew instantly what I was saying behind my carefully phrased words. 

He was quiet long enough to make me distinctly uncomfortable. Then he 
laughed. "There is a price tag on the item you wish to purchase." 

"Isn't there always?" I kept my voice cool. 

His voice tightened. "I don't need your money, Alicia. I don't really need 
anything you have. But I will do as you ask. Because we are friends. And on 
the basis of our very fine friendship, I will then ask you to spend a night 
with me." 

I was totally unprepared for his request. "What?" 

"A night, Alicia, my friend. Is it not worth a night, that which you desire? 
I shall give you your desire, but I must have mine in return. Is it an 
agreement?" 

The silence dragged on while I worked feverishly to determine the degree of 
his seriousness. "I will pay a reasonable fee, Rico. Name your price. Plus, 
of course, certain ... considerations after I'm in office." 

He laughed again. "You have my price. I will be at this number exactly one 
hour. Call with your answer before then." With that, the line went dead. 

Of course I had no need for an entire hour. I'd made my decisions long 
before picking up the phone to call him. I was surprised by his diplomacy, 
in fact, offering an hour as if my virtue demanded that much forethought. I 
called him before the end of his hour. 

We made our date, and I hung up the phone feeling strangely light-headed. 
The tenseness was gone. I would now allow myself to be swept along, enjoying 
" and suffering through all that would come. My future was established-r-I 
could kick back and take whatever came my way. 

I kept some of that light feeling while I watched the rain streaking down 
over the city. I hated to give up the window seat and the cigarette, the 
quiet and the contentment I felt. But it was time to shower and dress. There 
was one last obligation, and that would be out of the way that night. I was 
to be at Rico's penthouse in less than two hours. 

Dressing carefully made little sense, but I liked doing everything in style, 
even the unpleasant things. I wore a subtle tweed suit and left the 
apartment with a business-like air of self-confidence and calm. It was, for 
that matter, business. 

I had never been to Rico's apartment, not even the one he lived in as a boy. 
We didn't visit in each other's homes. There was barely enough room in them 
for those who lived there. But I knew it had to be much like mine, grimy 
with age, smelly with time, and crawling with people. But this penthouse 
apartment was as different a world for Rico as mine was for me. I took an 
elevator to the top floor, then rang for the special one that led to his 
penthouse. Inside was a young man wearing a checkered suit and contrasting 
vest He was expecting me, and his eyes told more dirty stories than I cared 
to know. 

"I'll take you up to Rico," he said, grinning broadly. 

I felt uncomfortable standing next to him in the small elevator, and I 
turned my attention on the ornate mirrors that lined the carriage. 

The apartment was like Rico, flashy, obvious and ambitious. Sprinkled among 
the odds and ends of expensive modern horrors was a fine painting, an 
exquisite rug, a magnificent carving. But for the most part Rico's apartment 
resembled an uptown cocktail lounge, complete with fur and leather pillows, 
ankle-deep fuck carpeting and indirect blue and red lighting. Gaudy reliefs 
on the walls hid some of the lights, and I looked around half expecting a 
nearly nude cutie to serve me a drink or try to sell me a pack of 
cigarettes. 

Rico was alone in the big living room, staring into the gas fireplace. He 
got up from the plush leather couch and grinned when the goon led me into 
the room. Rico was wearing a silk robe in an overly bright color, and behind 
him was all of New York, spread out like a sparkling necklace of lights. I 
looked over Manhattan as I greeted him. "It's a lovely view," I said, 
realizing the understatement even as I said it 

'I like it. Come, I'll fix you a drink." 

I waited until the goon was gone before answering. "I don't want a drink, 
Rico. We both know why 

I'm here, so let's get on with it. This isn't a social call." 

His smile was a trace smug. "But you see, Alicia, you really should have the 
drink. This is indeed a social call, because by the end of this night you 
will be feeling very social. I am throwing one thing into our little 
friendly bargain." 

"What's that?" Reluctantly, I took the drink. He might be right. I would 
need all the help I could get. 

He took my drink after I'd had a sip and placed it on an end table. "I'm 
going to make you like it...." His strong arms pulled me against his body. 
Unprepared, I found myself tightly against him as his lips closed over mine. 

His kiss started slowly, his mouth working deliberately over mine, his 
tongue playing lightly at my tightly closed, unresponsive mouth. I had every 
intention of keeping my end of our agreement, but none of pretending to a 
response I didn't feel. I hadn't done that much for my own husband. 

"Go ahead," he whispered before kissing me again, "fight me all you want. In 
the end you will be begging for me, wanting me again and again...." 

I didn't attempt to deal with his masculine ego problem. He kissed me even 
more softly the second time, with a fair amount of tenderness. His dark good 
looks were especially striking in the exotic background of his lavish 
apartment with the backdrop of the city and the stars far above. My defenses 
slipped just enough so that I grudgingly admitted that he was being more 
considerate than he had to be under the terms of our agreement. I wondered 
if perhaps some of his wild babbling, on the night he'd come to my apartment 
so long ago, had been the truth. He kissed like a man in love.... 

We settled down on the couch, and his kisses began to distract me. He didn't 
try to touch my body other than to hold me as our lips met, so that I had no 
choice but to relax, since I couldn't very well stay defensive when no 
attack was on its way. I wanted to keep my mind alert and active, but" he 
continued to kiss me softly, and it was hard to think. The tip of his tongue 
had somehow found its way into my mouth, and I felt a slightly sickish 
feeling in the pit of my stomach as it lazily touched my tongue. I 
identified the sensation as a low grade buzz of excitement, but I was at a 
loss to decide where exactly it was coming from. 

I don't know how long he kept me on the couch, kissing me, running his 
tongue in and out of my mouth, holding me. I felt warm and strange, like I 
wanted to leave but was rooted to the spot. When Rico finally pulled me to 
my feet, I was weak knead and confused. 

"Come this way, Alicia," he urged softly. My hand in his, I let him lead me 
down a long hall to the master bedroom. I was mute, even before the 
spectacular vista of the east side of Manhattan which was vividly displayed 
through a wall of glass. 

He undressed me while I stood there shivering like a child. I had no idea 
what was wrong with me, but I was suddenly chilled. I couldn't stop 
trembling. I stood there, numb, even when my childhood friend removed the 
panties from my body. Completely nude, I allowed him to investigate my 
flesh. 

"You are more beautiful than I dreamed," he said finally, and though I told 
myself I didn't care, I was somewhat pleased that he thought me beautiful. 

Then he undressed. I didn't want to look at him, but I felt powerless to 
move even enough to look away. He was berry brown all over, with a broad, 
masculine chest, a flat, muscular midsection, and thighs like pillars of 
marble. I couldn't help but notice more, especially since he was obviously 
aroused. 

I felt a twinge of fear. This was no Brian. He was hard and thick, bigger 
than I thought possible, bigger than I was sure I could take. I felt the 
weakness in my knees begin to dissolve as fear began to take over. 

But Rico didn't give me a chance to give into the fear. 

He led me to the huge bed, then pressed me back against it. "Relax, Alicia, 
I will make you like this." He kissed my mouth, then darted his tongue into 
my ear. "And this...." His tongue edged around the undersides of my 
cheekbones and snaked into my mouth. "And that ... and this...." His mouth 
whispered the words as it trailed over each of my nipples. They were 
stiffening under his touch and the cold I still felt, yet the sensation of 
them coming to life was a novel one. I held very still and explored the 
feeling with my mind. 

"Relax," he urged, as if aware of my thoughts. "Don't try to think about it. 
Just enjoy it, enjoy how good it feels, how nice it is when I do this...." 
His lips were hot and wet, and they closed over a ripening nipple, sucking 
it deeply inside the warm cave of his mouth. He sucked hard on the nipple 
before releasing it and moving on to its twin. Then he returned to my mouth 
for a deep, passionate kiss. He moved back to my breasts and nipples. 

I have no idea of how many times he repeated his circuit, but by the time he 
began to move his face lower, my heart was racing in my chest and a curious 
excitement was pounding through my bloodstream. I felt a peculiar impatience 
inside me, and for the first time in my life I was thoroughly wrapped up in 
nothing more than bodily sensations. Even my breathing had changed. I wasn't 
sure I liked any of what was happening, but I was intensely involved in what 
Rico was doing to me. 

His mouth was working between my thighs with an intimate determination, 
forcing my thighs to fall apart. He nosed up against my vagina, and then his 
tongue was darting into me! I felt it glide over my clitoris, and the next 
thing I knew a deep, unnatural moan was escaping through my dry lips. My 
fingers flew to Rico's hair and I held him still, at least long enough to 
recover from the shock of that tongue swipe. 

He gave me only a moment to control myself, then he began licking at me like 
a crazed animal. I couldn't escape his writhing tongue, and I no longer 
wanted to. The tremendous sensations shooting through me as he licked and 
sucked me almost drove me out of my mind. No longer passive, no longer calm, 
I moaned and sighed as he controlled my body as he wished. It was 
insane,-his feverish mouthing of me, yet it felt like an explosion going off 
inside myself every other second. 

He licked me a long time, and I was jerking my hips under his face as if I 
were a puppet and his tongue controlled the strings. My nipples were hard 
pebbles bouncing on my aching breasts, and when he reached up and closed his 
big palms over them, I only moaned what should have been a protest. 

When I thought I'd pass out with the intensity of what he was making me 
feel, Rico began to thrust his finger in and out of me. That was an entirely 
new sensation, a deeper, more precise awareness of feeling. I felt my thighs 
open to allow him to probe more deeply, and even as I felt shocked at 
myself, I encouraged him on with my sighs. He kept it up a long time, 
ramming his fingers and tongue in and out of me. 

I was sick with the sweetness of a thousand feelings when he first climbed 
over me and nudged the tip of his penis against my juicing slit. I couldn't 
have stopped him if I'd wished. I had no more control over myself than a 
newborn baby had in its mother's arms. His huge club began to press into me, 
and all my earlier fears were swept away on a wild surge of raw emotion. I 
wanted him to push into me! I wanted to feel him tight against the mouth of 
my womb! I wanted the sweet agony of a plowed, nearly virginal, vagina! I 
wanted Rico! 

He knew where I was at, and he wasn't far behind me. He jerked his hips with 
one smooth, sure motion. and then he was inside me! I cried put with the 
mingled pain and pleasure, but the pleasure was far more important and 
urgent than the pain. He was enormous, filling me with twice what I would 
have settled for, but making me like it all the same. He was in charge and I 
was happy that way, letting him give my body time to adjust, then moving on. 
He began to pump me slowly, feeding me inches at a time. Every new stab was 
a miracle, and I was lost in my own rapture to such a point that I didn't 
even understand the first tidal wave of my first orgasm. 

Rico knew, however, and he began pounding in and out of me like a piston, 
fucking me like a machine, whipping me to edge me over my cliff with maximum 
glory. I came as I had no idea I could ever come, screaming out my ecstasy, 
tears falling from my eyes as I spasmed over and over. Somewhere in that 
time Rico managed to come also, and I could feel oceans of his hot semen 
filling me. 

Weak with shock as well as exhaustion, I could only mumble a little when 
Rico finally pulled out of me and rolled over to his side of the bed. 

I needed only a few minutes to rest and come back to what I would now think 
of as normal. I was fiercely happy, complete in a way I'd never been before. 
I wriggled over so that I could be closer to Rico. I could be daring, now. 

"Rico, that was so good, darling. ... More, I want even more. Give me more, 
darling...." I kissed his ear. 

Rico turned over and began to laugh. He sat up and reached for his pants, 
laughing still. "More," he mimicked, getting dressed. "Oh, Rico, darling, 
give me more...." 

I sat up, confused again, staring at him dumbly. 

He lit a cigarette and put on his shirt. Then he turned to me. "Okay, lady, 
I made my point. Now get that sweet little ass in gear, dress it, and get it 
out of here." 

"I ... I don't understand...." 

He grinned. "Once I came to you and you laughed in my face. Now I've made 
you human, baby, and it's my turn to laugh. And do you know why? Because now 
I get to do all the laughing! Don't you think I know about your faggot 
husband? Now that I've made you feel, what are you going to do? Ask your old 
man to work you over? He wouldn't know how." 

I shook my head, stunned but already thinking of a way out. "You and Brian 
aren't the only men in the world. I'm sure I wouldn't have any trouble 
finding a man...." 

Rico laughed again, louder than ever. "Don't fool yourself. You have worked 
much too long and hard, and come too far, to risk everything just because 
all of a sudden you have the desires of a sixteen-year-old bitch in heat! 
You cannot hold public office and expect to advance in politics with a 
string of even the most discreet affairs behind you! You know that! No, what 
I have done, my Alicia, is to condemn you to a life of frustration, don't 
you see that? Go to your faggot husband with the bulging wallet and ask him 
to stick his money up there!" 

I dressed frantically, desperate to be away from his unending laughter. All 
the way out of the apartment I heard the sounds of his amusement, and even 
in the cage-like private elevator I imagined I could hear him still. 

It was nearly morning when I finally got home. I felt sick and exhausted, 
but above that was a restless., relentless itch between my aching thighs. I 
couldn't block out the memory of Rico's words, but I refused to accept all 
he'd said. I knew something he didn't know, that Brian loved me and had 
wanted me once. ... Blindly I made my way down the hall to his bedroom. But 
as I prepared to throw open his door I heard the distinct sounds of my 
husband and my secretary making love. Sickened and stabbed by the futility 
of what I was about to do, I backed away from the door and headed to my 
room. There, on my own bed at last, I faced the truth I'd heard earlier that 
evening. 

I had left this room, removed and safe in myself. I had returned, engulfed 
by flames never before ignited. I was my own prisoner, now and forever. Rico 
was very right-I couldn't lose all I'd struggled to obtain just because of a 
few base emotions. I would have to fight out the rampant desires he'd 
aroused in me. And I'd have to do it alone. 

Wearily I undressed, prepared to face the first of what I knew would be a 
great many sleepless nights. 

I hoped mine would be a great career. 

* * * 

Alicia's political experiences can be interpreted as illustrations of three 
current themes in the literature of political analysis and theory. Her 
totally dedicated excursion into local politics brought her mixed results 
and exposed her to facets of her own personality she was not aware of 
before. Whatever her own personal feelings about politics might be, her 
actions nevertheless serve to point out political tendencies at work in our 
society today. 

Any woman interested in politics must be wary of tremendous pressures 
exerted by the society against women politicians. The place of a woman, in 
the male world of political control, is by far the most applicable theme of 
Alicia's own experiences, going further than any other condition to explain 
the problems and conflicts she had to hurdle. 

Probably of more interest to the political analyst is the factor of Alicia's 
own motivation for power. Just what did stir her ambition to the point of 
going so far and exposing herself to so much just to gain a local government 
position? Of great importance these days is the relationship between 
political ambition and political ability, and particularly how this 
relationship applies to the election process in America. The revelation of 
Alicia's unintegrated sexual nature casts suspicions on the purity of her 
motivations for office. The additional cross she bears, of her feelings as a 
Puerto Rican, further color her motives. Can her constituents rely on her? 
Won't she always have a weakness for Rico? Won't she always feel a grudge 
against people who aren't Puerto Rican? These are easy questions to ask but 
extremely difficult to answer. For one thing, Alicia's capability as an 
elected official cannot be tested until she actually attains office; there 
is simply no sure guide-line for making this kind of decision beforehand. 
Her national background and her sexual weakness certainly might influence 
her decisions as an official, but then again she could easily rise above 
even her own expectations and become an effective force for political change 
in her community. How do you measure a candidate's ability? 

Usually the voting record of a candidate is considered a reliable indicator 
of his her ability to function well in office. Lacking this, a newcomer to 
the political field can rely on any one of a number of qualities to attract 
voters. Personality and charisma count high on the voter's list of essential 
prerequisites. If a candidate is blessed neither with an appealing voting 
record nor a pleasing personality, he can always gather public attention 
through the means of an effectively run advertising campaign coupled with 
the vote-getting energy of a capable campaign committee run by a 
professional manager. 

Alicia may have charisma, but if she doesn't, then it can be seen that her 
chances of winning an election are slim because of the fact that she is 
under qualified and under financed. She does attempt to garner funds (from 
Brian) and she contacts a power figure within the community whose influence 
might help insure a victory, but whether or not this activity will yield 
results is another matter. 

The third topic of political observation concerning Alicia is the 
significance of her relationship with Rico. Completely aside from the sexual 
overtones of the relationship and their prior meetings together before her 
political ambitions, their relationship emphasizes the nature of the power 
base within such a minority community. Typical of the American minority 
member, Alicia and Rico have firmer ties with members of their own minority 
than they do with either the Anglo majority or the members of any other 
minority. This condition is always heightened with those minority members 
whose background includes recent immigration to our country and thus recent 
historical exposure to a totally alien culture. For obvious reasons, 
recently immigrated populations tend to bring many elements of their 
previous and more familiar culture with them when they settle in America. 

In many ways, America is not the highly touted "melting pot" as history 
tells it. Many minorities and nationality groups have had difficulties 
adjusting smoothly to the American way of life. There have been some 
outstanding examples of prejudice and political repression against some of 
these entering minorities, as for example in the Chinese-American 
populations in San Francisco during the 19th century. Adjustment to our 
cultural patterns and modes of behavior is difficult for the outsider. 

Even though every entering citizen was required to learn something of our 
country's political nature before being allowed to enter the country, most 
immigrants tried to bring as much of their own culture with them into the 
new land as was possible. In many cases this meant their ideas of law and 
politics, as well as their previous social customs and traditions. Although 
the American government was respected and obeyed whenever its rulings or 
some extension of its agencies had an effect on their lives, for the most 
part they relied on their traditional social system for an adequate 
dispensation of justice within the community. The main problem seems to have 
been a lack of communication between government regulatory agencies and the 
people of these communities. The presence of the American government within 
their midst was too weak and too foreign in nature to inspire complete 
respect and trust. Especially when law enforcement problems arose, there was 
no easy access to the American judicial and police systems. 

Gradually the minority attitude towards the police degenerated into one of 
distrust and suspicion. At the same time, the traditional political 
organizations gained in strength and effectively formed an entire 
governmental system, a system within a system so to speak, which simplified 
the lives of the new Americans but also set up barriers between themselves 
and the larger culture outside their communities. 

It was not a giant step for some of these internal governments to become 
extremely powerful entities in themselves, sometimes exceeding any influence 
of the larger American organization of the state and local government. Some 
of these political groups turned to gangster activity to more effectively 
strengthen their hold over the economic and social life of the community. 
This is how the Mafia came into existence, this is how the tongs (among the 
Chinese-Americans) came into existence, and this is also how modern ghettos 
and barrios generate the kind of political climate necessary for the 
formation of gangs. Of course organized crime differs greatly from juvenile 
crime, but both have some common causes, and the failure of minorities to 
completely assimilate the American governmental system, as well as the 
failure of the government adequately to serve and protect the minorities, 
must be considered as a generating force for both types of criminal 
behavior. 

Alicia, after considering running for the council-manic position honestly 
and according to the rules of the system, realizes that she cannot hope to 
win unless she first deals with the criminal elements which in reality 
control the local government. This comparison between the old and the new 
types of government within the minority district, between the established 
corruption of the gang and its political extensions and the new desire for a 
more compatible role within the American system, is a problem of great 
consequence for minority populations in America. Only encouragements for 
minority participation in governmental affairs will help the minority 
district reach a comfortable level of cultural assimilation. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

The Novice Idealist 

The leader of the group that met me in my office at the college was a 
Mrs.-or rather Ms. Beverly Tilche. After a long preamble, she finally got 
down to what the whole group had come to see me about. 

"Doctor," she said, "we desperately need you to run for county supervisor." 

I looked at her slightly in shock. It had never entered my mind to enter 
actively in politics; I was an observer, not an activist. It was my business 
to talk about and analyze the political actions of others, not to politick 
myself. You see, the "doctor" she referred to was my title stemming from my 
Ph.D. in political science. 

"Ms. Tilche," I said, trying to be diplomatic as possible, "I couldn't 
possibly seek a public office. I have my job here; I'd have to leave that. 
And I don't have any experience at all to back me up. All I have are 
theories about what other people should do." 

Ms. Tilche smiled. "But that's exactly why we want you," she said. "You have 
some novel ideas. And heaven knows we need somebody who has some new ideas." 

I agreed with her in that. The mid-state county where I had lived for the 
past two years was in the tight control of a group of men who hadn't had an 
original or liberal idea in forty years. They still thought Franklin 
Roosevelt was a radical. 

"I've only been living here two years," I said, hopefully adding to my 
reasons for not doing what Ms. Tilche and her group wanted. "I'm practically 
a carpetbagger." 

Ms. Tilche smiled again. She could be very winning and persuasive when she 
wanted to be. "You know very well," she said, "that only a year's residency 
is required. You have every right to run, and every ... duty." 

I thought for a few seconds. "I'm sorry," I said finally. "I can't do it. 
I'm finally settled into this job that I like very much and have made a life 
for myself here that I like. I don't want to disrupt that." I smiled back at 
her. 

"Oh, I see," Ms. Tilche said, her smile fading. "You're all talk and no 
action. Typical of you transplanted big-city boys. You head for the country 
and tell us how to run things, but when it comes down to participating in 
what you say we should do, you retreat behind academia." 

Her new attitude and what she was saying irritated me. I was getting tired 
of sayings such as, "People who can't do, teach." These people just didn't 
understand. The place for people like me was in the colleges, teaching the 
young so that they, and not us, would go' out and make a better world. When 
I said something to that effect to Ms. Tilche and her group, she had some 
very unkind things to say to me. 

I admit to having a temper, and when I get angry I often turn rash. I did in 
this instance, anyway. I listened to Ms. Tilche literally bawling the hell 
out of me for about ten minutes, then instead of coolly maintaining my 
posture, I instead gave in to her. I was so angry that I blurted out, "Okay, 
damn it, i'll run." 

It was the worst decision I've ever made in my life. 

As I've mentioned before, the county had been led, if "Led" is the right 
word, by a small group of very conservative gentlemen-and that term, too, I 
use loosely-who didn't appreciate anybody infringing on what they thought 
was their territory. The county was in financial chaos, there was absolutely 
no programs offered, and I was sure just from observation that these 
gentlemen stayed in power only through graft and corruption. 

As an example, one man who had served on the County Board of Supervisors for 
eleven years retired to Florida with an estimated four hundred and fifty 
thousand dollars in the bank. And this was supposedly accumulated on a 
salary of seventy-two hundred dollars a year, as a supervisor, and the 
ownership of a very small auto parts store. The man was either the best 
businessman in the world or a crook. Most people, including myself, held to 
the latter. 

Six men, then, held the county by the throat, and the acknowledged leader of 
those six was a man named Jenkins, who was also on the board of the county's 
largest bank. Jenkins was the richest and the most ignorant man I've ever in 
my life met or talked to. I'm not saying he is stupid, but more awfully, 
ignorant. He was the man Ms. Tilche's group had chosen me to run against. 

I had never wanted to cause myself or anybody else any trouble. I had come 
to this county two years earlier after teaching five years in the university 
system of the state of California. I had come to Ohio after a very serious 
personal trauma which involved my wife's divorcing me. I had come to have 
peace and quiet, to do a job that I loved, and not make any waves. 

Then Ms. Tilche and her damned group had to show up. 

The announcement of my candidacy made the front pages of all the county 
newspapers, and the back pages of most state papers. Ms. Tilche made the 
announcement in her living room, with an enthusiasm more suited to an 
announcement that she'd won the Irish Sweepstakes. I was eulogized to the 
point of being embarrassed. It was the highlight of the campaign. From then 
on everything went downhill. 

The following morning, I found a note in my mailbox at the college to see 
the Dean of Instruction. I went to see him at one o'clock. He was sitting 
behind his desk with an expression so bleak that I instantly got a chill. I 
knew I was in for trouble. There was little doubt of that, especially after 
Dean Jenkins informed me that he and the Jenkins I was running against 
shared more than a name; they also shared a common grandfather. Dean Jenkins 
and Supervisor Jenkins were cousins, and very cordial cousins to boot. 

"It hardly behooves a new professor to mix politics and public education," 
the Dean said. I would have asked him for a translation of what he said, but 
I knew basically what he meant; he wanted me to get out of the race. 

I had never liked Dean Jenkins, and the harder he tried to convince me to 
drop out of the running, the harder my resolve became. At the end of the 
hour I spent with the Dean, I would rather have slit my wrists than give up 
my candidacy. 

"I think then," the Dean concluded, "that it would be best for all concerned 
if you offered your resignation." 

By that time I was blazing angry. I knew in the back of my mind that the man 
had no legal right to demand my resignation over the fact that I was running 
for a political office, but again, as it so often has in the past, my temper 
got the best of me. "All right, you pompous old fart," I shouted at him. 
"You've got it. Give me a piece of paper. I'll write it out for you right 
here." 

He was only too glad to oblige. In fact, as I was writing, I noticed a glint 
of a smile on his face for the first time in my two years of occasionally 
running into him. 

I was given a month's salary and I was dropped from my classes immediately. 
It wasn't until the next morning that I realized just how foolish I had 
been. What if I lost the election? I'd have nothing. 

With that thought in mind, I became more determined than ever to win at the 
polls. 

The next two days, except for sleeping, I spent with Ms. Tilche and her 
group of advisors. We were going to hit every women's group, every PTA, 
every town council, everybody and every location in the short time before 
the election. At the end of two days, I was exhausted but confident. I knew 
I could win. With helpers like Ms. Tilche, how could I lose? 

I slept late the morning after the marathon sessions at Ms. Tilche's house. 
I was up only about a half hour, enjoying a leisurely breakfast, when the 
front doorbell rang. I hesitated but finally answered it. After all, an 
intended public servant's first responsibility is to be available. 

A man who was vaguely familiar to me was standing on the front steps. He 
introduced himself as a Mr. Dannacucci. That name rang a bell. He was a 
lawyer in a small town near mine, and if my memory served me correctly, he 
was closely connected with Supervisor Jenkins. 

I invited him in and after giving him a cup of coffee, I asked him outright 
what his connection with Mr. Jenkins was. I heartily hoped that he had 
stopped by to tell me that he had had enough of Mr. Jenkins and his ilk and 
was ready to jump on my bandwagon. That hope was as far from being fulfilled 
as it was possible to be. 

"I'm Mr. Jenkins' campaign manager," Dannacucci said. "I have been for the 
last twenty-four years and I probably will be for the next twenty-four 
years. If I live that long." His statement implied, I supposed, that Mr. 
Jenkins intended to be around as Supervisor for that long a period. 

"Then I'm not too sure it's ethical for you to be here," I told him. He 
looked at me like I had passed gas at a debutante ball. 

"What do you mean by that?" he asked. 

"I don't think it looks right for the campaign manager of one candidate to 
be meeting secretly with another candidate. It smacks of collusion," I said. 

I don't know what I expected his "reaction to be, but I know I didn't expect 
his actual one. He laughed. He laughed so hard that his huge belly shook. 

When he had control of himself, he said, "Tom, old buddy, there's not one 
goddamned thing about this visit that's secret. Everybody in the county who 
amounts to three beans knows I was coming here. They're sitting home right 
now, waiting for the news to come out that you've withdrawn from the race." 

I looked at him. "Why should I withdraw?" I asked. 

He leaned over, setting his coffee cup on an end table, and reached down to 
the briefcase that was on the floor next to him. He ruffled through his 
papers until he found what he was looking for. It was a folder which he 
pulled out and put on his lap. He looked at me. 

"We've been checking on you a bit," he said. He glanced down at the folder. 

I felt a tinge of fear roll up my spine. They couldn't possibly ... I 
thought. 

"We're giving you a chance to quit now," Dannacucci said. "That way you'll 
avoid a lot of embarrassment, both for yourself and for your friends. Well 
even help to get you back on the faculty, although Dean Jenkins will yell 
like hell. He sort of hates your guts." 

"I'm not a particular friend of his either," I said coldly. I was no longer 
feeling that small twinge of fear I'd felt; I was more angry now. I took 
their offer of reinstatement an insult-as though I needed the help of those 
lice to get back a job I was very good at in the first place!-and also as a 
sign of weakness. They must be running scared, afraid of being beat. I took 
heart from that. 

There was also another reason for my anger, one less personal. In my 
discussions with Ms. Tilche and her friends, I realized that they were 
counting a great deal on me to improve things in the county. And I realized 
that the trust they had in me was not misplaced. I would make a good 
supervisor. I would do the things that had to be done; things that had been 
neglected for so long. It was a job in a small, unimportant county, but to 
the residents of that county, it was probably the most important thing in 
the world. I would be helping to make democracy work. 

With those thoughts in mind, my attitude towards Dannacucci can be 
understood. 

"If dropping out of the race is a pre-condition to getting my job back," I 
said rather pornopusly, "I want nothing to do with it." 

"Maybe you'll change your mind," Dannacucci said, "after you know what I've 
got in this folder." Again he looked at it. 

"I suppose you have the details of my divorce in there," I said. "I've heard 
of mudslinging, but if you use that as a campaign issue, I'll kill you with 
it. Voters these days are too intelligent to be swayed by muckrakers. 
They'll understand that it was my problem and that I did the best I could." 

"You might be right about that," Dannacucci said. "Divorce isn't that big an 
issue anymore. That isn't what I meant, though." He pulled a paper from the 
folder and glanced at it. "Those intelligent voters you spoke about, though: 
how will they react when they hear about ... Susan Powers?" 

My hands started to shake at the mention of the name. How had they found out 
about that? And so quickly? I had been assured that all information 
concerning the matter was strictly private, known only to me and the police 
department in Los Angeles. 

"How did you find out about that?" I asked. I know my voice was shaky. 

Dannacucci looked up at me. "We have our ways, Tom. The important thing is 
that we do know about it. We don't want to have to use it, but we will. If 
you stay in the race, we'll use it" 

"There's not a respectable paper in the state that'll print that trash," I 
said hotly. The ironical thing about my statement is that from the first, I 
was admitting to being mixed up in something I called "trash." 

"We also know the real reason for your divorce," Dannacucci said. "Ten 
minutes after the papers hit the streets with the story, your value as a 
viable candidate will be nil." 

"I repeat," I said, although most of the pomposity had been knocked out of 
me, "that there isn't a respectable newspaper in the state that would print 
such a story." 

"I guess you're right," Dannacucci said. "And I guess you don't consider my 
little hometown newspaper as being very respectable, but I do know one 
thing: it would print the story on the front page with the biggest headlines 
in its history." 

"Not even a small-town paper would print an insupportable story like that," 
I said, but perspiration had broken out on my forehead. 

Dannacucci laughed out loud. "Do you know who the editor and publisher of 
that newspaper is?" he asked. 

I shook my head, acknowledging that I didn't know. 

"You should find out things like that," he said, "if you intend to go 
seriously into politics!" 

"I am seriously into politics," I said angrily. "Now I think you should get 
out of here." 

"All right, I'll leave,, and I'll even give you time to think about my 
offer," Dannacucci said. "But one thing before I go. The editor of that 
paper we talked about has been making ninety per cent of his advertising 
revenue off supporters of Mr. Jenkins. Now, do you still think he won't 
print the story?" 

I stared at him. "Already you've involved yourself in blackmail, now it's 
bribery. You'd better get out of here before I call the police." 

"Christ, get out of your ivory tower," Dannacucci said. "You eggheads are 
always the same. You write imagine prose about something you don't know 
anything about except what you've read in books. Get some sense, Tom. Play 
ball with us and we'll play ball with you." 

I told him to get out of the house, which he did, telling me he would give 
me a call in three days to let me know what my final decision was. 

I told him he had my final decision. He said he would call anyway. 

When the door closed behind him, I was resolved to fight this thing out. The 
voters would understand, even if the story was published. I was sure they 
would. But as I sat there, trying to finish my breakfast, my resolve 
weakened. What in the hell was I doing to myself? Already I had lost a good 
job, and now I was fooling with the possibility of ruining my life 
completely. What little I had left. 

The episode with Susan Powers had been a tragedy and a terrible mistake on 
my part. But we all make mistakes; mine just happened to be more glaring 
than most. 

I was a professor at the time in the State system in northern California. I 
had a good job, had married a good-looking girl whom I loved-the fact that 
Kim, my wife, was the only child of a wealthy family didn't hurt matters 
any-had one child, and thought the world was my oyster. Then, on that 
fateful night, I made the seemingly innocuous decision to attend a summer 
convention of educators in Los Angeles. 

The convention, as all conventions are, was boring in the extreme. The 
speeches were the same speeches that had been given at the same kind of 
conventions for years. But I had attended, not with the idea of learning 
anything of value, but only as a means of getting away from my usual life. A 
vacation, if you will. I loved my wife, family and home, but I needed to get 
away by myself. 

One of the first people I met at the convention was an old classmate of mine 
named Joe Philips. Joe had somehow managed to get his doctorate in modern 
European history, although how I'll never know. He was and had always been 
the biggest fuck-off I'd ever known. Along with that quality, however, he 
also was a.very personable guy and fun to be with. 

I dutifully attended the first day's lectures, looking forward to the 
cocktail party that night that Joe was holding in his suite of rooms. Joe 
was the kind who always got "suites" or who rented the private area in 
airplanes. He was a conspicuous spender, I guess you could say. 

When I arrived at his rooms that night, the party was already in full blast. 
Joe had invited all the "swingers" at the convention, and by that term I 
don't mean the word with the connotation it has developed in the sixties and 
seventies. I mean it more in the sense that it had in the simpler days, when 
if you were a swinger, it simply meant you liked to have a good time. There 
were no groaning, rutting bodies on the floor when I arrived, just a lot of 
people making a considerable amount of noise while they were thoroughly 
enjoying themselves. 

I admit to drinking more than I should have, that night, but if you had had 
to endure the speeches that I had endured that day, you would have had a few 
too many, too. 

When the party started to break up about one in the morning, I was feeling 
sensational and still didn't feel like heading to bed. After all, it was my 
first night away from hearth and home, and I wanted to celebrate the fact. 
Celebrate a lot, as a matter-of-fact. 

Joe had always maintained a group of cronies and the convention was no 
exception. When everybody had left, there were five men, including myself, 
none feeling any pain whatsoever, who were sitting around his suite. We all 
vaguely wanted to have some more fun, but none really had much of an idea 
how to. 

Joe, however, soon filled that void. He came into the room after seeing the 
last departing guest off. He sat down with the five of us. He looked around 
and laughed. "Now what?" he asked. We all simultaneously shrugged. 

"I've got a little idea," he said, "if you guys are willing to go along with 
it." We all nodded. That's what we were waiting for: Joe, to lead us down 
the path of perdition. 

"The last time I was in Los Angeles," he continued, "I ran into this little 
number who is too smooth to be believed. She told me the next time I was in 
town to give her a call. How about me calling her and getting her over here 
with some of her girl friends?" 

Now I know that sounds adolescent, but after all, the whole group of us were 
only normal screwballs who were on a little vacation. You often do things on 
a vacation that you wouldn't do under more normal circumstances. 

There wasn't any reluctance about Joe's suggestion from anyone. We all were 
looking for a good time. Joe headed for the telephone to call his "Little 
number." 

He walked back into the living room with a wide grin on his face, almost 
lascivious. "I got her," he said. "She'll be over in a half hour with as 
many friends as she can find." Then he hesitated. "There's only one catch, 
gentlemen," he added. "We may have to cough up a hundred bucks per head." 

I know that I for one was slightly shocked at the news that I'd be dealing 
with a hooker, or a group of hookers. But along with that shock was a 
feeling of titillation. It was exciting to do things that ordinarily a 
person would only read about other people doing in bad fiction. We agreed to 
the price. 

I think the whole group was excited about the potential of having, say, six 
beautiful whores on our hands. That's all that was talked about while we 
re-attacked the bar. I was feeling even more loaded when the doorbell rang a 
half hour later. 

A very attractive redhead walked into the room. But she was by herself. She 
had an apologetic pout on her face as she moved in close on Joe and kissed 
him fondly. "Honey, I couldn't find even one unused girl," she said. 
"Everybody that I've even heard of is busy tonight." 

You can imagine the disappointment of five usually respectable-but-dull, now 
horny, college professors at that news. It was like telling us that the 
state education budget had been cut in half. 

It was at that point that Joe's kinkiness got us into trouble. He thought 
about what she said only for a split second, then offered an idea to the 
rest of us. "How would you like to make this beautiful redhead the highest 
paid hooker in the state?" he asked, laughing. "How about each of us 
throwing in a hundred bucks and she can show us all a good time?" 

Susan wasn't all that enthusiastic about the idea. "I don't think I can 
handle six, honey. I'm a lady, I'm not a machine," she said. She might not 
have liked the idea, but for some strange reason the rest of us did. I guess 
we had been looking forward to some "action" and we didn't want to be 
disappointed. 

Joe headed with Susan to the bedroom where they had a small meeting. I don't 
know what he said to her, but when they returned, she was a little more 
agreeable to the deal. She wasn't exactly sold on it, but she wasn't leaving 
either. 

"Gentlemen," Joe shouted. "Take your seats. Our guest, Miss Susan Powers, 
will now entertain us with an example of modern dance." 

I guess what happened next is old hat to people who frequent the bars in Los 
Angeles, but to a married guy from the sticks of northern California, what 
Susan did was extremely exciting. And I think everybody in the room had a 
similar reaction. The booze didn't hurt, I guess, either. 

Susan was a fairly slender girl whose body, when she had clothes on, didn't 
look that spectacular, but as her dance progressed and the clothes started 
to disappear, we all realized that, naked, she was probably one of the 
sexiest, most stunning girls any of us had ever seen. 

And my god, could she dance. As we watched her, dancing alone, I'm sure that 
each guy in the room thought he was watching her have sex. She pantomimed 
getting fucked so well that to this day I don't believe what I think I saw. 

The alcohol and the dance were all that was needed to get the "party" going. 
As soon as the girl was finished, and was recovering her breath, Joe started 
to hand around a hat. Each one of us, he told us, was to take out a slip of 
paper. The number on the slip was to correspond where we were to stand in 
line to fuck Miss Susan Powers. I know it sounds ridiculous and perverted, 
but you have to remember the circumstances. 

I picked number three. To be honest, I'd never had sloppy thirds before, nor 
even un-sloppy seconds. I had always been straighter than straight when it 
came to sex. I'd had my share, but it was always the normal type. I had 
never even gone to a whore before in my life. 

Joe, as organizer of the party, had reserved first slot for himself. He went 
with the girl into the bedroom after she was calmed down and left the rest 
of us in the living room. I don't know who made the comment that started all 
the real trouble; maybe it was me, but I don't think it was. That's how high 
I was on booze; I couldn't even swear to you about who said what. All I know 
is that somebody in the living room said, "For a hundred bucks from each of 
us, the little cunt shouldn't mind an audience." 

The remark seemed to strike a chord with all of us. After all, if you pay a 
hundred dollars, you want something pretty good for your money. 

We all headed for the bedroom. Joe was in the middle of the act. He was 
between the girl's legs, and he was fucking her like a madman. I could see 
instantly why the girl commanded such a high price. I'd never seen anybody 
move on a bed like she did. She seemed totally wrapped up in the fucking she 
was getting from Joe, and she seemed even to be enjoying it. I say "even" 
because it's a much-discussed theory that whores don't enjoy sex. But Susan 
Powers sure did. At least in the beginning. 

It took both the girl and Joe a few seconds to realize that they weren't 
alone in the room. That's how wrapped up they were in the sex they were 
having. 

Finally, though, Joe heard or noticed us. He turned to the group of us 
assembled at the door. "Hey, guys, c'mon. Wait your turn." 

"Hell, no," somebody said. "We want to watch." We all moved closer to the 
bed. It was a beautiful sight to see. 

Joe hesitated only a few seconds, then started to ram his cock back into the 
girl. He seemed more than willing by then to have an audience. The girl, 
however, didn't appreciate it as much. 

I remember hearing her say something like, "Please, Joe, ask them to leave." 
But Joe didn't pay any attention to her. He just kept fucking her. 

The fuck got to her after a while, and despite her earlier objections, she 
eventually got back to responding just as well to Joe's cock as she had been 
before she knew the rest of us were around. 

I watched the performance, fascinated, for a short while. Then I glanced 
around the room. I think I should have found it funny, and ridiculous, to 
see five college professors, all with their cocks out of their pants, 
beating off while they watched a giant fuck being administered. But I 
didn't. All I can recall thinking was that beating off in the interim, until 
my turn came up, seemed like a good idea. 

I even went them one better. Instead of just taking my cock out, I started 
to take off all my clothes. I stripped down, leaving my clothes in a heap on 
the floor. I stood there, hand on cock, watching Joe's cock wedge itself 
again and again into that gorgeous gal's beautiful cunt. I still remember it 
as being the most exciting thing I'd ever seen in my life. 

Somehow I found myself standing right next to the bed. Joe just kept fucking 
her and then fucking her and fucking her some more. It was terrific, 
especially since she seemed to be enjoying it so much herself. 

My cock was hard as a rock and as I looked down at the girl, I realized that 
I wanted one kind of attention from her more than anything else in the 
world. I moved even closer, angling my cock down towards her. "C'mon, 
honey," I said finally. "Suck this off for me a little." I pushed my cock 
right at her mouth. She turned away. 

For some reason her turning away from me, especially after seeing her so 
obviously enjoying what Joe was doing to her, made me mad. I grabbed her 
hair and pulled her head towards me. I pushed my cock at her lips. She held 
them tightly closed. "C'mon, bitch," I said, really angry by that time, 
"suck it." 

The girl looked slightly frightened, but in the condition I was in, that 
only made me more excited. I pushed harder with my cock and tightened my 
hold in her hair. 

"Make him stop, Joe," the girl said finally. That was a mistake on her part, 
because as soon as she opened her mouth to say something, I shoved my cock 
inside. It wasn't the most pleasant experience I've ever had, especially 
since she grated her teeth along the full length of my cock, but at least I 
had myself where I wanted to be. 

Neither Joe nor anyone else made any effort to stop me, so I pulled her even 
closer to me and started to fuck her mouth. I looked down at her. She looked 
scared. "Bite it, and I'll rip your goddamned cunt open," I said. Believe 
me, I had never said anything like that before in my life. I don't think I 
ever even fantasized saying it. It just came out of me. 

I could tell by the noise he was making that Joe was close to shooting off. 
With one last magnificent groan he did. He lodged himself deep inside the 
girl and poured out his come. I shoved my cock as deeply as I could into her 
throat, holding it there, while he shot. The girl was impaled with two cocks 
at the same time. That turned me on terrifically. 

Joe, romantic that he is, instantly pulled out. He got away from the girl's 
legs and stood up. "Now that," he said grinning, "was a fuck to remember." 

Instantly, the guy who had picked the slip with the number two on it stepped 
up to take his rightful place. When Susan saw that, she tried to get away. 
When I wouldn't let her move, she bit me. 

I have never been as angry as I was when I felt the pain shoot through my 
cock. I pulled out of her mouth, then reached down and slammed my fist 
against the side of her head. She screamed, but that had no effect on me. I 
simply went back to her, again grabbing her hair, shoving my hard cock back 
into her mouth. 

I got up on the bed and straddled her. While I was pumping my cock into her 
mouth, I reached behind me and started to maul on her tits. I honestly don't 
know what had come over me. 

As I knelt there, furiously fucking her face, I could feel the guy behind me 
mercilessly fucking into her. I knew what was happening: we were raping the 
girl. And it was the most exciting thing I had ever done in my entire life. 

I don't have to go into any more details. All that you have to know is that 
we all used that poor girl for as long as any of us wanted to. We even 
helped each other in getting her to do what anybody wanted her to do. 

When it was finally-finally-over, we all simply left the suite and went back 
to our own rooms. I don't know if we simply thought that we'd get off 
scot-free or what? I suppose we thought because Susan Powers was a whore, we 
could do anything we wanted to with her. 

The last thing I remember is seeing her stretched out on the bed, 
unconscious, when I finally left the bedroom. I was more drunk then than 
I've ever been. I headed to my own room and passed out. 

Within four hours there was a terrible banging on my door. I heard it but I 
didn't want to. My head hurt something awful. I wanted the noise to go away, 
but it didn't. The banging continued until finally I got up, very woozy, and 
answered it. Two policemen were standing outside the door. They asked me if 
I was who I am. I said I was, then asked them if they could come back later 
because I was feeling terrible. 

They didn't come back later; they arrested me. I was hauled off to the 
police department and bookedfor rape and assault. My five friends went along 
with me. 

As it turned out, Susan Powers wasn't a whore. She liked to get fucked, and 
that's what made her go along with the bit the night before at Joe's 
persuasion, but she was no whore. What she was, was a secretary to a lawyer, 
whom she had called as soon as she got home that night. She told him the 
whole story, and within two hours all six of us were in jail. 

Joe, it seems, had thought it would be fun to make a little money from his 
buddies. He talked the girl into going along with the action; then, he said, 
he'd split the money with her. I found out about that later; it was never 
mentioned at the trial. I suppose that would, in essence, have made a whore 
out of the girl. 

The end results of all this weren't as devastating as they might have been. 
The judge, I suppose, knew that a girl who was as lily-white as Susan was 
pretending to be at the trial, wouldn't have found herself in a situation to 
have what happened to her happen. All six of us were fined heavily, the 
arrest was recorded, and we were put on probation and sent home. The story, 
to my knowledge, didn't make the newspapers, thanks to the machinations of a 
very good and expensive lawyer we all hired. 

Of course, my wife had to know about it, but she was surprisingly 
understanding. She was furiously angry for as long as two weeks, but even 
that passed and she made no threats of a divorce. That all came later. 

Susan Powers must, come to think of it, have been a "swinger" in the modern 
sense of the word, because she gave me something to remember my evening with 
her by. Syphilis. Unfortunately, I didn't find out about it until after I 
had been reconciled with my wife, had impregnated her, and she had given 
birth to a hopelessly retarded and malformed child. 

That's when we went through a very horrible divorce proceedings. My wife 
didn't want money; she wanted revenge. She got it. I found it necessary to 
leave my job, move out of the state and make a new life for myself. 

I thought I had accomplished that in Ohio, but was to find out different as 
the events unfolded. 

After Dannacucci had departed and I had gotten myself together, I went to 
Ms. Tilche's house and had coffee with her. I told her of Jenkins's campaign 
manager's visit. I also told her that the man had some facts about my life 
before coming to Ohio that might be damaging. 

Ms. Tilche looked at me seriously. "I think most people are aware now," she 
said, "especially after the Watergate debacle, that they can't expect public 
office holders to be moral paragons. But at the same time, Tom, is what they 
have so bad that it can't be overcome? Or understood?" 

I shook my head. "I think I could still be elected," I said. I was reluctant 
to tell the whole story to her since I wasn't aware of just how much 
information Dannacucci had. He might have very little and if he did, there 
was no use getting panicky. 

"Maybe you ought to tell me what it's about," she said. "Let me be the 
judge. I know a little more about people's prejudices around here than you 
do." 

I told her the story without details. In fact, I barely summarized it. She 
didn't seem particularly put off by the tale. 

"Do you think they would really publish something like that?" I asked her. 

"Those people would rob their' mother's graves if they thought it would get 
them a vote," she answered. She sat in silence. 

"What do you think I should do?" I asked finally. 

"Right now, most of the voters think honesty in their candidates is the most 
important thing," she said. "Maybe if you come out into the open with this, 
it might not hurt you at all. It might even help you. They'll realize you're 
human, with failings just like they have." 

Now that I look back at it, I can't believe how naive both of us were. We 
decided to proceed with my candidacy. 

I started on the speech trail that very night. I addressed a group of women 
who had been assembled by Ms. Tilche. It was a very friendly group. I 
probably could have told them I was the devil personified and they Would 
have cheered. 

We had picked this particular group to use as a trial balloon for a speech 
that I was going to be using often. Ms. Tilche and I had written the speech 
after agreeing to continue the campaign. 

I met the ladies, received their oohs and aahs with suitable modesty, drank 
a cup of tea with them, and then gave my speech. 

"My opposition," I said in the course of my speech, "has approached me. 
They've told me that they've got some information about me that will be 
damaging to me. They've told me that if I don't withdraw from the race, 
they'll use that information, using as a vehicle a newspaper that is 
controlled by their financial interests. I want to talk about that 
information here with you tonight. I want to tell you that they've got it 
and that they'll use it. 

"Most of you know," I continued, "that I'm divorced. What you don't know is 
that it was a very heart-breaking divorce. Terrible, awful things were said 
on both sides. Little of that was true. But what was said was said in the 
heat of passion. Not much of it was meant, but unfortunately it's a matter 
of public record. I can't escape it; all I can do is throw myself in all 
honesty on your mercy. On your forgiveness. To ask you in all honesty if you 
have never made a mistake in your life like I have in mine. 

"The information those people have," I concluded, "involved a girl in Los 
Angeles, with whom I got into some degree of trouble. There were no deaths 
involved, no horrors of any kind, only subsequent personal tragedy. I ask 
you to forgive the facts of that involvement, in the same spirit as I have 
in coming before you to divulge them, with complete candor and total 
acceptance of responsibility." 

You will notice that without saying anything concrete, I'd prepared my 
audience for what I considered the worst of what could be printed. I was 
sure that Dannacucci and his group didn't have all the facts. They couldn't 
have.... 

I had subtly tied together the divorce and my involvement with Susan Powers. 
I presented it as a one plus one equals two proposition. I didn't think it 
was necessary to mention any additional fact. I realize that I wasn't being 
completely honest, but is a man supposed to expose his entire life for a 
seat on the Board of Supervisors? I thought not. 

The reaction from that group of women at the tea was overwhelming. They 
applauded until their palms ached. They gathered around the speaker's podium 
and wanted nothing more than to shake my hand, to side with me. 

"Finally we have an honest man," one of them said. She kissed me on the 
cheek. 

"We're with you all the way," several of them said. 

"Thank you for being honest with us," somebody else said. 

It was a grand evening, and suddenly I was aware of the thrills and the 
satisfaction politicians must have. It must be what keeps them working for 
elections. 

Ms. Tilche, her group and I had a meeting after the tea. "I think we've got 
them in our lap," Ms. Tilche said. She was smiling like a Cheshire cat. 

All in her group agreed. Honesty was the best policy; Dannacucci's threat 
had backfired. We were sure to beat that crowd. 

I went home that night, feeling, I think, better than I have ever felt in my 
life. 

The following morning there was a phone call. It was Dannacucci. "I called 
for your decision," he said. 

"I thought you were going to wait three days," I said, feeling very smug and 
self-satisfied. 

"We heard about your speech last night," he said. 

"We figured you've made up your mind, but I wanted to confirm it." 

"It's confirmed," I said. "And you can tell your boss and his cronies that 
I'm going to beat them into the ground. And I'm going to beat them with the 
one weapon they'd never consider using: honesty." Do you notice how much 
like a politician I was sounding already? 

At that point, the election was a month away. Every night, every afternoon 
and sometimes even in the mornings I made speeches around the county. Most 
of them were a variation of the speech I delivered at the tea party. The 
reaction to that speech was almost universally good. And still there wasn't 
a word from the opposition. I became convinced that their threats of 
publication were just that-threats-and that they wouldn't use the 
information they had. 

I worked feverishly during that period to come up with some program of 
progress that I could present to the voters. I wanted them to have a reason 
to vote for me; I wanted to tell them what I was going to do for them and 
with them. Together, we would make society work in our county. I offered 
programs on everything, and they all were accepted with rousing enthusiasm. 
Ms. Tilche said I had it "made in the shade." 

Four days before the election, there was a copy of a small newspaper on my 
front step when I got up in the morning. I suppose I stared at it for ten 
minutes on the front porch before coming to my senses and going back into 
the house. There were three photographs on the front page, along with a 
lurid headline. The photographs were of me, of my wife and of Susan Powers. 
In the story on the front page, and the continuation of it on four different 
pages, was spelled out every infinitesimal detail of my involvement. They 
even mentioned the real reason for my divorce and had a photograph of a 
retarded and deformed child on page four. It wasn't my son, but that didn't 
make any difference. 

Ms. Tilche stopped by a half hour later. She along with everybody else in 
the county had seen the paper. Free copies were delivered to everybody. 

"Will, we have to go on," she said. "It's too late to stop now." 

"I've outlined a four-year program that, if implemented, will turn this 
county into a model community," I said. "That should count for something." 

"I'm sure it will," Ms, Tilche said. 

"We have to throw ourselves on the good sense and the fairness of the 
voters," I said. "They'll recognize Jenkins's effort for what it is, a 
smear." 

"Maybe they will," Ms. Tilche said. 

On election day, there were seventy-two thousand, four hundred and eight 
ballots cast. I lost the election by sixty-four thousand votes.... 

* * * 

Of course it's easy to say that, after Watergate, almost any amount of 
political "dirty tricks" would be easily believable by the majority of the 
American public, and yet the realization of the true effects of this kind of 
corruption is hardly ever felt until it strikes close to home. It's easy to 
read of high jinks in Washington, but when it happens to your own home town 
or district, it is an entirely different matter! 

Imagine, then, what running for office must be like when there is some 
element of corruption to deal with along the way. 

Tom's experiences in a county supervisor race illustrate the awesome 
challenge involved. Becoming a candidate more or less as a response to a 
dare, Tom quickly finds out what corruption and politics can do when they 
are solidly joined together. His experience brought him total ruin. Not only 
was his privacy violated, not only did he lose his job, but he lost the 
election by about 90% of the votes! 

At the heart of his opponent's attack was a carefully timed smear about 
Tom's divorce and personal tragedy over an almost unwitting involvement in a 
gang rape. Tom realized all the time that publication of this information 
would ruin his chances for winning completely; however, he never thought 
that his opponents had the necessary political clout to unearth the complete 
story from the records. Tom failed to adequately research his opposition. 
While Tom relied on sensible issues and democratic gestures of sharing the 
power for his campaign, the opposition had an organization much as that 
described by Stephen Shad-egg in his book How to Win an Election: 

No campaign manager ... can wage an intelligent offensive until he has 
equipped himself with every shred of available information about his 
opponent. ... It is necessary to employ a research staff with highly 
specialized competence. 

A librarian with the ability to organize the information so that it will be 
instantly available should be placed in charge of the files. A lawyer, 
newspaperman or someone skilled in investigating, who is capable of going 
behind the public information, should be selected to develop the personal 
history of the opposing candidate. 

Shadegg goes on to describe how a special staff is formed whose sole purpose 
is providing the campaign manager and candidate with any pertinent 
information regarding the other candidate which might have some influence on 
the outcome of the election. In addition, another staff is assigned the duty 
of constantly monitoring all advertisements and campaign literature that 
comes out of the other camp, to determine how best to reply to charges and 
also how to take advantage of policy slip-ups which the other candidate may 
have made in the literature. 

Tom may have also benefited from some campaign literature that would have 
helped build up some support for his position as an "honest candidate." Part 
of the effectiveness of his opponent's smear would no doubt have been 
nullified if Tom had adequately prepared the constituency in advance. Since 
he was a political "unknown" with no past record to show the public. Tom's 
only chance at success was to build up an image of himself as an able and 
sincere candidate, the kind of man who would bring many benefits to the 
county. With a full-scale publicity campaign behind him, the last minute 
smear charges would, to many voters, have seemed unbelievable. 

Especially important would have been a competently prepared campaign 
biography designed to dispel any rumor of immorality in his past. Every 
election is filled with all sorts of propaganda, from all sorts of groups 
and organizations, but the campaign biography probably does more than any 
other sort of advertising to build up a positive image for a candidate. As 
William Brown states in his book on the presidential election process The 
People's Choice: 

Less boisterous than the songs, less spectacular than the banners and 
torchlights, less stirring than the oratory and the slogans, the campaign 
biography endures, gathering dust on library shelves. But of equal 
importance with its less ephemeral nature is the fact that it provides the 
most extensive amount of information about the candidate that is furnished 
to the voter in a single package during a campaign. 

Almost all campaign biographies look alike, they all claim the same virtues 
and strengths for their candidates, they all try to associate the candidate 
with the best interests of the people. As Brown explains: "They are engaged 
in the creation of a symbol-a symbol compounded of a large number of the 
ideas, beliefs, images, ideals, and emotions that the American public 
reveres ... they create out of the raw material of the candidate's real life 
the biography of an ideal citizen of the Republic." 

Tom's entire campaign could be said to have been run on a surprise basis. 
Tom didn't actively pursue the nomination, he didn't actively pursue the 
office, and when he was presented with the possibility of a smear unless he 
withdrew, he didn't bother to realize that the opposition meant business. 
This is not the way to run a political campaign, and anyone who thinks that 
only honesty and a sense of competency is needed to run for office in this 
country has been sadly misinformed as to the true nature of the political 
process in this country. 

For the average citizen, success in politics is impossible without some 
capital and organization. Also crucial is the effect a good campaign manager 
has on the outcome of the election. In many ways, the campaign manager who 
has had some professional experience is a better source of vote-getting 
power than even the candidate himself. As David Rosenbloom puts it in his 
book on campaign managers, The Election Men: 

The managers believe that they understand the needs of the campaign much 
better than the candidate. Indeed they may. Most professional managers have 
been involved in many more campaigns than the candidates. They think that 
candidates who interfere with running the campaigns are foolish and they 
resent the amateurism of candidates. 

In short, elections are won not by candidates, but by politicians. The 
American citizen can participate in the electoral process and run for office 
if he wants to, but he can't approach the system with a naive attitude. This 
is why most politicians now in office have had substantial careers either in 
law or business, where the give and take of the manipulation of power can be 
learned and absorbed. 

Minority groups have the same kind of problems that Tom faced when vying for 
political power within the system. Women, for instance, when organized into 
a political caucus, often become factors at the national political 
conventions, but because they lack knowledge of the parliamentary procedures 
and behind-the-scenes manipulations that go on during the convention, they 
find that their votes, supposedly given only for issues and candidates which 
favor the political advancement of women, somehow get lost in the 
procedures. 

During the Democratic campaign of 1972, for instance, the women's caucus 
decided to test their power at the convention by attempting to change the 
apportionment of the various state delegations to reflect a more pro-female 
basis. They picked one state, South Carolina, where they felt anti-female 
discrimination was at its most noticeable level. The McGovern forces, 
wishing to please the women's caucus, decided to make the apportionment of 
the South Carolina delegation a procedural issue to come to vote before the 
convention. 

However, the vote, when it did come, was more of a test of how many 
convention delegates the McGovern forces had sewn up than it was a test of 
the power of the women's caucus. The McGovern forces, hoping to give their 
opposition a false impression of their number of delegates, decided that it 
would be best if they lost the vote on the South Carolina delegation 
apportionment. So the women lost their influence at the convention, not 
because of any issue, but purely for tactical reasons on the part of the 
McGovern forces. 

Because the anti-McGovern forces thought, by the loss on the South Carolina 
vote, that McGovern didn't yet have the convention sewed up, they failed to 
take special precautions against an early vote for the Presidential 
nomination, which McGovern won handily, now that his delegates were 
permitted to vote for him. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

On the Backs of Envelopes 

It was during one of those campaigns back in 1968 that Ishmael-let's call 
him Ishmael-got his baptism of fire in political campaigning. He was one of 
"the team" backing up this local guy running for a congressional seat. 
Ishmael felt himself in the halls of statesmanship, the corridors of power. 

"I've got my fingers," he said one evening after four martinis straight up, 
"on the pulse of the American mainstream." Ishmael was a tireless worker, a 
good man despite such frequently hashed metaphors. He was an even six feet, 
spoke straight from the shoulder, and had a firm handshake and a disarming 
Elvis Presley smile that won over men and matrons alike. He set up drinks 
for the house on his twenty-first birthday. Having thus blown his expenses 
and salary for the week, he lived on hors d'oeuvres and ice water for three 
days. "Horse doovres," he smiled with a waggish wink, and bummed cigarettes. 

During that week he initiated hot macaroni and cheese casseroles and sturdy 
mounds of chopped liver for the goodie table. He loved chopped liver on 
seedless rye. Kosher dills and German potato salad. "Fewer frills," he 
admonished. But the public taste demanded barbecue chips and onion dip. 

"Fresh fruit," he muttered the second day of his hors d'oeuvres diet. 
Shaving, he checked the whites of his eyes in the mirror. He bared his teeth 
and poked at his gums with a finger. "Fresh milk." 

That afternoon, after the speech, there was fresh fruit on the goodie table. 
Crisp Jonathan apples, Washington delicious, oranges, bananas, grapes-"Union 
picked, I presume," said someone. And burnished crystal pitchers of ice-cold 
fresh milk. Which was a nice touch since the speech had been made in an area 
known for its dairy products. 

"Jesus, I hate chopped liver," said the candidate to one of his aides. 
Ishmael's eternal smile froze for the briefest instant. He didn't set up 
drinks for the house again. 

But the casseroles and the chopped liver remained a staple of serve-yourself 
buffet. For Ishmael had a winning way with every damn female he met. The 
young ones-those between fifteen and thirty-regarded him with idolatry or 
lust. The older ones wanted to fatten him up or talk about his education. 
Those girls on the team who were charged with setting up the buffet and 
goodies had taken a special proprietary interest in Ishmael. "Ishie," they 
called him, and patted him on his firm tummy. They were always straightening 
his wide tie, purple, brown, and yellow, inspired by some designer's acid 
trip, no doubt. 

The girls. They would come, I suppose, under the heading of public 
relations, although one heard an occasional pun about that. Two of the girls 
did have degrees in political science and were frequently to be heard 
discussing demographic charts and statistics. They were dedicated young 
ladies, and hard put to find the time to get their clothes dry-cleaned as 
often as they perhaps should have. They gave off strong aromas of White 
Shoulders and Mitsuko. 

One of these-Tanya, she called herself-was not, however, inured to Ishmael's 
bear-cub appeal. Tanya wore her dark hair in a rather severe ponytail, drawn 
back tightly from her forehead. She stood around at the buffet gatherings, 
her green eyes flicking constantly around the room, occasionally flashing a 
fierce Eastern European smile, holding a martini in one hand and smoking 
cigarettes with a controlled vehemence picked up from some early Bette Davis 
film. Once in a rare while, if you happened to be standing next to her at 
the onion dip, you might hear her mutter, in response to some particularly 
witless remark by the candidate across the room: "Oh fuck," just before she 
popped a piece of zwieback into her sweetly smiling mouth. 

Ishmael was an assistant to the press relations man, or something like that, 
and considered it his duty to listen assiduously to whoever wanted to spout 
off about anything at these little informal bashes-"keeping the ear to the 
grass roots," he called it. If one were more selective in his eavesdropping, 
one might pick up all sorts of insights into human nature. 

One night after a speech to the chamber of commerce they went back to the 
hospitality suite with a select group of local tycoons and potential 
contributors to our candidate's chances. A quick check showed there'd be 
about twelve or fifteen rather oiled and noisy tycoons to eat the chips and 
swill the booze. A call to the "Greeter Girls" made sure that there would be 
booze, ice, goodies, and girls to greet. 

The Greeter Girls, now, performed peripheral, but essential, functions. They 
made, uh, people feel welcome. If the affair was a big one, they wore 
outfits of red, white, and blue. If there were going to be a lot of 
German-Americans, for example, they would wear dirndls. Polish-Americans, 
something Polish. Irish-Americans, something neutral between green and 
orange. Smile a lot and avoid all serious discussion. But they, too, kept 
their "ear close to the heartbeat of America," as Ishmael unwittingly put it 
once. 

There were three in particular who had more generous expense accounts than 
the other girls. Of course the candidate had no inkling of that arrangement. 
There were very few who knew about them, the girls, or the arrangement. 

One of them was about forty-late thirties maybe-but could have passed for 
twenty-five or so. There were special plans for her-special plans in what 
some people might call the "dirty tricks department." She was very well 
built and possessed a well-preserved shape. Roz, let's call her. Her field 
was political science, post-graduate, of a very basic nature. 

Another was Martie-Martine she called herself, but Martie for short. She was 
a hand shaker and palm tickler. Had this trick of shaking your hand and 
drawing her fingertips across your palm as she pulled away. Used to drive 
guys wild. Sweet, innocent-looking, dimple-cheeked, flaxen-haired Martie. 
Looked milk-fed and barely old enough to vote. She had, in fact, been born 
and raised in Cicero, Illinois, where her dad had been found one day in a 
field with several holes and a few slugs in him. She'd gone to a school of 
hard knocks in South Chicago. Looking at her dimples, her big blue eyes, and 
lily-of-the-valley complexion, though, you'd never guess it. 

She and Tanya got along great. Martie admired Tanya's mind, her tough wit, 
her refusal to cater to anyone, Tanya, for her part, got a charge out of 
Martie's acting ability, saw right away through the dimples and big blue 
eyes. One evening, early on the campaign trail, standing by the usual spot 
near the bourbon bottle, one could overhear Tanya and Martie conversing at 
the onion dip, catching a snippet of talk here and there. At one point, 
Tanya laughed throatily and said, "Martie, what a lovely fraud you are." 
Martie regarded her with an expressionless face and blue eyes gone suddenly 
cold. Then she, too, laughed, and said, "Well, at least I'm lovely. And from 
you that's something." Both girls laughed and got along famously from then 
on. 

When the group arrived that night from the banquet hall, the hospitality 
suite was buzzing warmly with an atmosphere that made you think the Greeter 
Girls had been preparing festivities for an hour. The girls' costumes, you 
noted, were miniskirts or patriotically chic pantsuits. Roz, in particular, 
looked ravishing in well-tailored blue blazer and tight red-pants. She had 
an outfit of red blazer and blue pants for less casual gatherings. Martie 
and a couple other Greeter Girls had thrown on sweaters and miniskirts. 

They'd been wakened out of an early sleep and were trying their best to be 
bright, alert, and cheerful. All of them were trying, that is, except Tanya, 
who never tried to be anything but herself, and Martie, whose polite face 
showed signs of strain until she'd thrown down three quick martinis. One 
might almost think that she'd been roused from some between-the-sheets 
activity other than sleep. And if you had a soft spot in your heart for her, 
that spot might have felt a twinge. 

And if your heart had felt a twinge, you too might have thrown down four 
quick bourbon and waters. 

Ishmael was there, looking somewhat more fuckily bear-cubbish than usual. He 
was coming down with sniffles, and his eyes were red. He hadn't eaten much, 
at dinner, of the tough roast beef and library-paste potatoes. He was 
sipping steadily on Scotch and beginning to sweat. He was listening 
earnestly to some young chamber of commerce type whose collar was too tight 
for him. 

The grown-ups were gathered in a corner over drinks and cigars. Ah, one 
reflected, the smoke-filled room, the corridors of power. How alone one felt 
in them at times. 

"Great speech tonight, hey, Luke?" 

"Right on, it was." 

Tanya, breaking away from the cigar-smoking group, made for the zwieback and 
onion dip, passing Martie on the way. As she passed she turned to where 
Ishmael and the chamber of commerce were close in deep consultation. She 
made a pouty love-bite motion at him, flaring her nostrils. Martie laughed, 
stifling most of the noise but nearly spilling her drink. 

"I know what you mean," said Martie in a low voice that was barely audible 
at the bourbon bottle. "I'd like to sit on that Apollo face for about twenty 
minutes just to see if the muscles in his neck-" 

"Went up into his head?" inquired Tanya bitchy-sweetly. 

They both chuckled. 

"Well, yes, in a way," said Martie. "If he's got muscles like that in his 
tongue-" 

"Yes, yes," said Tanya. "Maybe we could work out some sort of time-sharing 
plan on that body. The poor boy. All work and no play. He's coming down with 
a cold. He needs exercise." 

They talked in near-whispers for a few moments. 

Sometimes one had enough of politics and might be excused for sneaking out 
of the hospitality suite to grab a couple quick belts at the bar where the 
talk is more likely to center around the football season, the noontime 
squash game, or the merits of dichondra in the lawn. One might be forgiven 
for grabbing eight or ten quick belts to relax before falling into bed. And 
one might even be forgiven for staggering into the wrong room, Martie's 
room, especially when her room was right next to one's own and her door had 
been left open. 

And if one realized his mistake only on hanging up his jacket and seeing 
that the other hangers were hung with women's clothes, and if one 
furthermore heard the approach of whispered voices in the hallway, could one 
not be excused for slipping into the closet and sliding the door almost 
closed, leaving a half inch of space where one might view the goings-on in 
the room, especially when one was in politics, where, as in love and war, 
all is fair? One could, one tends to think. 

Martie and Ishmael came in quietly, talking in low voices. Martie closed the 
door, locked it. 

"Now, Ishie, you just lie down and take off your shoes." 

"No, really, Martie, I don't feel tired at all." He was perspiring. Dumb 
oaf. 

"Ishie, I don't want to hear any arguments from you." Martie loosened his 
tie, took off his jacket, pushed him gently onto the bed, and took off his 
shoes. "You are going to come down with one helluva cold if you don't take 
care of yourself." She smiled at him, innocently. "And then what would 
happen to our grass-roots listening post?" 

Ishie sniffled. 

"Now you lie back while I get a couple of cold tablets." 

She undid his collar and he lay back. 

He watched her as she walked to the bathroom, her hips rolling and her 
thighs whispering against each other. He relaxed and yawned. 

There was the sound of running water from the bathroom. Then a splash. 

"Darn," came Martie's voice. 

"What happened?" said Ish. 

"Nothing. You just relax now." 

Maybe the running water had done it. The kidneys in the closet suddenly 
began to feel the urge to be tapped, the bladder to feel uncomfortable. 
Jesus, there was a hatbox on the floor. And a make-up case. Waterproof? 

"Here now," said Martie. "You take these." 

Ish sat up and was about to say something. 

"And I don't want to hear any arguments," Martie said firmly, although 
arguing was probably not what Ish had in mind. 

Martie was wearing, when she came out of the bathroom a sort of tie-on 
halter bra about the size of two finger-bowl doilies, and a towel that 
covered her from her hip line to just low enough. 

"But what-Why-" Ish was flustered. 

"I spilled water on me." She popped the pills into Ishie's open mouth. 

The full bladder in the closet was forgotten. 

Martie had the kind of body the Chicago strip joints used to flip over when 
a chick had it. Nice, balloon-y tits, but not cow-like. What people used to 
call like "tits on a heifer," or maybe like a balloon that was only half 
blown up, kind of pear-like, where the small end of the pear was the 
crowning nipple flesh of the tit, and the nipple itself poked out like the 
last knuckle of your finger. Of course, you couldn't see the nipples, with 
those finger-bowl doilies on them, but you could see them pushing out the 
material of the halter and you knew they were there. 

Then there was the soft rise of plumpish tummy flesh that rolled out over 
the top of the towel, not in a roll of lard but in a firm ridge of pattable, 
kissable, teen-like tummy. The hips were wide, generous, made to bear and 
swing a lot of weight The ass was what one might justifiably call a work of 
art. Proud, high, firm, with the ass cleft beginning high up and wedging out 
in a secret dampness wherein nestled honey-colored hair that gave off a 
heady aroma of cornfields in August covered with maple syrup. 

How did bursting bladder in the closet, hiding and spying, know this? 
Because bursting bladder had peeled Martie like an onion. Under the layer of 
baby blue eyes, carefully nurtured for public consumption, was a thin layer 
of sadism and masochism. And under that was a substantial thickness of 
philosopher and wit, and at the core was a center of still frightened, lost 
little girl, who had loved her daddy and couldn't understand how anybody 
could be so mean as to shoot him six times and dump him in a cold and lonely 
field. 

Yes, Martie's ass and her thighs, her legs, were all of them works of art. 
Upon which one was wont to seize in moments of approaching rapture and lift 
and heft and squeeze and perhaps-of the legs, at least, the knees-to press 
back against the straining shoulders so as to get a clear shot for the final 
battering-ram strokes, the ones that would make her baby-blue eyes widen in 
lust and amazement and finally roll back in her head while the throbbing 
veins in her neck testified to the pressure of passion in her climaxing 
cardiovascular system. 

So bursting bladder spied, and spying the look of venery he'd known, stifled 
his whimpering in the closet. 

There, by God-over in the corner-an empty gin bottle. Beefeater, by the 
looks of it. Which was not surprising, since Beefeater was the brand Mark 
always had for the goodie table. Mark, as we shall call him, was the 
hospitality chairman, among whose duties it was to know people-people like 
Ishmael and Tanya, or like Roz and Martie, and who always saw to it that 
some potential large contributor's favorite brand of booze was conspicuously 
on the goodie table, and his favorite brand of Greeter Girl conspicuously on 
hand to greet and swell his ego. 

Oh shit. There was a good half inch of gin in the bottle. Martie was now 
seated on the edge of the bed, smoothing Ishie's brow. And-ooooh!-her raised 
leg had lifted the towel so as to present a panoramic beaver shot to the 
crack in the closet door. Oh, lucky closet-door crack; oh, unlucky Ishmael 
sniffling and sweating on the bed. 

Bursting bladder tilted the gin bottle up and drained the fiery liquid in 
two gulps. He unzipped his fly to relieve his bladder into the now empty gin 
bottle. 

"Hey! What-" came Ishmael's voice from beyond the crack in the closet door. 

The bursting bladder was forgotten. The voyeur was involved. Or was it the 
consummate politician, observing, taking mental notes? 

"Just relax, Ishie," came the sweet, baby-blue-eyes voice as Martie sprawled 
over Ishmael, pressing her pear-shaped heifer tits against him, throwing a 
thigh atop his groin to reveal a panorama of pink and honey crotch where 
angels sang and incense burned in every fold. 

"What're you doing?" asked Ishmael idiotically. "I'm seducing you, dummy," 
said Martie in a low, sweet voice. 

"Oh." His bear-cubbish hands relaxed on her shoulders. 

Now that he'd gotten his calloused fingers on the pulsebeat of that one, 
he'd decided to find out what the pulse said. 

"Put your ear to the grass roots, dummy," thought bursting bladder in the 
closet. 

"I swear, Ishie," said Martie, "you'd think you never had a girl before in 
your life. 

"I'm just not used to drinking so much Scotch." 

"You mean you're embarrassed, or incapable?" Martie reached a practiced hand 
to Ishmael's belt and undid the buckle, unzipped the fly, probed beneath the 
waistband of decorative boxer shorts. 

Ishmael gave an "umphf I" and grabbed the headboard with both hands. But 
Martie had him in a four-point pin-both hands on his shoulders, a thigh on 
his groin, and warm, moist lips pressing firmly on his mouth. There was no 
escape, and Ishmael relaxed by slow degrees. 

By degrees not so slow, his manhood poked from the fly of his boxer 
shorts-Marie had lifted her thigh to stretch out beside him and hump his 
hipbone while she probed in his ear with her tongue-and rose to impressive 
proportions 

Martie deftly unbuttoned his shirt. She pulled it over his shoulders with 
his T-shirt. She buried her face in the bear-cubby hair on his chest and 
went. "Hnnnnh." 

Ishmael, with awkward bicycling motions of his legs, was managing to get his 
pants off. His arms were cooperating with him now, and they roamed over 
Martie's supple body, caressed the pink and milky flesh. He unbuttoned, at 
last, the halter she wore. Her towel had already been dropped by defter and 
more practiced fingers. 

Then she caught sight of Ishie's erection waving proudly in the air. 

"Good Christ!" she said. She grabbed the sides and back of his shorts and 
pulled them over his ass. At least he raised himself a little to help her. 
Then slowly, gently, she lifted the fly over his stiff dick and pulled the 
front of his shorts down to his thighs. 

One might be forgiven a pang of jealousy at seeing the rampaging manhood of 
youth with which one had been so prodigal many birthdays ago. 

Martie, in one quick, no-nonsense move, whipped Ishmael's shorts off and 
threw them across the room, where they landed with a whiffy whisper of Old 
Spice at the foot of the crack in the closet door. 

"Jesus, what a cock!" said Martie. Then she gave a throaty laugh. "You're 
not incapable at all." 

"It's the Scotch," said Ish. "Maybe I'm coming down with a cold. Hey, I hope 
I don't give you my cold." 

Martie eyed him with a venereal leer. "We'll see if we can't come up with 
something." 

She picked up a bottle of baby oil from the bedside table and applied a few 
drops between her milk-and-honey tits. She threw herself across Ishie's 
thigh and, holding one glistening breast in each hand, squeezed his erection 
between them and hobbled them up and down. Ish groaned. His heavy balls 
danced in his scrotum. 

"You like?" Martie grinned. 

"I like," he panted. 

She applied her pouty, sweet lips to the red knob of Ish's cock and with a 
few bobs of her head had half his pole glistening in the soft light from the 
corner lamp. 

"Hdh-oooh!" said Ishmael. 

"Feel good, huh?" 

"Feels fantastic!" 

She eyed his genitals hungrily, dandled his "Large scrotum in her hand, 
caressed his loins and chest. She applied her mouth to his erection again, 
swirling a tongue that made bulges in her cheeks and plopping sounds when it 
slipped out between her avidly working lips. 

Slowly, keeping a steady up-and-down, going on his tool, she eased her 
thighs around till they were pressing against his shoulder. With a gentle 
move she lifted one rose-and-cream thigh and slid it across his face. 

"Hey, what-" said idiot. 

"What what?" said Martie, licking the length of his shaft with a practiced, 
trembling tongue. "What are you doing?" 

"I'm sticking your cock." There was an edge of annoyance in her sweet voice. 
"But, I mean-" 

"What do you mean?" with a gentle hump of her mons against his breastbone, 
and a trembling application of tongue to his frenum. 

"Your legs are ... they're in the wrong position." 

Martie lifted her head from Ish's groin and stared into the distance for a 
second or two. Then she wheeled off his body, being careful to keep a gentle 
tickle going at his scrotum. 

"Ishmael," she said sweetly. "How many girls have you been with before?" 

"Oh lots," he said. "Four." 

"I mean, you've made love. You slept with them, as the saying goes." 

"Oh, yeah." 

"But, you know, that doesn't really mean sleeping with them." 

"Yeah. I know." 

"But, Ish, honey. You mean you've never eaten pussy before? You never licked 
some lucky girl's cunt?" 

"Oh. No." 

She gave an angelic smile touched with venery. 

"Well." She stroked his penis. "You have come to the right person for your 
first lesson in pussy licking." She knelt and crawled forward, letting his 
eyes glide over the firm flesh of her belly, the corn silk hair of her mons. 

"I dunno," said idiot. 

"If you don't know, it's about time you found out, Ishmael." She spoke 
slowly and gently, sweetly as one might speak to a six-year-old boy. 
"There's nothing dirty about it. You know that, don't you?" 

"Well, yeah. I've heard a lot of guys talk about it." 

"I've got a confession to make, Ishie." 

"Yeah?" He watched the approaching thatch of corn silk hair as though it 
might suddenly jump out and pinch him. 

"When I was in the bathroom, I really didn't spill water all over myself." 

"No?" 

"I washed my pussy with soap and water, so it'd be nice and fresh and sweet 
for you." 

"For me?" 

"Who else, dummy?" She hoisted a leg and straddled his chest. 

His eyes grew wide. In spite of himself, he ran his hands over her silky 
flanks, cupped her firm and proudly nippled heifer breasts. She moaned. 

"You're learning fast, Ishie," she said. She settled her work-of-art ass 
more firmly on the bear-cub hair of his chest. Her crotch left a glistening 
trail as it slithered toward his chin. 

"It smells like-" He sniffed, and sniffed again. 

The idiot sneezed. 

Martie's body stiffened. She spread her thighs and lowered her head to see 
what sneezy hachoo might have sullied her freshly washed cornsilk pubes. 
None apparently. 

"Sorry," sniffled idiot. "But it smells like." 

"Like cunt, Ishmael." She pushed her pubes closer to his trembling lips. 
"Like clean, fresh pussy. That you're dying to lick, I can just tell." 

"It smells like perfume. That's what made me sneeze-" 

"Oh God!" said Martie with an exquisite amalgam of impatience, disgust, and 
passion. She lifted her ass forward abruptly and applied the petals of her 
labia to Ishmael's chin. "Now stick out your tongue and lick right at the 
top of that nice, pretty slit!" 

The tone of her voice brooked no delay. 

Ishmael snaked out about four inches of tongue and applied it vigorously to 
the upper crevices and folds of her sweet twat. 

A gasp broke from Martie's lips. Her body shuddered all over. 

"Hot shit!" she exclaimed. "I've got me the tongue of a horny bull. Oh, hot 
shit, hot shit, hot shit!" 

She lifted herself on her hands, ground her crotch heavily into Ishmael's 
face. The sloshing and slurping, the gasps and groans, were quite audible at 
the crack in the closet door. 

"Those fucking muscles do go all the way into your head," she cried. 

One feared she might be heard down the hall. 

As if to confirm those fears, the door to the room opened swiftly and a 
shadowy figure hurried inside and closed the door with only the tiniest 
click of a sound. The figure approached the bed. Bursting bladder in the 
closet wondered what to do. 

"Good Christ," said the shadowy figure, no longer so shadowy now. "I just 
knew he was hung like a bull." 

It was Tanya, arriving like some succubus that had been waiting in the wings 
for its cue. 

She began to undress with a rapidity that was truly startling. Zip, snap, 
plump, thump, and she was standing in the middle of the floor naked as the 
day she was born. 

"Huh, what-" blubbered Ishmael, pulling his mouth from the slobber of 
Martie's crotch. 

"It's only Tanya," said Martie with a touch of desperation in her voice. She 
tried to press her glowing labia to Ishmael's tongue again. 

"But," insisted idiot, "what's she doing here?" He strained his neck to see 
around Martie's enveloping firm thighs. 

"She wants to fuck you, dummy. Now shut up and eat me!" 

"But," spluttered Ish, "this is highly irregular!" 

"Ishmael," said Martie in a steely voice. "Now don't be a party pooper. 
Don't you like to fuck, for God's sake?" 

"Yeah, but-" 

"But, nothing!" gritted Martie. "Unless it's my butt you want." 

Whereupon she scooted herself forward, spread the work-of-art cheeks of her 
ass, and settled her anus firmly on Ishmael's protesting mouth. He continued 
to make noises, but they were not so protesting now. The bastard was really 
learning fast. He loved to eat cunt. He was a natural. His erection throbbed 
mightily in the soft light. 

"Good Christ!" shouted Martie. 

"Jesus God," said Tanya in reverence. 

Though Tanya was as naked as the day she was born, she was by no stretch of 
the imagination built the way she was at that time of happy parturition. 

How she had managed to conceal a figure like that during the weeks of 
campaigning, bursting bladder in the closet was at a loss to explain. 

Her tits were not as heifer-like or milk-and-roses as Martie's, but they 
were also high .and firm, tipped with dark, date-like nipples. Her waist and 
hips, her belly, showed signs that she might well have done gymnastics for 
extracurricular relaxation, in between her classes in statistics and 
political science. 

She had a dancer's legs. The legs of a jazz or ballet dancer. Not as long 
and lithe, as Martie's, but with rippling muscles that promised pneumatic 
ecstasy to anyone lucky enough to fall between them. 

"God," she groaned. "Sweet, hot, thick, huge, throbbing cock!" And she threw 
herself on the bed, rubbing her erect nipples along Ish's hairy thighs, 
cradling his heavy scrotum in tender hands, tonguing the plum-purple glans 
with loving kindness. 

Martie had by now settled her crotch solidly on Ish's face and was washing 
her pussy around on him with revolving motions of her powerful hips. She 
humped forward a couple times, making squealing noises. There was a sheen of 
sweat on her shoulders. 

"Good Christ Almighty," she said, "you've got to try this hunk of tongue 
first chance you get," 

"In good time, Martine, in good time. First things first." 

She straddled Ish's thighs, eased the plum-like head of his dick into the 
thick tangle of black pubic bush that thatched her crotch. 

Slowly, slowly, one could see the impressive pole disappear into the 
bush-inch by veiny inch-until the balls were snugged up tight against 
Tanya's generous pudenda. And Tanya's eyes grew wide in smoky green 
disbelief, her jaw sagged. 

"God," she said hoarsely. "I don't know if I can take all this cock." 

"Whoo-ooooo!" rasped Martie, flailing her crotch onto Ish's chin, "give me 
about two more seconds and I'll take it!" She humped and whaled. "I'll take 
a prize yearling bull in about two seconds! Yes, Ish, yet!" 

"Never mind," said Tanya, settling more comfortably onto Ish's tool, her 
body relaxing, her pelvis beginning a slow primeval surge. Her face folded 
into an expression of relaxed ecstasy. She closed her eyes and communed with 
far-off Eastern European orgies. Her long, dark hair fell over her shoulders 
and tossed from side to side as she humped. 

"Hmpf-Hmph!/" went Ishmael, grunting his passion into Martie's soggy crotch. 
He began to pump with his hips and Tanya posted her heaving stallion with 
dreamy venery. 

Martie turned suddenly with an alacrity that was surprising. She stuck her 
glorious ass out and tilted her pelvis at an angle that must've pressed her 
pubic bone sharply against Ishmael's chin. Her mouth opened and the veins in 
her neck throbbed. 

Ishmael reached, up with both hands and grabbed her pear-ballooned, 
heifer-nippled tits and squeezed them in an increasingly rapid rhythm. 

Tanya twirled her ass around until she looked more like a belly dancer than 
a statistician. The dreamy look turned to one of urgency. Both girls were 
facing the same direction now, riding the humping, heaving frame of Ishmael, 
one-Martie-pressing her ass-jutting crotch with intense concentration onto 
his noisy face, the other-Tanya-whipping turgid cunt along raging cock with 
lolloping strokes that threatened to wrench his cock from its foundations. 
Both were busy with their fingers in their respective ass-holes or 
clitorises. 

It was then one noticed the red, white, and blue sign across the street, 
blinking through the half-open blinds, added its own qualities of unreality 
to the ruttish scene. 

With gasps, groans, and a muffled yell the trio vaulted into climax. There 
were wet slappings and breathy shuddering. 

"Lick it! Suck it! Fuck--Hoh! Shii-iii-iiii!" 

"Ohmigod, omigod-oh! my! God." 

"Mmmmm-mmmph ! " 

It seemed as though Martie would dislocate Ishie's nose or jaw. She 
shuddered and bumped uncontrollably on his face. Tanya, gripping Ishie's 
sturdy knees for leverage, thudded her pubes and pelvis into his groin, 
moaning every time his heavy scrotum twitched in ecstasy. A paste began to 
ooze from the hairy, pink connection. 

As the trio vaulted, writhed and finally drooped in enervating climax, the 
flashing sign across the street gave expressive counterpoint. 

Martie rolled off Ishmael's face with a sigh, revealing a red and slightly 
roughened but unbruised visage. Ishie wore a gluey, glowy smile. 

"Jesus, Ishie," said Martie, smoothing his rumpled hair, "what a tongue 
you've got!" 

Ishie smiled and sighed. Bursting bladder suddenly wanted desperately to 
piss into the gin bottle. 

"The cock is rather first-rate, too," mused Tanya sleepily. "My little old 
honey-pot is full of warm come." 

Ishie began to snore softly and bursting bladder gritted his teeth. 

Within minutes the sleepy threesome was snoring in happy concert. Bursting 
bladder could hold it no longer. Figuring the noise would cover any tinkling 
sound he made, he let go into the gin bottle. When he'd pissed a fifth or 
so, he sphinctered himself off and sighed with deep relief. 

He tucked the bottle under his Hart, Schaffner, and Marx jacket, tippy-toed 
to the door, and let himself out with scarcely a noise. He found an exit 
stairway and set the pissfull gin bottle in an out-of-the-way corner where 
whoever found it could blame it on the party of the opposing candidate as 
well as on theirs. 

Feeling rather sobered and in need of another quick nightcap to insure 
sleep, he went up a flight to the floor where the hospitality booth was. One 
or two drunken stragglers were weaving homeward at the late hour, but no one 
recognized him as a member of his candidate's team. 

Who should he suddenly see rounding the corner, three sheets to the wind, 
but Roz, walking steadily and swing-hipped, albeit unfocused, old pro that 
she was. He felt a clutch of lust in his middle. 

"Roz, baby," he said, throwing an arm carelessly around her waist. 

"Hi, doll," she said, focusing and recognizing him. 

"Been busy?" he asked politely. 

She eyed him unsurely for a second, then apparently decided that no insult 
was meant. "No," she sighed. "Just boozing a lot." 

"Tired?" he asked solicitously. 

She nodded. 

"But not sleepy?" he suggested with a tight smile. 

She eyed him warily, then smiled. "Oh, baby, I thought you'd never get 
around to it. I've got a soft spot for you, you know?" 

"And I've got a hard spot for you. Your place, or mine?" 

She laughed. "Yours. You know mine is bugged." 

So was found his evening of love that night. It was intense and lusty, 
inventive and professional, with no word spoken except for a lioness growl 
and grip when Roz was seized by climax. She kissed him in sisterly fashion 
as he left. 

"It's not often I get such a bang out of politics," she smiled. 

It was then that he heard about the plan being evolved for the next night or 
two, a plan involving Roz and one of the chief aides in the camp of the 
opposition candidate. It was a plan straight out of the bag of dirty tricks, 
a bag toted around by the teams of both candidates. 

"Now, doll," said Roz, "he's got a wife and kids and he's a sweet guy. So 
see if you can ask around-discreetly-and squelch this thing before it gets 
finalized." Roz was a cliche-the pro with a heart of gold. 

The next night, lurking around the goodie table, keeping his ear to the 
pulse of his own campaign team, he probed to discover any plans afoot for 
the sweet-guy aide with a wife and kids. He could find out nothing 
discreetly, so, being unwilling to come right out and discover anything 
discreetly, found out nothing. Roz would have to go along with whatever 
nefarious plan was "finalized." 

He did, however, discover that Tanya had ears that were very sharp when it 
came to listening to political pulse beats. She sidled up to him at the 
bourbon bottle. 

"I saw you last night, lead foot," she said quietly. "Sneaking out of our 
room. I didn't know it was one of your jobs to spy on the staff." 

Her fierce Eastern European look faded as she listened to his story-that he 
had expected to find Martie returning alone and had hidden when he heard 
voices approaching the room. She eyed him with something approaching 
sympathy. 

"Must've been kind of rough on you. Or was it?" 

"It was-what shall say-not pleasant, but instructive." 

"On the backs of envelopes, Abe," she said. And explained that that was what 
Abe Lincoln's public relations men told him when he insisted on making notes 
on lined legal paper. "On the backs of envelopes. It gives that homey 
touch." Good for the public image. 

"Sometimes," he mused, "PR men have to attend to private as well as public 
images." 

Tanya then came up with a happy plan for nipping in the bud any longer 
affair between Martie and Ishmael. She herself would keep him so occupied, 
in the nights to come, that he wouldn't want to look at another female, much 
less go to bed with her. 

He gave her a brotherly pat on the fanny. "You're okay, kid." 

She wiggled her butt. "On the backs of envelopes, Abe. On the backs of 
envelopes. Remember that." 

The following night found him, therefore, pleading exhaustion and leaving 
the hospitality suite early. He went to Martie's room and waited in the 
dark, stretched out on the bed, anticipating her return. It was with some 
heat that he again scuttled for the closet when he heard voices approaching. 

He watched as two vague forms undressed swiftly and rolled into bed. He 
listened, aching, able to glimpse the two bodies only when the 
Eat-Dance-Liquor sign across the street flashed on its brightest. Rather 
like watching some strange rite being performed under strobe lights. 

"Oh, Jesus, you're great!" one could hear Ishmael sigh. 

Young bastard had really picked up the rules of the game in two days. 

"You're fantastic," said she in a throaty voice. 

It seemed as though one of the two girls really had picked up Ishmael's cold 
in the past day or so. I couldn't be sure if it was Martie or Tanya, the 
voice was so phlegmy. And the blue of the lights outside rendered hair and 
skin tones a sort of odd phosphorescent. It was, however, not unattractive. 
If one limited one's scope of attention to the thud and slap of crotch 
against crotch, cock into cunt. 

It did, in fact, seem like the juncture of privates must belong to Ishmael 
and Tanya, and not Ishmael and Martie, because the thatch that kept rotating 
in ever-faster circles was not a corn silk tuft, but seemed indeed to be the 
more generous black bush of Tanya. 

Perhaps that was why one could observe with a certain amount of scientific 
detachment, could think the sight was not really unattractive. Amusing 
perhaps. Certainly more amusing than standing in the closet with a bursting 
bladder. 

"Jesus fucking Christ," came a groan, "don't chew my tits off." More 
thrashings and heavings. "Stick a finger up my ass-hole. Now!" 

One remarked on Tanya's coincidental education in the last day or two. 
Perhaps they had been bringing each other along in their spare moments after 
hours. 

One found that thought consoling. 

With something bordering between a shriek and a death rattle, whirling bush 
came, thudding her red and blue glowing pubes with frantic energy against 
Ishmael's groin. 

Ishmael gave a deep moan that an observer could almost feel in his gut and 
gave a heave that almost threw twirling bush off the bed. 

After several seconds of gaspings and shuddering, there, was only an 
easy-breathing silence in the room, with an occasional gurgle or liquid 
plop. 

At last, there was the restful snoring of Ishmael. 

A figure rose from the bed, dressed. "Jesus, sometimes I really like this 
work." And disappeared out the door into the hallway. 

That was the first inkling that anyone had that there might have been a case 
of mistaken identity. 

The next day, when the film from the infrared camera was developed, what was 
viewed on the film were not the thrashings and moral turpitude of our 
campaign opponent's chief aide in the arms of Roz, our. secret weapon, but 
the bear-cub passion and springtime lust of Ishmael and a newly vigorous 
Roz, who walked around sparkling all that day. 

Ishmael was "Let go" the day after. Roz was instructed to try again-and try 
more carefully this time. 

When one next sidled up to Tanya and affectionately patted her bottom b.v 
the onion dip, she smiled and said: 

"On the hacks of envelopes, Abe." 

* * * 

Pegging the candidate of the opposing party on a morals charge is a surefire 
way to eliminate his threat at the polls. Unfortunately for the smear 
artists and campaign tacticians, most candidates don't immediately go to bed 
with the first girl who makes a pass at them. Besides, morals charges, 
particularly those relating to sex, just aren't that scandalous anymore, and 
many people are suspicious of those who are quick to point out the sexual 
behavior or eccentricities (short of homosexuality) of public figures. 

The morals charge, when it is concretely witnessed and attested to, damages 
a candidate's public image. However, if the charge can be easily disputed, 
or if its nature is such that people won't take it very seriously, then the 
party which brings up the charge and tries to exploit it during the campaign 
runs a serious risk of having the charge backfire, to the detriment of their 
own candidate's public personality and image. As Frank Jonas states, in his 
text on political smear artists, Political-Dynamiting: "Going too far to 
damn a public figure, painting him so utterly black (or red) as to defy 
belief, is where political dynamiting is most likely to fall apart." 

There are numerous ways to exploit a morals charge. The best and most 
effective is to simply let someone representing the media "discover" the 
evidence and print or broadcast the information as if it were a product of 
his own reporting. This can be done easily if the information you've 
uncovered is really newsworthy-for instance, if you've got evidence that an 
anti-gambling candidate enjoys gambling. 

If the information you have is not really explosive, but still .possibly 
damaging, then you can "Leak" the information to the media through the 
process of the "anonymous tipster." Although many newspapers won't print 
news stories submitted by a tipster, they will think much more sincerely 
about printing it if they have a photograph or some other physical evidence 
to back up your claim. 

Of course, the paper itself, as a business enterprise with political 
leanings, must be sympathetic to your cause. All too often, however, the 
newspaper is only too glad to get some newsworthy material about a political 
candidate. The depth of reporting on political matters is, according to 
Bruce Felknor, so superficial that the press acts as "a neutral transmission 
belt for charges and counter-charges": 

Newspapers too seldom play a digging and delving role in campaigns where 
distortion is charged and counter-charged. In some cases the press will 
print the facts of Congressional voting on disputed issues, but interpretive 
reporting in a Congressman's own district is virtually unheard of. A few 
day's study of the facts and an interview with each candidate would enable a 
competent reporter to record the real impact and direction of the disputed 
votes (candidate's votes). Such a reporter, without calling anybody a liar, 
without raising the specter of a libel suit or appearing to be partial, 
would lay the essential facts out for the voters, who then could quickly 
tell who was the liar. Too often, "research" is done by reading 
press-agents' handouts, and digging is confined to wresting the most 
striking lead paragraph out of a dull story. 

Although Felknor's comments relate only to charges and counter-charges as 
they apply to the issues of the campaign, his observations about the role of 
the press during the political campaign applies equally well to the charges 
and counter-charges slung back and forth on non-political issues, such as 
the morals charge. Too often the press is more than willing to print even 
the slightest suspicion about a political candidate's behavior, especially 
if that suspicion is of a nature to garner a great deal of public attention. 

Because of this impetuous tendency, the campaign tactician should always 
carefully consider every possible outcome of material he may want to have 
published about the opposing candidate. The chance of a backlash is great; 
because of this, very few smear tactics take the form of the personal morals 
charge. The election is usually decided on the basis of the most substantial 
and factual information of which the public is made aware-anything which 
smacks of partisanship and especially dirty politics is immediately, 
suspect. The great dangers that must be faced when engaging in a smear 
campaign of this kind can usually only be faced by a candidate who is 
certain of a loss at the polls and finds it necessary to engage in a 
desperate, last-minute attempt to discredit his opponent. 

Stephen Shadegg in his book How to Win an Election warns of the dangers of 
the smear: 

If your opponent has been arrested on a drunk driving charge, the arrest is 
public and the electorate is entitled to know about it. If your opponent has 
been accused of taking advantage of a partner in a business deal and 
ultimately was the defendant in a law suit ... the electorate is entitled to 
hear ... But if your opponent or his wife is a secret alcoholic, if your 
opponent has a more than platonic relationship with a woman other than his 
wife, or once associated with disreputable friends, this information is off 
limits. ... More often than not such tactics (the personal smear) will 
produce a reaction against the author. 

It is interesting to note that Shadegg's book was written in 1964, eight 
years before Watergate and the national election of 1972 when Muskie's wife 
was slandered and the candidate lost the New Hampshire primary because of 
it. Timed to appear in print about 48 hours before the primary polls opened, 
the accusations were sensational and obviously manufactured by campaign 
strategists, and yet the ruse worked. 

Watergate in many ways represents the final outpouring of dirty politics, 
like the crest of a wave, that has been prevalent on the American scene for 
some years now. The extent to which a campaign committee will go, as 
illustrated by the Watergate affair, to hinder the campaign thrust of the 
opposing candidate is completely ridiculous. Politics in the era of 
television has assumed the dimensions of a polite (non-fatal) gang war. What 
was outrageous ten years ago is now de rigueur. Because of the nature of 
dirty politics, every avenue of control and every chance of a smear must be 
used for fear the opposing camp will outcontrol and outsmear. Even the 
Internal Revenue Service, once penetrated with party cohorts, can be used to 
financially "punish" the opposition. The art of espionage is now the 
campaign manager's most useful tool. To maintain the secrecy and 
independence of a large espionage operation, secret funds are needed, and 
American businessmen are sometimes tempted to provide a candidate such funds 
to gain favors from the government agencies which regulate business. 

All of these tactics are now public knowledge, and the Congress is busy 
legislating statutes which will provide some safeguards in the future from 
this kind of political abuse. After all, it is the public who suffers from 
the "managed" election, it is the public whose votes are stolen by the 
cleverly planned smear, and it should be the public, as represented by 
Congress, who should correct the imbalance and restore political propriety. 
In the end, it will only be public pressure that will bring political 
reform; despite our nation's current cynicism about representative politics, 
our political leaders really do reflect and always have reflected the 
people's mandate. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

Tell It like It Is 

Mary Deming sighed and regarded the life-size poster of Richard ("Tell It 
like It Is") Merilees with something approaching dismay. This morning, more 
than ever, she was realizing that a degree in political science did not 
necessarily qualify her to be his campaign manager. 

She had tacked the poster on the wall in front of her desk, so that every 
time she looked up, she would see his cheerful round face, with the 
disarming grin and the curl of dark hair which kept straying over his 
forehead so that her fingers itched to comb it back. 

It was an honest face, she had decided when she first met him at a cocktail 
party in Houston Village. Now, after two months of close contact in an 
effort to get him elected as state controller to replace the retiring 
incumbent, she was not so sure. 

There was that last contribution from the sulphur people. The check had been 
for ten thousand dollars. She was supposed to list it in the statement of 
donations required by the new law, but he had suggested that she forget it. 

"Public revelation of campaign contributions is fine. I agree with it. But 
there is no use bending over backward, is there? Besides, most of the money 
is my fee for legal services." 

He had pocketed the check, and no more was said about it. But ever since, in 
addition to her other woes, she had wondered if perhaps her idol had feet of 
clay. To further aggravate the situation, she was fairly sure that she was 
in love with him. 

She sighed again and picked up the telephone receiver. In the middle of 
telling a woman she had never met that Dick Merilees was the people's choice 
for the handling of state monies, he came in and put a hand on her shoulder. 
She almost forgot what she was saying, and she was sure the woman thought 
she was crazy. 

"How's it going?" He squeezed her shoulder briefly, then took his hand away. 
It was the first time he had shown any physical intimacy and she felt 
confused. Perhaps he saw more in her than his chief campaign assistant. Then 
she told herself, as she watched him walk over to the mail table, that he 
was only being friendly. He had a big red setter that sometimes accompanied 
him to the office. She had seen him pat the dog the same way. 

A couple of telephone canvassers were giving her the questioning eye. They 
went back to checking their lists and dialing when they saw her looking 
their way. Nosy bitches, she thought. Always trying to dig up something to 
chatter about. She would have fired them a month ago, except volunteer 
workers were not easy to find. 

Two door-to-door canvassers came in just before lunch. They both made signs 
of being worn out, opening their mouths and walking bent-knead and heading 
for the water cooler. 

"Bring your chair, Mary." Her boss motioned at the new arrivals. "Tell them 
to come over and well compare notes. I don't like what I keep hearing about 
the north precinct." 

She spoke to the women and wheeled her chair over to his desk. One of them 
was limping. "Blister," she explained when he asked her solicitously what 
was the matter. That was one of the things that made him attractive. He took 
a personal interest in everyone around him. The woman blushed and looked 
pleased when he told her he was sorry. 

"You girls make me feel ashamed of myself." He turned his smile on both of 
them. "Walking all day in the heat like you do. Put a bandage on that heel 
before you go out," he told the limping canvasser. "If it gets any worse, 
quit. That's an order." 

Both women were beaming at him as they looked around for chairs. The big ox. 
Mary felt a little stab of jealousy. Now they would do anything for him. She 
almost wished she could sprain an ankle or something so that he would pity 
her. 

A man and wife team showed up as he began firing questions and he beckoned 
to them. "Let's hear it all together." He studied the city map thumb-tacked 
to the wall. The precincts were outlined in blue pencil, and each had a 
colored pin stuck in it. "You've been working north Shepherd," he nodded. 
"How was the reception?" 

"Not so good." The man shook his head and looked at his wife. "Tell them 
about what the fat guy said, honey." 

"He was downright rude." The wife, in her forties and still attractive, 
colored a little and fidgeted with her purse. "I told him what I was doing 
and handed him some literature. He got huffy as soon as he saw your 
picture." She glanced at Merilees almost apologetically. 

"What did he say? I'd like to know." 

"He-he said he wouldn't vote for you if you were running for dogcatcher." 
She looked down at her hands uncertainly, as though she had unwittingly been 
a party to sacrilege. 

"Did he give you any reason?" 

Her husband spoke up, as though to cover his wife's evident embarrassment. 
"He came right out and said you were a crook. I was working the other side 
of the street and I heard it all." 

Mary started to say something, but Merilees cut her off. "Did he say why?" 

"He was yelling. I thought he was going to slam the door in Myra's face. He 
did, after he told the whole block that you were a son of a bitch and that 
you stole him blind." 

. "His name wasn't Hughes, was it?" Merilees was smiling. 

"I-we didn't ask. After everybody had listened to his load of garbage, we 
changed streets and got away from the clown." 

"A disgruntled client, probably." The candidate nodded. "In the practice of 
law, you get one now and again. And the attorney is always to blame with 
that kind. Many of them don't even bother to pay their bill." 

The wife seemed quite upset. Plainly, she adored her choice for office and 
resented the gross criticism. 

Mary reached over and patted her hand. "He was probably drunk," she said, 
trying to keep her tone light because she was not feeling too happy herself. 
"We get them on the phones all the time." 

Her boss stopped smiling and the old solicitous look came back. His voice, 
when he spoke, was pure honey. "You mustn't think I don't appreciate the job 
you're doing." Now he was purring. "Politics is a dog-eat-dog business at 
the best of times. If it's any comfort, I do admire yon. Both of you," he 
added, tactfully. 

Now it was the woman's turn to smile. She beamed through the gathering tears 
and leaned forward. "It's-it's so frustrating when you run into someone like 
that. But we can stand it. Can't we, Henry?" 

Mary felt like standing up and cheering. Then she subsided, feeling a little 
sick. Such open adulation was nauseating. She was glad when the pair got up 
and left. 

The morning dragged on. She checked on a late delivery of lapel buttons, 
then tidied her desk before going out to lunch. She was debating where to 
eat when Merilees stopped on his way out. "How hungry are you?" he inquired. 

"That depends on who is paying the tab." 

Her answer seemed to please him. "Spoken like a real lady." He eased her 
chair back and took her elbow. "Just for that, I'll be a gentleman. Let's go 
to the club." 

She had wondered before how he managed to belong to the Petroleum Club. As 
far as she knew, he had no oil interests. Maybe some of his clients were 
members. From hints he dropped, she guessed he moved in some of the higher 
spheres of industry. "It will cost you," she warned. "I'm an expensive 
eater." 

"And a very nice one, if I may say so." His funny little bow made it sound 
less corny. There he was, off again, she thought. All the same, she liked 
it. 

She refused a second vodka martini. He ordered another double for himself 
and she shook her head in mock consternation. "It's your stomach," she 
conceded, glancing at her watch. "In exactly three hours and eleven minutes, 
you will be addressing the Bellaire Ladies' Aid. Remind me to buy you some 
Scope." 

He laughed and picked up the menu. "I use Listerine. It gives me something 
to hate. Let me order. I know the chef." 

They started off with oysters broiled on skewers with green pepper squares. 
For the entree, she chose the spring lamb chops and he told the waiter just 
how he wanted the beef sirloin. By the time they had worked their way to 
demitasse and Drambuie, she felt like a new woman. 

"I warned you, remember," she mentioned when the bill came. "I'll make it up 
to you. This afternoon, I'll get you a lot of votes." 

He looked thoughtful as he signed the tab. "I'm going to need them, by the 
looks of things. But no politician is a prophet in his own town. We're doing 
all right in Austin and San Antonio, and the last Dallas survey surprised 
me." 

"That's because you went there and told the fat cats a lot of things they 
wanted to hear." 

"The truth will out, if you use it properly. When do I go out west?" 

"You're booked into The Antlers in Odessa next Monday. From there, you'll 
speak to the Cattlemen's Association in Monahans, and...." 

"Never mind. Just give me the schedule so I can read it. Which brings us to 
tonight." 

She was so busy watching the way the unruly curl wandered over his left eye 
that she forgot for a moment what he meant. Then she remembered. "Seven 
o'clock for makeup. Eight, on the air, debating Harman Stebbins for half an 
hour. Eight-thirty, press conference...." 

"Nine, have dinner with campaign manager. Nine-five, tell her she's a very 
wonderful person. Ten...." 

"What about ten?" Her eyes challenged his, but he merely shrugged. 

"Let ten take care of itself. Oh, by the way, I'll want you at the studio to 
give me some needed courage." 

A man sitting at one of the neighboring tables looked at her appraisingly as 
they left. As far as she could remember, she had never seen him before. She 
forgot about him as they reached the street. 

"I'll drop you off at the office, then run through my speech to the ladies. 
Call me at home or at the club if you need me." 

The Drambuie was making her sleepy, so that she barely heard him. She nodded 
automatically. When they got to headquarters, she thanked him again for the 
lunch and went in without looking back. 

At mid-afternoon, her telephone rang. It was a man who asked for her by 
name. 

"This is Mary Deming. What can I do for you?" 

"Just listen. I won't keep you long." She knew she had never heard the voice 
before. But somehow, he did not sound like one of the cranks who tied up a 
phone or two every day. He had a kind of warmth about him, apologetic but, 
at the same time, politely insistent. 

"I'm listening." She made a move to cut in the monitor so the conversation 
would be recorded, then changed her mind. She could always hang up if he 
started mouthing off. "Who is it, please?" 

"Just call me Uncle Ben. I like you, Mary Deming. But I don't care for the 
company you keep." 

At first, she thought it was some friend, playing a joke on her. But no one 
she knew had a voice that sounded even remotely like this one. 

She waited to hear what he would say next. "That's all for now, Mary 
Deming." The voice was receding, as though he was walking away. "But don't 
worry. Uncle Ben will be watching you." 

The line went dead then. Whoever was at the other end had hung up. 

At five-thirty, the phone girls left. She picked up the stack of outgoing 
mail and locked the office door before walking down to the mailbox at the 
corner. A car passed as she was mailing the letters. The driver, she 
thought, looked like the man who had stared at her when she and her boss 
were leaving the club. 

At the broadcasting studio, she found him still in makeup. Greasepaint toned 
the angles of his face so they would not shine under the lights and, instead 
of smoothing the curl back off his forehead, they had deliberately combed it 
further down. 

"You look like Hitler," she commented. 

"I love you, too." He sounded gruff for once. "I've been sitting in this 
chair for an hour. Can't you do something?" 

The makeup man straightened up and examined him carefully. He said, "You'll 
do," and went away. A man came by and leered at them. "You're on in five 
minutes." 

She left him then and went up front. There was a fair crowd, which was good. 
The other candidate was already on the stage, talking to the network man. 
When Merilees came on, there was a smattering of applause and a few boos 
from the back seats. 

The debate went better than she had hoped. There was some acrimony before 
the two candidates settled down to the question and answer routine. She did 
not listen much after that, except when the opposition tried to make a point 
and got put down. Merilees handled himself with polite assurance, and when 
it was over he came down and joined her. 

"How did it go?" Under the makeup, he looked a little haggard. 

"Right on." She made a fist, then took his arm impulsively. "You need a 
drink." 

"I'll buy that. And dinner, too." 

"Don't look now but you have a press conference, remember?" 

"Had is the word. It's been shelved until tomorrow." 

She did not like that. Publicity was the life blood of any political 
campaign. Tomorrow he should have been doing something else. "Stebbins 
insisted on having it together," was all he could tell her. 

They went to a new place on south Main. Somebody had trailered a big 
schooner up from Galveston and built a dining room underneath it. 

"This is cute." She held his arm a little closer as they descended the 
steps. "Now we can sail away for a year and a day." 

"To the land where the bong tree grows?" He sounded wishful. "You know, I 
wish we could. Just the two of us, and leave all this mess for someone 
else." 

"Is that a proposition?" She tried to keep it light because she knew he was 
tired. "First, you'd have to learn to sing to a small guitar." 

At their table, while they were waiting for the waiter to bring the drinks, 
he mentioned it again. "Just think of it, Mary. You and me and the moon and 
the sea. Say, that rhymes." 

He drank half of his martini and pushed his chair back. "I'm going to find 
the John and do something about this damned stuff on my face. Think about it 
until I get back." 

It was all crazy but it would be fun, she decided. Maybe after the election, 
he would still be interested. In the meantime, the idea was exciting. 

When he got back to the table, he looked well-scrubbed. His hair, for the 
first time she could remember, was combed back off his forehead. 

"Now you look like Gregory Peck," she said. 

"That's better." He drank the rest of his martini and beckoned to the 
waiter. "You shouldn't go around telling people they look like Hitler. 
It's-it's indecent." 

There was nothing wrong with getting stoned together, she decided after two 
more rounds of doubles. She tried to get him to eat something when the food 
came, but after, sampling the filet mignon, he pushed his plate away. By the 
time the waiter cleared the dishes and brought their coffee, he was half 
asleep with his chin on his chest. 

She paid the bill and gave the waiter a couple of dollars to help her get 
him up the steps and into the car. In front of his apartment, he woke up 
enough to navigate under his own steam. She got his key and let them in and 
he sprawled on the couch and went back to sleep. 

She had loosened his tie and taken his shoes off and was getting a blanket 
from the bedroom when the telephone rang. 

She hesitated. It was late and maybe she shouldn't let whoever was calling 
know she was there. When it kept on ringing, she picked up the receiver and 
said, "Mr. Merilees' apartment." 

That got a chuckle, and the voice she remembered said, "How are you making 
out, Mary Demirig? Put that lush to bed and go home." 

Ordinarily, she would have left the receiver off the hook and gone on with 
whatever she had been doing. Now she had had just enough to drink to make 
her more curious than resentful. "Look." She sat down and cradled the phone 
in her lap. "I don't know who you are, but you're beginning to get in my 
hair. What do you want?" 

Her caller chuckled again. "It's your Uncle Ben, Mary Deming. And I want 
you. But first I've got to straighten you out." 

She was going to put the receiver down then, but curiosity got the upper 
hand again. "How did you know I was here?" she asked. 

"Your Uncle Ben knows where you are all the time. Next time you go to the 
Ship Inn, try the baked onion soup." 

There was a click and she found herself listening to the dial tone. Rude 
clown. He didn't even say goodnight. 

She drank four fingers of brandy when she got home and went to sleep almost 
before she got undressed. She had a silly dream and woke up shivering. 
Someone was following her around with a seeing-eye dog. Then there was just 
the dog. The dog said, "This is your Uncle Ben." 

For once, she was grateful for the work load next day. Hiring youngsters to 
distribute brochures and campaign buttons and bumper stickers kept her mind 
off things she didn't want to think about. There was a lot of mail. The 
largest check was for a thousand dollars, but there were quite a few for a 
hundred or fifty. When she ran a total on the adding machine, it came to 
more than three thousand. 

When Merilees came in, looking in the pink as though he had never taken a 
drink in his life, he leaned over her shoulder and looked at the tape. "Not 
bad," he said. "Not bad at all!' When she asked him if she should list the 
contributions, he told her not to bother with it. "Let it go until the end 
of the week. There's no need to keep a daily record." 

He had been saying that for more than a month now, she reminded herself as 
he took the checks over to his desk and put them in a drawer. As the 
director of his campaign, she should have at least a copy of the donations 
and what the money had been used for. The way he was handling things, she 
did not even know how much had been received. 

She was about to tell him so when some canvassers came in for more stickers 
and buttons. Then, when they left, she got into an argument with the company 
who was looking after the billboard advertising. When she hung up and looked 
for him, he had gone out. 

It was lunch time before she had a chance to think about anything except 
running the office. She put some notes for a speech she was working on in 
her purse and walked down to the corner bar for a glass of beer and a 
sandwich. While she was eating it, the man who had given her the happy eye 
at the Petroleum Cluh came in and sat three stools away from her. 

He did not take any apparent notice of her, beyond a casual glance, but 
something told her he knew she was there. When she straightened her lipstick 
and left, she could feel his eyes on her all the way to the street. 

Merilees did not show up in the afternoon. She hoped he was not climbing 
into a bottle again. She took comfort in the fact that she had never seen 
him even slightly jug-happy before last night. When she counted noses, she 
found that one of the phone girls, the blonde with the tits like 
watermelons, was also missing. The idea that there might be a connection 
crossed her mind but she forgot about it. He would have more sense than to 
start anything with the help. Or would he? Maybe he was a bosom man. A 
couple of times, she had seen him laughing with the blonde. For some reason, 
she remembered what the idiot who called himself "Uncle Ben" had said about 
the company she kept. What had he meant, she wondered.- 

She was glad when five-thirty came and she could lock up the office and go 
home. 

On Saturday, she readied the notes she had written for the tour out west. He 
came in just after she opened up and pulled a chair over to her desk. "I 
wish you were coming with me," he said. "I've depended on you so much that 
I'm going to feel stupid without you to fill in the gaps." 

"You mean ride away to west Texas on a ass steer?" If she let it get any 
more serious, she wasn't sure she could trust herself. "Sorry, pal. Somebody 
has to take care of the store." She was being silly. He'd only be gone for a 
week. Instead of letting herself go, she should welcome the chance to be 
alone and get her head together. 

The phone girls did not work on Saturdays and they were alone in the office. 
He stowed the notes and the envelope with the plane tickets and his 
itinerary in a pocket of his jacket. "Thanks. You're a jewel." He got up, 
then bent down and kissed her cheek. "Hold the fort, honey." 

He was gone. She sat looking at the poster in front of the desk for a full 
minute after he had closed the door behind him. Then she picked up the phone 
and called a florist and ordered a dozen red roses to be sent to his Odessa 
hotel room first thing on Monday morning. 

She spent the weekend quietly, missing him, but glad in a way to be free of 
the constant strain of having him around. The business of the money was 
still worrying her. By now, she was almost certain that he was putting 
contributions in his private account instead of into a special campaign 
fund. Every time she asked him about it, he put her off with his disarming 
smile, telling her not to worry about it. As his manager, she should be 
signing checks for supplies and expenses. Instead, he gave her money when 
she asked for it. Several times, the printers and billboard people had 
complained about the unpaid bills. 

If it were not for the way she felt about him, she would have resigned. But, 
although she was sorely tempted at times, she couldn't make herself do it. 
Damn this love business, anyway. A person had to be half-sick to fall for 
it. 

On Tuesday morning, while she was drinking a cup of coffee, her phone rang 
and she almost knocked the toaster over in her hurry to pick up the 
receiver. She could feel her heart pounding as she answered. Then she sat 
down slowly as her caller said, "Good morning, Mary Deming." 

Her first impulse was to hang up, but the voice said, "Listen for a minute. 
Shake your head and fly right, because you're not going to marry Smiley 
Merilees, doll. Uncle Ben won't let you." 

"What's it to you?" The retort came spontaneously, before she had time to 
think what she was saying. 

"Everything. But I haven't time now. Write this number down. If anything 
happens and you need help, call it." The phone went dead with a sharp click 
as though he had cut the connection in a hurry. 

The blowsy blonde with the generous mammaries was not at work again. Mary 
looked up her number in the Rolodex and phoned, but there was no answer. 
When she questioned the other girls, they had no information. She caught one 
of them trying to hide a giggle. Why was it, she wondered, that the help 
always knew more than the boss? But there was nothing she could do. They had 
all volunteered to work for no pay. Things would be in a mess if they got up 
and walked out. 

The expected call came when she was getting ready to close the office. 
"Hello there, fellow traveler." His voice sounded as though he was sitting 
there beside her and she caught her breath in spite of herself. 

"How are things in the Permian basin?" She tried to seem business-like, not 
all turned on like a silly schoolgirl. 

"I got the roses." She thought he turned away to speak to someone but he 
came back right away. "We must do something about them when I get back." 

The rest of the conversation had to do with business. The reception in 
Odessa and Midland had been encouraging. He was enjoying that part of the 
campaign. He would be through after speaking at a bankers' convention on 
Saturday. "Then it's home, sweet home. I'll tell you how much I've missed 
you when I get back." 

She unlocked the cash box after he hung up. There were still thirty-one 
dollars and some change. The In basket on her desk was full of unpaid 
accounts, some with "Please" written across them. She really must have it 
out with him about the money. The next thing, there would be letters in the 
papers. The competition would pounce on anything that might sweeten their 
political coffee. 

The week went by slowly, because she found herself counting the hours before 
she would see him again. She took a different way to and from the office to 
avoid passing the Ship Inn where he had got stoned and given her a chance to 
look after him. She was acting like a lovesick teen-ager and she knew it. 
And now, she didn't care. 

She was rooting around in her purse for a cigarette when she came across the 
slip of paper she had written the phone number on after "Uncle Ben" called 
the last time. She had meant to try and trace it. Then she had forgotten 
about it. She was going to throw it away, then changed her mind. When she 
had nothing better to do, she might call it, just to see what happened. 

On Sunday morning, when her telephone had not rung, she got the airport and 
checked on the last flight from the Midland-Odessa terminal. The last 
arrival had been at nine-twenty Saturday night. That would have given him 
plenty of time to call her. She was frowning when she cradled the receiver. 
Something must have held him up at the last minute. Then the door-chimes 
rang and there he was, smiling at her holding out a tissue-wrapped bunch of 
American Beauties. 

He took her in his arms then, roses and all, and when he kissed her, she 
lost track of everything else. 

She moved away presently, noticing that a couple of blooms had got crushed. 
But what did a spoiled flower matter? He was back and he needed her. Not for 
the first time, she felt herself wanting him physically. 

She must have put the roses in water, because later they were standing in a 
tall vase on the coffee table. She could not remember even taking them. 
Everything had happened so quickly. One minute he was standing in her 
doorway. The next thing, they were in bed. 

Afterward, she was not quite sure how they got there. It seemed to be a 
mutual thing, a sort of silent decision to enjoy each other's bodies without 
wasting any more time. 

At twenty-eight, she was neither a virgin nor a prude. Sex was something she 
had found pleasure in while she was still in college. After graduation, she 
had lived with a man, a fellow student, for almost two years. And there had 
been others, all fucking for fun, like the time when she woke up with two 
other couples in the same bed. All three men had taken her, cracking about a 
wet deck and making a game of it. Since meeting Richard, though, she had not 
even dated anyone else. 

He was good; the best yet, she decided. She loved the way he got her hot, 
first by tonguing her nipples, then pressing her breasts together and 
balling her between them. His balls were heavy on her chest, and she came 
almost as soon as she felt his hard prick thrusting up and back. 

He went down on her after that, finding her clitoris at once and just 
touching it with the tip of his tongue until she almost went up the wall. 

Everything was hazy after he mounted her. She knew she had spread her legs 
wide as soon as he was ready, and that his stiffness opened her ready vagina 
in one long stroke. And then it was all ecstasy, as she had dreamed it would 
be. Time stopped. It was as though there was no one else anywhere in the 
world except the two of them. Now she was sure of herself. She loved him and 
she didn't care if he was stealing everybody blind. 

He was a long time finishing. After that first all-the-way-in thrust, she 
had expected him to come quickly. She had reached two more orgasms before he 
finally shortened his strokes and began to hold his hard cock into her, 
closer and closer, until he grunted and the warm come jetted deep inside 
around the nubbin of her womb. 

She had expected more of him than just the mechanical climax. She would have 
liked him to kiss her lips at the moment of the mutual ecstasy as she came 
with him and strained up to take all of the hardness into her clamoring 
body. Instead, he slowed down as soon as he shot off and uncoupled almost at 
once. His erection had gone, and his prick was flabby even as he took it 
out. 

He got off the bed and headed for the bathroom without looking back, leaving 
her unsatisfied and more than a little resentful. Her other men. even during 
that gang belt with the other couples, had at least stayed with her long 
enough to let her unwind. It was like being tossed violently into the air, 
then left to fall without knowing where; a bottomless feeling, all depth and 
no end. 

She waited for him to come out, so they could talk until he was ready to 
ball her again. He showed finally, but only nodded as he went into the 
living room. She heard him getting ice in the kitchen as she got off the bed 
and slipped into her wrap. Just like that, she thought. It was a wonder that 
he hadn't left some money on the night table. The thought made her feel 
cheap, as though he had wanted her only for what he got out of it. 

He was sitting on the couch, drinking a Scotch and soda, when she came out 
of the bedroom. There was another drink on a scooter at her end of the 
coffee table. He nodded again over his glass and said, "I'm pooped. Had a 
hard week. Cheers." 

She drank mechanically, slowly at first, then quickly until the ice rattled. 
At once, without waiting to see whether he had drained his glass or not, she 
held her empty one out and said, "More." 

While he was busy with the bottles, she sat back and tried to compose her 
mind. Maybe it was her fault, she thought. Perhaps she hadn't satisfied him 
enough. By the time he came back, she had settled on something she thought 
might work. Before, she had let him do the playing around. This time, it was 
going to be different. 

She sipped at her highball, then put the glass down and moved toward him 
until her face was almost in his lap. Deliberately, she unzipped his slacks 
and took his limp penis out and slipped the head into her mouth. 

She had expected him to say something but he did not even move. He might 
have been made out of wood for all the reaction she got. His prick stayed 
limber, in spite of some special tongue work she applied underneath and 
around the eye. 

Then the reason came to her. He was not just weary from his trip. In plain 
language, he was fucked out. Even his balls were soft to the touch. 

She sat up quickly and found a Kleenex and wiped her lips. Neither of them 
said anything as he put his cock back and zipped up. Damn everything, she. 
thought He must have been doing a lot more than speech-making out West. She 
was certain of it. 

The liquor began to hit her as she finished her drink. Maybe that was the 
answer. The Scotch bottle, still more than half full, caught her eye. "I'll 
go this time." She managed a smile and got up and went into the kitchen for 
more ice. 

He was on the telephone when she came back with a frosty ice bucket and 
another bottle, just in case. He hung up as she dumped everything on the 
coffee table where they could both reach it. "You don't have to go, do you?" 
If he left now, he might not come back. 

"I can stay for a while." He leaned back and sipped his drink slowly, as 
though he had things on his mind. That would never do. She wanted to get the 
booze into him as fast as she could. As an example, she drained her glass as 
though she was chugalugging a bottle of beer. 

"Hey! Steady on." He looked at her anxiously. "We've still got an election 
to think about." All the same, he drank faster, and she handed him a refill 
almost at once. 

"Mary, what are you trying to do to me?" He seemed to have come back from 
wherever he had gone. "I believe you want to get me drunk. Why?" 

"I've only seen you stoned once," she reminded him. "It was fun, remember?" 

"No. I guess I blacked out. The next thing I knew, the birdies were chirping 
and everything was horrible." 

"Tell me something." Instead of getting her more tipsy, the Scotch seemed to 
be sobering her up. Her mind was as clear as a bell. If she didn't get him 
interested again, it would not be from lack of trying. 

"You were saying?" He reached over and took her hand. 

"Oh, yes. But first, make like you did when I opened the door." 

"For God's sake. Was it that important?" He was grinning when he leaned 
closer and pulled her against him. 

They seemed to have been fucking forever. Something had happened to him when 
he kissed her that last time; something wonderful, judging by the hardness 
driving into her, faster and faster, until it seemed like one continuous 
thrust, without beginning or end. 

Maybe the drinks had snapped him out of whatever was the matter with him. 
Now, instead of being drained dry, he was really putting his back into it, 
screwing her cunt as though he were trying to meet some mental deadline and 
was afraid he would not finish in time. 

She lost count of the times she came. At last, unable to remain passive a 
second longer, she twisted out from under his weight. Straddling him and 
trying to keep that wonderful prick inside her, she pressed his shoulders 
down with both hands and screwed him until the bed creaked and the mattress 
threatened to slide off beneath them. 

Now that she was doing the fucking, the desperate feeling was leaving her. 
As long as he stayed hard, everything was roses; big, beautiful roses like 
the ones he had given her. She forgot his earlier indifference. Nothing 
mattered any more except to fuck that jutting cock and make it come until 
she could not feel it because of the flooding semen. 

Being on top gave her a sense of domination. She could not remember mounting 
a man before, probably because she had not wanted to. But she wanted to ride 
this one; ride him until there was nothing left and the two of them blew 
away in the breeze coming in the window. It was a crazy kind of feeling. She 
wondered fleetingly how long she could stand it. It was so complete, so 
fulfilling that she almost forgot to breathe.... 

She knew he was going to come even before the warmth of his spending told 
her it had happened. He tried to turn over on top of her at the last moment, 
but she kept his shoulders pinned, receiving the jetting semen, hoping it 
would stay where he was putting it, fiercely begrudging him the smallest 
spilled drop. 

Then, as quickly as it had built up, it was over. She let him use the 
bathroom first, and took her time, after he had gone, to get another drink. 
When she went into the living room, dressed as tough she were going out, he 
was halfway through another tall highball, looking like the cat that ate the 
canary, apparently feeling no pain at all. 

"Tell me what you put in that last drink you fixed for me." He reached for 
her and she let him stroke her cheek and pull her down beside him. 

"Let me see. Oh, yes. I used a little liquor and a lot of love. Did you like 
it?" 

"You know I did. Look." He glanced at his watch. "I've got an appointment. 
Will you hate me very much if I leave you now?" 

She tried to hide her disappointment. "I thought we might have lunch 
together. Somewhere quiet where we could talk. But it doesn't matter if 
you're busy." 

"I'm afraid lunch will have to wait. But there is something you can do for 
me." 

"Of course. What is it?" 

He hesitated, then put his arm around her. "What we did was wonderful," he 
said. "And you're a very wonderful person. There's just one thing we 
missed." 

She was curious at once. "What didn't we do?" 

'You promise you won't laugh ? " His eyes challenged her and, more than 
ever, she wanted to push his hair off his forehead, so that she could see 
whether he was frowning at her. 

"Scout's honor. Tell me quickly." 

"I guess everyone has some sort of a private thing about sex. I'm no 
different. I really liked it when you took over awhile ago. It made me want 
to do my thing all the more." 

"I don't understand." 

"Did you ever hear of a man having intercourse with a fully-dressed woman? I 
mean shoes and gloves and everything." 

"It sounds different. Personally, I like the old-fashioned, skin-to-skin way 
best." 

He put his drink down and pushed her knees apart and ran his hand up her 
thigh. "Let me do it to you that way." 

"You mean, here, with my clothes on?" She suddenly wanted to laugh. "Why-of 
course, if that's what you want." 

He pushed her down on the couch and folded her skirt back carefully, then 
took his penis out and mounted her. It was hard again, and she could feel it 
nudging her as he tried to push her panties out of the way. When she put a 
hand down and raised up to slip them off, he stopped her, almost roughly. 
"Don't do that. You'll spoil everything." 

His erection was stiff enough to get inside one flared leg of her panties, 
and when he entered her, he went all the way in one hard thrust. It hurt her 
a little and he seemed to know and get pleasure out of her discomfort. It 
was like being raped. Maybe that was what he wanted her to think. 

He was almost crude in the way he put his full weight on her, not taking 
most of it on his knees and elbows as he had done in the bedroom. And he was 
holding both of her hands above her head, so that she could not have moved 
if she wanted to. 

The quick thrill of the intimate contact left her after the first few 
strokes. Having sex this way was like taking a shower with a raincoat on. 
She hoped he would finish quickly so she could get up. 

As though he could read her mind, he came almost at once, violently, 
bruising her thighs as he plunged into her and hurting her again because she 
could not open her legs wide enough. He held his pulsing hardness all the 
way inside her vagina until the last drop of his semen oozed out. He was 
getting off her when the door chimes rang and she sat up in a hurry and 
palled her skirt down. 

He shot a question at her with his eyes and when she nodded, he walked over 
to the door and opened it. Then he took a sudden step backward as a woman 
pushed him out of the way and came in. It was Boobies, the buxom blonde. 

She glared at him, and for a minute Mary thought she was going to slap his 
face. "So this is where you hole up when I'm not looking, eh ? I might have 
known it." She turned on Mary. "What would you do to a man who marries you 
and shacks up with another woman?" 

For once, the cockiness had left Richard ("Tell It like it Is") Merilees. He 
looked beaten, wilting under the girl's furious stare. "It's true," he said, 
tonelessly. "We were married in Midland two days ago. I'm-I'm sorry." 

The three of them forgot one another, then, as two more callers walked 
through the open doorway. One was a uniformed policeman. The other was the 
man who had stared at her in the Petroleum Club. He flashed his credentials 
and informed the candidate for state controller that he was under arrest. 

"Get him out of here," he said to the cop. The blonde was staring at him 
with her mouth open. He jerked his head toward the door, and she almost ran 
out in the wake of her handcuffed husband. 

"Sorry if I startled you," he apologized to Mary. "We wanted to take him 
earlier, but we couldn't find him until we trailed his wife here." 

She found her voice then. "He-he must have phoned her while I was in the 
kitchen." 

"He did. We were listening. And while I'm doing the explaining, I'm a 
special investigator from the DA's office. We've been after your friend ever 
since we found out he was wanted for embezzlement in Milwaukee." 

That explained the money thing, she told herself dully. He must have been 
ripping off every contribution check as it came in. Oh, Jesus. What was the 
matter with men, anyway? 

She tuned in again as the fellow went on. "At first, we thought you were in 
with him. That was when we tapped your phone. Now we find you're in the 
clear, I think you should know something." He pulled the little folder out 
again and help it open. "It says here" he leaned closer so that she could 
follow his pointing finger-"that I'm Benjamin J. Donellen. While that is 
true, I like my nickname best." 

It came to her then, as though she had known all the time. "You're Uncle 
Ben." 

"At your service. And I really meant most of the things I said on the 
telephone. That number is still good if you want to call me." He was gone, 
and she sat down suddenly because there was something the matter with her 
knees. 

For some reason, the only thing that seemed to matter now was that she 
hadn't thrown that slip of paper away.... 

* * * 

The embezzlement charge leveled against Richard Merilees brings up the topic 
of honesty in politics. Many Americans sincerely believe that politics and 
dishonesty, by necessity, go hand in hand, while others are pressing for 
more stringent controls over the activities of politicians. Modern political 
behavior, influenced by television and the public relations image, is 
greatly different from the behavior of politicians from previous eras in our 
country's history. Because of the rapid pace of political issues and events 
in the world, the American politician is called upon to make an almost daily 
appearance before some form of the media. Technology has enabled the voter 
in California, for example, to maintain visual and verbal contact with his 
representatives in Washington. Newspapers and magazines with political 
reporting continue their close scrutiny over the activities of politicians 
and their underlings. 

Even with all this observation, politicians still enjoy a great measure of 
privacy with regard to their dealings, both in and out of professional life. 
Only rarely is the case of a dishonest politician (in comparison with the 
total number of practicing politicians) brought to court and thus into 
public view. Many more cases of corruption are handled through the less 
embarrassing method of internal disclosure within the legislative or 
executive body, far from the public eye. Watergate, with all its sudden 
manifestations of corruption in the administration, is essentially a rare 
phenomenon in American political life. 

Embezzlement is a rare charge to be leveled against a politician. Political 
dishonesty, according to Stimson Bullitt, author of the book To Be a 
Politician, is usually not financial in nature. As cited before, the 
white-collar criminal in the business world is far more corrupt than his 
political counterpart. "A politician rarely is diverted from the path of 
right by pursuit of immoral pleasure or illegal gain. His weaknesses take 
other forms." Bullitt goes on to point out that any man who wants to make 
money would be foolish to think of politics as a means necessary for his 
goal. Only the businessman has the freedom required to manipulate sums of 
money. 

A politician can commit the following kinds of crimes related to money: (I) 
he can take a bribe; (2) he can pocket excessive campaign funds; and (3) he 
can engage in speculative trading based on his knowledge of future 
governmental acts. All three kinds of crime are easily noticeable to the 
investigator, and the penalties are severe. As Bullitt notices: 

Money honesty in politics is less important than it was. Society is richer, 
so it more easily can afford some loss by theft. There is less temptation to 
steal, and less theft now, than when it was harder to earn a good living by 
working for it, and before thorough record keeping and efficient law 
enforcement methods increased the odds of being detected. The penalties are 
not as severe as in the past, but one is still ruined if caught. 

The real moral problem in American politics is the question of intellectual 
honesty. A democratic society cannot operate smoothly unless its leaders 
tell the truth to the constituency. Also, when politicians cease to be 
honest with each other the fabric of society begins to dissolve. For a 
democracy to function correctly, words, particularly those words and phrases 
spoken by its political leaders, must be truthful. Bullitt makes an apology 
for the politician with his statement : "Although average levels of honesty 
among men are higher than ever before, the public need for it from 
politicians has grown further than the standards of practice have risen." 
Society, however, cannot take the entire blame. After all, the purpose of a 
leader, whether elected or not, is to lead the society into better ways of 
living and thinking. In this respect, the dishonest politician has no 
justifiable excuse, Bullitt lists three kinds of intellectual dishonesty 
among politicians: (I) failing to keep campaign promises; (2) accusing other 
politicians or individuals, or even groups, of having committed some crime 
detrimental to the national interest; and (3) substituting some kind of 
pleasing diversion (such as a "peace with honor") for the truth (which was 
defeat, in the particular instance of the Vietnam War). Almost every 
politician is guilty of the first breach. Who hasn't heard the campaign 
speech where the candidate promises, almost in the same breath, "a balanced 
budget, lower taxes, full employment, and armed forces strong enough to 
dismay our enemies." 

The second kind of crime happens often during the election campaign, when it 
becomes advantageous to accuse one's opponent of all sorts of horrendous 
crimes to persuade the voters of his unfitness for high office. Former 
Vice-President Agnew was a specialist at this kind of tactic: his 
accusations against some of the more liberal democratic organizations 
frequently bore veiled allusions to treason and misconduct. 

The third kind of crime, according to Bullitt, is far more tenuous in 
nature, and therefore far more difficult to prove. Partisan politics being 
what they are, it would be easy to take any accusation of this kind of 
behavior as being motivated out of partisan interest. Nevertheless, some 
specific examples have occurred during the course of our history. Bullitt 
cites the Acheson affair when both Dean Acheson and George Marshall were 
accused of being traitors for "giving China away." 

The Watergate investigations and subsequent repercussions in Congress my 
help legislators to enact codified rulings over election and campaign 
abuses. Secret funding, for example, can be easily outlawed through a 
careful system of bookkeeping applied to election and campaign expenditures. 
Most of the financial indiscretions can be curtailed by legislation, but 
what of the intellectual crimes as outlined by Bullitt? What can be done to 
insure protection from these kinds of excesses? 

Public vigilance is the only answer to the problem of political intellectual 
crime. Because by nature these crimes are not verifiable by physical 
evidence, except in the case of the outright lie, the public must carefully 
listen to political messages with one ear listening "between the lines." 
Some legislation can no doubt be enacted to cover some of the more flagrant 
violations of this type of crime when it is conducted during the election 
campaign, but it is going to be very difficult for the American people to 
convince their Congressmen that this kind of legislation is necessary. Only 
public outcry will bring the safeguards needed to protect the citizen and 
the voter from being lied to. 

Even at the present time, when excitement over the Watergate investigations 
is at a fever pitch, Congress is unwilling to enact legislation which will 
limit the amount of their campaign funding and provide for a reporting law. 
They are perfectly willing to legislate such provisions for Presidential 
elections, but apparently they feel that the political excesses committed in 
recent years have only been engaged in by members of the Administration, and 
therefore they will make no campaign funding and reporting law to cover 
their own Congressional elections. 

Public reaction is the sole spur to political progress in a democracy. When 
the public is apathetic or un-knowledgeable about political events, the 
government relies on its own judgment and forms laws which serve only its 
own needs. In part, they cannot be blamed for ignoring a country which 
ignores itself. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

The Rise and Fall of the Bare Facts Faction 

The tiny community on the California coast could hardly be called a town. 
During the summer, when the campers and surfers and summer cottage residents 
arrived, it would number up to five thousand souls. With the first fogs of 
winter or the beginning of the fall school semester, the exodus would reduce 
this number to some two thousand permanent residents, primarily older 
retired persons living on a fixed income. 

It was not much to look at, either. The foothills of the Coast Range came 
down almost to the beach, so the town was strung out in a long line just 
back of the sand. It was about a mile long, a double row of wooden frame 
houses, quite weather-beaten and displaying various degrees of bad 
architectural taste and design. Many of the beachfront homes displayed the 
scars of high tides, and the low dunes of the beach had a tendency to 
half-bury garages and drift out almost onto the main street. There were two 
gas stations, one of them doubling as a deli; there was a grocery store, a 
drugstore, and the God Rock Cafe. The Post Office was something of a 
dead-letter drop, for it was in operation only twice a week when the postman 
arrived to pick up and deliver mail. All in all, it was a sleepy little 
community, full of drowsy citizens and gull droppings. 

To maintain peace and law and order, the town had one policeman, who also 
doubled as the mayor, an office to which he had been elected sometime around 
V-J Day, and there had been no question of another election since. No one, 
including His Honor, was quite sure what his term of office was, for the 
town charter did not specify any such thing. It specified nothing, in fact, 
for it did not exist. The town had simply grown out of a trailer park back 
in the thirties, remote from the county seat and the rest of the state, and 
no one had really seen any reason for establishing any sort of 
administration. For years it did not even have a name, the residents simply 
calling it "town," but the automobile club, for some strange reason, had 
placed it on its map with a religious Spanish name that totally belied its 
lily-white population. 

As usual, when the particular summer in question rolled around, the 
permanent residents braced themselves for the avalanche of vacationing 
families and long-haired surfers. They started pouring in around the 
beginning of June. First came the vacationers, eager to blister their bodies 
on the beach, suffer burns at their barbecues, and relish the grit of sand 
in their food. Then some of the first kids appeared, the ones who could not 
wait for vacation and who cut school a week or two early. Their rotting VWs, 
with surfboard racks, dotted the dunes, and the roar of Japanese motorbikes 
shattered the nerves and peace of all but the deaf and those addicted to the 
little two-wheeled monsters. 

Not that the local population minded this invasion. For many of them, this 
represented the only source of income during the year. The few little 
businesses in the town spent most of the year, if not in the red, then at 
least in a condition you might call pink, and summer was there to bail them 
out. For some of the older residents, these few months presented a variety 
and entertainment preferable to the one tv channel they lived with all year. 
There would be a drowning or two, especially since there were no lifeguards, 
a little fender bending, maybe a fire in one of the travel homes, and the 
kids were sure to get high on marijuana and think up something that would 
shock the entire town. 

But this summer the town was in for a surprise, for the months were not to 
slip by in their usual humdrum way during which, for instance, a possible 
shark sighting would be a sort of climax. This year politics came to the 
town with all the excitement that this brand of warfare means in a truly 
democratic society. 

When Ogden first arrived in the town, no one would have thought that the 
young man could possibly be a threat to the entire community. The VW bus he 
drove was of the standard, now dated, "flower-power" type. Plenty of rust, 
some abstract art, several coats of dirt, ragged curtains, and a bent 
license plate. 

He parked it right in the center of the strip of the town, between two 
houses near the beach. It was high noon, and there were several hundred 
people scattered around the beach and wandering up and down the main street. 
Ogden stepped out, all six-foot-plus of him. Flowing golden hair, a 
magnificent dark blonde beard, clear blue eyes, and handsome, clean cut 
features. He was in his mid-twenties, but the beard made him look a little 
older. 

He stepped out onto the beach, wearing a flowing brown robe which looked as 
if it had once covered the lice-ridden body of a Moroccan nomad. There was 
something commanding about the way Ogden walked onto a small dune and took 
up a stance, with legs apart and his hands on his hips. People stopped and 
stared at him as if he were Jesus, about to speak from the mound. But he 
just stood there for a few minutes surveying the scene, the warm salty 
breeze tossing his hair and billowing his robe out behind him. 

When he saw that he had drawn considerable attention to himself, he slowly 
lifted his hands skyward, then spread them out and called out in a deep, 
bullhorn voice: "Lovers of the sun! Ogden has come to set you free!" 

With that he reached for the collar of his robe, gave a yank, and the robe 
fluttered from him like a veil from a newly mounted statue. This graceful 
and dramatic act was met with a mad sort of hysterical scream from the beach 
crowd. This sound was confusing, for it was a mixture of laughter, shock, 
outrage or plain amazement. Ogden was completely nude. 

He had a very fine slim body, conservatively muscled and deeply tanned all 
over. Hanging out from it, as a sort of decoration set in a bed of dark 
hair, was an unusually well-developed penis, which bobbed gently in the 
sunlight, as if acknowledging the honors the multitudes were giving it. 

The scene was pretty much what one would expect under such circumstances. 
Mothers screamed and covered their children's eyes; the children, especially 
little girls, did their best to escape their mothers and satisfy their 
curiosity; and the men just sort of stared enviously. Ogden made a grand 
gesture with the sweep of his arm, and proceeded to elegantly follow his 
cock through the crowd towards the ocean. His carriage was so proud that all 
that was missing was a full orchestra to play Elgar's "Pomp and 
Circumstance." Later, people claimed that Ogden was actually humming it. 

It was a grand entrance into the drama, but of very short duration. All the 
yelling had roused the mayor. Ogden had not gone fifty yards when this 
pillar of the town's society came huffing and puffing behind him in the 
sand, waving his police revolver and calling for one and all to desist and 
surrender. 

The crowd gave way and Ogden stopped, proudly turning to confront the law, 
his cock gracefully swinging around with him. 

"You're under arrest!" the town's law and order yelled, brandishing a pair 
of handcuffs. 

"This is a free country!" Ogden boomed, folding his arms over his chest. 
"You cannot deny my body's right to the sun!" 

"You goddam freak! Put these on!" the mayor-cop yelled, waving his 
bracelets. With the gun in one hand, he experienced a moment ot confusion 
when he found he could do nothing with just the other. Fumble, bumble, and 
he holstered the piece, then struggled with Ogden's folded arms. 

"You are denying my civil rights!" Ogden said so that all could hear. "Read 
me my rights!" 

The cop had seen that done on TV shows, but he had never bothered to 
acquaint himself with such fine points of the law. His last arrest had been 
seven years ago, when he had caught a kid stealing a case of beer, and the 
demands of justice, in that case, had been satisfied with a swift kick in 
the pants. There had been no question of any rights then. 

"My rights!" Ogden demanded. 

Some of the young surfers now crowded around this little melodrama and 
gleefully began to chant, "Read him his rights! Read him his rights!" 

The cop turned purple, but that was about the extent of his coming to grips 
with the situation. It ended with Ogden methodically reciting his own rights 
to the cop, then extending his hands for the handcuffs in a gesture that 
could have also implied he expected to have them kissed instead. The cop 
ground his teeth, clipped on the cuffs, and hustled Ogden towards the town. 
Ogden walked proudly, head up, his cock swinging from left to right. The cop 
noticed it, made a move to shield this offensive weapon with his hand, but 
Ogden jumped away shouting, "Pervert!" and the cop jerked back, the crowd 
laughing and following. Obviously having made some converts, Ogden was 
followed all the way to the Mayor's office by some of the young beach crowd, 
one of them even bringing the brown robe along. 

Once alone with him, the cop sighed with relief, draped Ogden in his 
burnoose, and begged him to get the hell out of town. Ogden was adamant, but 
then the cop said that he would call the county or the highway patrol, 
charge him with indecent exposure, disturbing the peace, inciting a riot, 
and would, furthermore, have his bus ripped apart and searched. This shook 
Ogden, for he had a kilo of excellent marijuana stashed away under his seat, 
so he finally agreed to leave. "But I shall return!" he threatened as the 
cop took him out through the back door. 

Like General MacArthur, Ogden kept his word. He was back the next day. The 
interim time he had spent in the county clerk's office and in the law 
library at the county seat. Returning to the beach town, his bus was greeted 
by quite a few cheers, which he acknowledged with a regal wave of his hand 
and a slight bow. 

This time he did not put on his usual display. Instead, he took out a bunch 
of papers from his bus and began canvassing the houses of the residents. 

His mission was simple. If a man answered his knock, he would inform the 
citizen that the mayor's term of office was in violation of certain state 
and county statutes, and that it was high time for a recall election. All he 
wanted to know was if said citizen would be in favor of such a recall 
election. 

If a woman answered, he would go through the same routine ... but this time 
with a second act. It consisted of a series of questions regarding moral and 
cultural views. 

"I'm taking a poll," he would state, "and I need your opinion, ma'am, on 
certain subjects relevant to our present society. Do you find the human 
body, God's own creation, to be an ugly thing ? " 

The ladies, confronted with such a fine specimen, usually said that, no, 
they did not. 

Did they find it disgusting? 

No. 

Vile, sinful? No. 

"Does my body disgust you ? " he would then cry, and drop his robe and 
papers. This usually got a gasp of a little scream, but he had a way of 
holding their attention with his eyes, so that ultimately the polled female 
citizens just blushed and stammered out a denial. The effect of this was 
that Ogden's fifth limb would swell with pride, and would quickly rise to 
accept the compliment. 

Reliable sources have mentioned that, at least on one occasion, his next 
question was: "Do you find my polling pole objectionable?" 

Understandably, not many, later on, wished to discuss what took place 
between this point and the conclusion of these interviews. However, it must 
be assumed that Ogden's argument was as rigid as it was persuasive, and he 
was able to thrust or inject his opinions deep into the consciousness of the 
female citizenry, because he managed to collect an awful lot of signatures 
for his recall petition. The truly democratic thing about Ogden's polling 
was that he made no exceptions, conducting his interviews in a like manner 
with all women, regardless of age, race, religion or the day of their 
menstrual cycle-the last factor often being influential in the mental 
attitudes of women even in such matters as political opinions. 

The surprising thing is that he was not tarred and feathered and ridden out 
on a rail, or at least fed to the sharks. It is a tribute to his persuasive 
powers that Ogden not only won over the confidence of the women voters, but 
was also able to get the majority of the male population to see his point of 
view. The reason for this lay in the fact that such a large number of the 
men were retirees. Being usually older than their ladies, they were 
delighted at the happy glow and change of attitude their spouses displayed 
following Ogden's visits. Since nothing untoward was said about the budding 
politician, the men tended rather to be grateful to Ogden for, in some way, 
relieving them of tasks which in all too many cases they had not been able 
to handle themselves. 

Having taken his polls, Ogden vanished for a week or so. The town 
immediately dropped back into its somnambulistic routine, thinking that they 
would never see him again. How wrong they were! Ogden was out to get them to 
see much more of him-all of him, in fact. 

He seemed to favor the noon hour for his entrances, because, some ten days 
after his departure, right in the middle of the lunch hour, Ogden returned 
to town and entered the political arena. One could not really say that he 
threw in his hat, because he was not wearing one. Nor was he wearing 
anything else. Not even sunglasses. 

The first the town knew about it was when the populace wandering around the 
main street began to scream. Out poured the curious, from Cod Rock Cafe, out 
of the drugstore, the market, and out of the homes. Along the main street 
there were flashes of skin and a bobbing of long hair, male and female. A 
whole naked platoon of streakers was blitzing through the town, happily 
tossing Frisbees in all directions. When the spectators caught them, they 
found them to have painted on them the motto: "Bare Your Ass For Democracy!" 

This was Ogden's advance guard, a sort of modern version of the Young 
Republicans. Later it was discovered that he had secured them from a 
Rent-A-Streaker firm down south in Los Angeles. 

Next came the entourage of the great man himself. Along the main drag rolled 
a very old yellow school bus with naked young people sitting all over the 
hood. Inside sat a makeshift brass band, blaring out of tune but loudly. 
Atop the bus was Ogden, proudly holding aloft an American flag. The side of 
the bus had a banner reading: "Vote the Bare Facts Ticket-Bare Facts Party 
of America-Buffs of the World-Unite!" 

Although by the time the fourth streaker had zipped past the mayor's office, 
His Honor had put in a call to the sheriff's office and the highway patrol, 
Ogden's political rally could not be stopped. He drew a fantastic crowd, 
almost everyone on that segment of the coast managed to get there within 
minutes after word spread. Some of the listeners were in their wet suits 
from diving, and one had even forgot to take off his fins. 

Ogden's speech was quite to the point. It was simply time to take the wraps 
off the administration of the town, he said. He was challenging the 
incumbent mayor to a runoff recall election, and he was there to give the 
voters the bare facts about himself. It was obvious he had nothing to hide, 
no hidden assets, no unsupportable deficiencies. And his record was perfect. 
Kicked out of Berkeley, two years in Vietnam, busted only once for 
possession. No debts. He was letting it all hang out for all to see and they 
were free to examine it all, shake his hand or whatever else they might want 
to shake. 

For the first few minutes there was a shocked silence throughout the crowd, 
then came the first titters, small giggles, then roaring laughter and cheers 
greeting every statement coming from the roof of the bus. And Ogden went on 
about how his administration would be an open book, restoring basic physical 
freedom to all Americans within its jurisdiction and promising an even tan 
for all. 

No one was quite sure just how serious this whole affair was. Most took it 
to be an absolutely madcap caper, and allowed themselves to be drawn into 
the carnival mood. 

Following the speech, Ogden led his followers in the singing of patriotic 
songs with somewhat new versions of the text set to traditional tunes. One 
went: 

Oh, say can you see, in the dawn's early light, Our tanned young dingalings 
all hanging out... 

And another: 

My country 'tis of thee, Land of bare-assed liberty, Of thee I sing... 

It was magnificent. The whole town got heady with laughter, with the 
exception of a Baptist couple who locked themselves in their home and 
plugged up their ears to neither hear nor see the sinful goings-on. Outside, 
the nude band went marching up and down the street, streakers zipped hither 
and yon, Frisbees sailed all over the place carrying their political 
message, and naked children ran screaming through the streets. Beer 
appeared, and the sweet smell of marijuana mixed with the salty air. Caught 
up in the mood, more and more people began to shed their clothes and join 
Ogden's movement. 

Despite what the crowd may have thought, Ogden was, or at least he gave 
every impression of being, deadly serious about the election. Makeshift 
voting booths were set up at two points in the town, and they were equipped 
with ballots that had been typed and mass-Xeroxed. Ogden's followers, all 
those who had come with him on the bus, went around and pleasantly but 
firmly urged the citizenry to line up and vote. 

They were all in their early twenties, most of them vacationing students 
from the state university down on the coast, and their method of persuasion 
was quite irresistible. Gentlemen would have a nude, cute little coed come 
coyly up to them, breasts lightly touching an arm or chest, the tuft of 
pubic hair tantalizingly close to the man's crotch. A gentle nudge, a 
provocative smile, a little squeeze of the hand, and the prospective voter 
was putty in their hands, obediently following them to get into line, more 
often than not preceded by their own divining rod, out and erect and 
indicating the direction of their political views. The male students had 
much the same success with female voters. 

Much later a reporter spent several days in town trying to piece this whole 
story together. After all, although California has more than its share of 
weird happenings, seldom does the whole population of a town suddenly 
discard all inhibitions and, for a whole day, act as they never have before 
in their entire lives. All sorts of theories were advanced: mass hypnosis, 
dope, booze, too much sun, and so on. Yet no one was able to really define 
it, for there seemed to be no single element which could explain it all. 
Perhaps it was a sudden escape valve from the pressures of life in recent 
decades, the last few years of which had been so full of worries about wars 
and inflation. At any rate, the irreverence of it all, plus its obvious 
innocence and hilarity, captured the imagination of the townspeople and 
visitors. Later, few wanted to talk about it, preferring either to just grin 
a little or else shrug their shoulders, but at the time their participation 
was all but complete. Only a dozen or so people sealed themselves up in 
their homes and did their best to ignore the entire "election." 

Using people rather than computers, Ogden had the results of the election 
when the last voter made his mark. He had won by a landslide. Not a single 
vote had been cast for the incumbent, although there were numerous write-in 
candidates. 

When the results were announced, pandemonium broke out in the town, as it 
does at all election victory celebrations. Ogden was carried around on the 
shoulders of his supporters, wearing a bunch of gardenias in his crotch; the 
kids ran, laughing, for the beach, cavorting in the water. Ogden's first act 
was to thank his opponent for a tough fight, then he humbly thanked his 
supporters for their unabashed efforts on his behalf; finally he thanked the 
voters, for having the courage to see his qualities as they were displayed 
before them and to trust that he would continue to display these sterling 
characteristics during the execution of his duties throughout his term of 
office. Then he ordered the drugstore, deli and market to make its liquor 
supplies available for the rest of the afternoon. 

That did it. What had, up to now, been a nude lampoon of politics became an 
orgy of Roman proportions. 

Strangely enough, it was not the youngsters who started it all, although 
they certainly were not lacking in enthusiasm either. But when the first 
massive fusillade of popping beer cans had died down, it was the male 
members of the various camping families that could be seen pairing off, 
either with their wives or with whatever other females sparked their 
interest. At first it was done quietly, the couples drifting off towards the 
trailers and mobile homes. But when the young surfers and Ogden's students 
got into the act, all pretense was gone. 

At this point a lot of the elderly inhabitants of the town, primarily the 
women, drew back with shock and went home, leaving the beach and streets to 
the younger maniacs and to the few older men who got their kicks from just 
looking on. 

And there was a lot to see. Transistor radios were blaring everywhere, most 
of them the same tune because there was only one rock station which could 
reach the town. The kids were dancing on the sand, at the surf, at various 
points along the main street. Most were nude, and the boys with beer cans in 
their hands were beginning to display an increasing amount of erections as 
they gyrated around with the long-haired surfer girls with their grinding 
buttocks and bouncing breasts. 

The orgy did not turn into the sort of pornographer's wet dream some people 
later claimed it was. The people were, after all, rather civilized about it, 
and little happened that could have been seen by either children or adults 
who had no desire to see it. But for all the superficial discretion, the 
whole community, the beach and the nearby hills did resound with the groans 
and sighs of a mass sexual binge. 

During this entire time, which consisted of about two to three hours, the 
mayor was holed up in his clapboard house, sweating profusely and repeatedly 
dialing law enforcement agencies at the county seat. No matter how often he 
was reassured that help was on its way, he continued to plead for more 
reinforcements every time the sounds of debauchery reached his ears or bare 
skin flitted past his window. 

Unknown to him, his sixteen-year-old daughter, a buxom, dark-haired girl 
with a body tanned to a fine chestnut color, had ignored his warning to stay 
indoors and had gone out for the revels. As chance would have it, soon after 
the election, the triumphant Ogden was wandering around, shaking hands and 
taking his bows, when he ran into her. His eyes narrowed in concentration as 
he professionally appraised her figure, although he found it gauche of her 
to confront him wearing a bikini. 

The firmness of her body, and the eager virginal good looks he saw, 
intrigued him. He remembered that he had not seen her when he had canvassed 
the town during his initial poll, so he decided to straighten that little 
oversight out immediately. He took the girl up into a small gully leading 
into the foothills, found the right spot with the proper amount of shade and 
began his indoctrination, praising the freedom of total nudity and all the 
rest of his rather obtuse views about living. The girl was a willing 
listener, especially after he had poured half a bottle of wine into her and 
got her flying with a joint. Details of the little encounter in the gully 
became public knowledge later, not because the girl was broadcasting them 
all over town, but because her best girl friend was only ten yards away at 
the time, trying to catch her breath after a series of feverish orgasms 
pounded out of her by a surf ass. This loyal little friend, while making no 
mention of her own generous spreading of thighs, wasted no time in letting 
everyone know just how the mayor's daughter had lost her cherry. She had an 
excellent view through the mustard seed dotting the hills, and since the 
surf ass was collapsed in a stupor of too much sex after too much booze, she 
was not disturbed in her patient vigil. 

While still talking to the girl, Ogden began with the top of her bikini. She 
made no protest when he spilled out her breasts into the sunlight, for it 
was all a part of the new awareness of her body that Ogden told her she must 
learn. She was a bit more concerned about losing the panties, especially 
since Ogden was doing his best to chomp off her breasts one at a time, or at 
least make the nipples pop between his thumb and forefinger. But Ogden was a 
determined man. He distracted her with the full bloom of his polling pole, 
which reared itself up and thrust the head into her belly. While she 
groggily contemplated this immense red chunk of flesh attempting to torpedo 
her, he got his hand inside her pants, and with a deft sweep, had her pubic 
hair waving in the breeze. The girl clapped her legs together and grabbed at 
the newly elected mayor's staff of office, in an effort to push it away. It 
just gave a powerful surging jerk in her hand and Ogden moved onto all fours 
over her, his knee pressing hard between her legs just above her own knees. 
She winced with pain and her legs gave way. like a big eel, Ogden was 
immediately between them, his hands holding her. arms pinioned. An 
experienced prospector, he knew at the first probe that what he had before 
him was a sealed mine shaft. The girl was too far out to put up much of a 
physical defense, and her pleadings only got a bit more of Ogden's political 
views in return. On about the third probe Ogden managed to lodge the tip of 
his instrument into the tiny orifice. He sort of coiled himself and then 
thrust forward with his hips, exerting all the pressure he could on the tip 
of that plowshare of his. The girl was tough. Her whole body began to slide 
across the gravel and rocks of the gully, literally being pushed around by 
Ogden's cock. Stinkbugs reared up in protest at this avalanche of flesh 
slithering over their domain, and foxtail stickers imbedded themselves in 
the girl's hair, but Ogden thrust on, his bare feet gripping the ground like 
a monkey's to give himself leverage. 

Suddenly there was a horrible rending scream. Red-winged blackbirds in 
nearby scrub oaks took off in fright, and a jackrabbit that had been hiding 
in the grass took off as if a hundred rifles were pointed his way. The 
watching girl in the mustard seed grabbed her genitals in delight as she saw 
the distended screaming mouth of her friend and saw the full length of 
Ogden's crowbar vanish inside the abdoment of the mayor's daughter. He 
stuffed it into her and held it in for a while, his buttocks working to get 
it in as far as it was possible. When he withdrew it, the shaft was bright 
with red blood which glistened and shone in the sun. The girl below him gave 
out a few moans, but Ogden now had her lubricated with her own sanguine 
grease, and he proceeded to let her know what a woman's life was like. Very 
methodically and very hard, he began to ram himself into the bleeding 
orifice, making sure that each stroke banged him in to the hilt and got a 
whimper out of the girl as she felt her innocent cervix bludgeoned with his 
battering ram. He then tipped her legs up and, with the added leverage, 
began to imitate the mating habits of smaller mammals, primarily rodents, 
which copulate in a far shorter time than human beings. There were loud wet 
smacking sounds as he plowed into the gore which now covered his testicles 
and both their thighs. 

Not satisfied with having punctured her from the front, Ogden then turned 
her over and, before she knew what was happening, he was lining the inside 
of her colon with her vaginal blood. The girl now began to bleat like a 
stuck pig-which, in a way, she was. But Ogden could have cared less, some 
sort of resentment against the mayor driving him ever deeper into his 
opponent's daughter's ass. She was, by now, not much to look at. The 
position on her back had allowed her sweat-soaked skin to pick up all the 
debris below her, so that when Ogden turned her over for a rear-ender, he 
had in his hands a piece of ass that looked as if it had been the main 
ingredient of the child's mud pie. With a fiendish delight he banged her 
anyway, finally coming into her anus with a series of tremendous thrusts 
which sent her sliding over the gravel on her stomach and breasts the way 
she had done before on her back. When at last his passion cooled, he 
withdrew his penis, looked it over, grabbed the girl by the hair and turned 
her around and made her lick it clean. 

Perhaps this encounter was repeated, but the only eyewitness was at this 
point interrupted by the resurrection of the beach ass, who had rallied for 
another sally. By the time he was again deflated, the revelers in the area 
suddenly froze in their activities at the sound of many sirens on the 
highway. 

Coming down the road from the direction of the county seat was a formidable 
convoy of police cars. Out from the ocean clattered two helicopters, one 
from the police, the other from the Coast Guard. 

Pandemonium broke out in the town. Naked bodies began to streak in all 
directions, the laughter now mixing with calls to split or else to stand and 
hold their ground. In the confusion the police were able to drive right into 
the middle of the town before jumping out into the crowd. 

When the town cop had called them he had said that he had a riot on his 
hand, so the dozens of policemen came in gas masks and bullet-proof vests, 
armed with everything from gas to riot guns. Confronted with waves of naked 
flesh rather than with clubs, they were for a while confused as to what 
action to take, especially when the Bare Facters would scream "Rape!" or 
"Homo!" depending upon the sex of the person the police laid hands on. 

Two dozen cops were no match for several hundred naked fanatics, and their 
catch was minimal. There was so much milling about that no sooner would they 
get their hands on someone, throw him in a car, than others would let him 
out on the other side. The Bare Facters streaked off into the hills just 
behind the town; others grabbed surfboards and paddled out beyond the 
breakers, insolently watching the cops run back and forth on the now 
deserted beach. The simple nudity of the young people had somehow disarmed 
the guardians of the law, because not a club was wielded nor a gas grenade 
tossed. End result of the massive raid was ridiculous: two police cars with 
flat tires, one policeman with fingernail scratches on his face, and one 
five-year-old nude kid in custody, although it later turned out that he lost 
his pants trying to wriggle out of a cop's clutches. 

After all the dust had settled, the problem arose as to what, exactly, had 
taken place. The police needed to make out a report, but they found 
themselves without witnesses. Most of the townspeople refused to comment on 
the afternoon, other than to say that a sort of irregular election had been 
held. No one except the mayor volunteered any details or wanted to prefer 
charges against the young people. The mayor's claims, on the other hand, 
seemed so preposterous that they were difficult to believe. According to 
him, the town had been invaded by an army of naked fanatics bent on nothing 
less than the complete destruction of the town and the raping of every 
living female in the area. 

The police did take down his report, but without taking it seriously. They 
checked out the license number of the bus that had brought Ogden and his 
bunch and found it to be registered to a student from the university, who 
temporarily could not be found in the town. They did put a parking ticket 
under the wiper, but that was the extent of it. The only other evidence of 
the whole "riot" were the beer cans and band instruments lying about in the 
street, and the police told the mayor that he had better see the mess 
cleared up so that it did not interfere with traffic. Then, just as suddenly 
as they had come, the police left, many of them rather dazed by the whole 
thing. The helicopters hovered over the area for a while, then they too 
whirled away and silence fell over the town. The party was over, and the 
members of the Bare Facts Party began to drift back into town and started 
putting on clothes against the cool breeze of late afternoon. 

For all practical purposes, the situation was back to normal. Families on 
the beach began fouling the air with charcoal smoke, and surf fishermen once 
more appeared at the water's edge. 

But the massive raid of the police had not gone unnoticed at the county 
seat, and a stringer from that city's newspaper appeared to see what kind of 
story he could put together. At first he thought be would concentrate on 
just the nudity aspect-a wild streak-in, in which a whole town had 
participated. He considered the whole election a big put-on, just a prank on 
the part of Ogden and his friends. But when, in one of the abandoned voting 
booths, he came across the stack of ballots and other papers, he studied 
them carefully for a while. Suddenly his eyes Ut up with the joy of a 
bloodhound that had found sexy scent. 

Packing off all the papers with him, he said not a word to anyone, and left 
at sunset for the county seat. 

With dusk falling fast, the town began to lose half its population. The VWs 
with surfboards on their roofs began to drive off towards the south, the 
motorcycles roared away, and the mobile-home families near the beach began 
to turn on their Japanese transistor televisions to catch the evening news 
on the tiny screens. There was an air of exhaustion and spent energies, with 
everyone looking forward to a good night's sleep. 

About this time Ogden came down from the hills. He was cold and missed his 
brown burnoose. His supply of grass had been lost in the turmoil, so he felt 
a bit down. In addition, the exertion required to make a political convert 
out of the mayor's daughter had given him quite an appetite. 

He wandered onto the main street, nude, dirty, and with blood-streaked 
thighs. The cafe was closed; so were the market, drugstore, and deli. No one 
was about to give him either food or shelter. Just when he was passing one 
of the voting booths, he heard a lot of clanking somewhere in an alley and 
went to investigate. Coming around the corner of a boarded-up house, he came 
face to face with the mayor, who was obeying police orders and piling all 
the beer cans and band instruments in a heap behind the abandoned house. 

The mayor was in an understandable rage. His whole community had gone 
berserk on him, the election farce had humiliated him, the wild display of 
nudity shocked him, and the fact that no one would help him clean up the 
mess was simply adding insult to injury. When he looked up from the imposing 
refuse heap he had been building and saw the worn out Ogden standing there 
like a naked scarecrow, a red film came over his eyes. 

"You fucking pervert!" he yelled. Grabbing a beat up trombone, he made a 
wild leap for his political opponent. Ogden took one look at the gleam in 
the mayor's eyes, spun on his heel, and, with knees kicking high, began to 
make tracks back the way he had come. Screaming curses, the mayor ran after 
him, waving the instrument like a club and throwing any rocks or beer cans 
he came across. 

A few people heard the yelling and peered out in time to see the flash of 
Ogden's skin in the growing darkness, followed by the enraged mayor. The 
chase had a Mack Sennett quality to it, but the good citizens were too tired 
from the day's activities to appreciate it. Ogden called several times for 
help, but his friends were apparently either gone or sleeping it all off 
somewhere, because no one came to his aid. 

Thinking his youth and strength would help him outdistance his middle-aged 
pursuer, Ogden headed back into the hills from which he had come. It was a 
good idea, for the mayor was already displaying respiratory problems; but 
Ogden now made the mistake of heading up the same gully where he had left 
the mayor's daughter. 

Feet thumping on the ground, he passed her without a glance. The girl was 
sitting in a pot-and-wine daze, watching him go by as if he were a creature 
from another planet. Her body was very dirty, and she had attempted to get 
back into her bikini, but had not done too good a job of it. The bra was on 
crooked, so that one breast hung out below the cup, and her panties were 
down somewhere around her knees. She had one hand between her legs, 
initially to feel out the damage that had been done to her, but ultimately 
this probing had turned to a sort of self-pitying masturbation. 

It was in this position that her father also found her. At first he did not 
recognize her, and was about to clobber her with the trombone; but when she 
yelled, he immediately knew that it was indeed the apple of his eye, sitting 
there looking like a whore who had taken on a regiment of the Foreign 
Legion. "What happened!" he cried. 

"It was him! He ... he...." The girl pointed in the direction Ogden had 
taken. Expertly, her voice immediately dissolved into a hysterical sobbing 
that was calculated to turn any father's heart to mush. In a flash he saw 
Ogden, the beast, debauching his pure and virginal daughter. Oh, the agony 
of it! The pervert's cock inside his precious darling! The brutality and 
horror of it all! 

Suddenly he no longer had any problems getting his wind. The trombone fell 
from his hand, and he drew the gun he carried in his role as the town cop. 
Methodically, he checked the chambers, his hand trembling slightly with 
righteous rage. Then he headed up the gully, his mind forming concepts of 
total annihilation. 

It was fairly easy to follow Ogden. Now and then his naked buttocks would 
flash in the darkness ahead or his scrambling up the steep gully would 
loosen loud little rock slides, and his hairy head was often outlined 
against the evening sky. 

The gully became the side of a hill after a while, and Ogden found himself 
enmeshed in the tangles of manzanita and other scrub brush of the Coastal 
Range. He could hear the panting of his hunter behind him, so he had no way 
to go but up. Clawing his way along, he had to get down on all fours and 
force his way up along the coyote and deer trails that made passage for his 
body barely possible. After a few minutes of this, the brush gave way to 
rock and he thought he had it made. Scrambling over the decomposed granite 
like a naked caveman, he was just chuckling to himself at the thought of 
leaving the mayor behind when he found himself on top of a rocky ridge. On 
the other side, the rocks fell away perpendicularly in a sheer cliff that 
vanished in the inky darkness of the night. He was trapped. 

Early next morning the whole beach town was in an uproar. A small van had 
delivered the morning paper printed at the county seat. Right across the 
front page was the banner headline: "BEACH COMMUNITY GOES BARE!" The subhead 
read: "Nude Hippie Streaks Away with Votes for Mayor." Then, in great 
detail, the article told how the election had indeed been valid. It seems 
Ogden was something of a jailhouse lawyer and that, although his campaign 
methods may have been Unorthodox, he had taken care to file all the 
appropriate papers at the county seat, so that, due to certain unusual legal 
loopholes existing in the county ordnances, he had, in fact, become the 
mayor. 

The previous day was now a dream dissolved in the fog of hangovers, but the 
good citizens realized that they had just become the laughingstock of the 
county, if not the state or even the whole nation. Crowds gathered in the 
middle of town, heatedly debating the mess and how they could get out of it. 
Then someone yelled that there was a fire in the hills, someone else 
remembered gunshots in the night, and another suddenly recollected hearing 
his daughter tell that the mayor's daughter told her, her daddy had chased 
Ogden into the hills at night to murder him. 

Acting out of sheer common sense, half the male population of the town 
headed for the small column of smoke rising from the nearby hills. They knew 
that all the town needed was to have their new celebrity mayor fried on a 
rock to really make the big time in the news, with a scandal that they could 
never live down. 

They found the old mayor about fifty yards below the rocks on which Ogden 
was enduring his Promethean ordeal. All night the two had exchanged 
obscenities and missiles. Ogden had been able to hold his own because of the 
darkness and the sizeable boulders he was able to send crashing down into 
the brush. When morning came, however, the old mayor saw that he would be 
unable to get his daughter's seducer with the pistol, so he lit the brush to 
barbecue him instead. 

The townspeople arrived just in time. The mayor was subdued, the fire beaten 
down, and Ogden was taken off his hot rock. He was quite a sight. Beard and 
hair singed, his nude body was covered with dirt, scratches, ashes and 
brilliant pink patches, the first stages of reaction to the poison oak he 
had crawled through during the night. 

A conference, participated in by all parties, was held right there on the 
burned-out hillside. The language was vile, but ultimately a settlement was 
reached which saved not only Ogden's itching hide, but the faces of all the 
others. Ogden would prepare a statement to the local press that the election 
story was false-that the reporter had fallen for a students' prank, and that 
the whole thing was a farce. He would also kindly get the hell out of the 
county and never show his face, or his bare ass, in the place again. The 
mayor would, in return, desist from parting Ogden from his mortal life, and 
would resume his duties as if nothing happened. 

Under the circumstances it was a wise agreement. The very next day the 
county paper retracted its story, the town received good publicity, and the 
whole affair was written off as just another bit of streakery. Ogden 
vanished, the Bare Facts Party never reared its head, or any other part of 
its anatomy, again. 

The only changes, this summer, in the town are that a town council has been 
formed: the mayor's office has a new resident, with a specified term to 
serve; and the city fathers wisely allow a segment of beach, safely remote 
from the town, to be used by those who wish to set themselves free to 
worship the sun without the help of Ogden. But a shiver still goes through 
the townspeople whenever they see any bearded young beach person wearing 
anything even remotely resembling a free-flowing burnoose. . . . 

* * * 

This case of political chicanery, obviously fictional on a number of points 
(perhaps to bolster the fading ego of the writer, who may even be Ogden 
himself) is nevertheless an example of political hysteria. Everyone is 
familiar with this phenomenon. Campaign rallies, conventions, and political 
"stumping" trips throughout the grass roots all bear symptoms of this 
hysteria, which is in many ways deliberately manufactured by the campaign 
directors to maintain enthusiasm for their candidates. 

Ogden, of course, attempts to do the same thing. Having carefully researched 
the legal aspects of the local election, he has a complete grasp of what is 
necessary to get elected. His campaign, however, does not reflect this same 
careful attention to detail, since he quite willingly brings in social 
elements in the small-town election which go beyond the normal boundaries of 
political hysteria. Nudism, in particular, is a social phenomenon which is 
not only illegal, but quite uncomfortable for a great many people. Young 
people seem to have less in the way of inhibitions as regards nudity, 
perhaps because their bodies are still relatively beautiful and worthy of 
the total expression that nudity brings. 

What Ogden, in fact, brings about is a riot, not an election. It is probably 
doubtful that he ever intended to seriously run for office-his electoral 
manipulations were merely an excuse for his highly radical social behavior. 
Riots, once beyond a certain mood, fuel their own passions, so Ogden only 
had to worry about starting the melee. Riots are extremely political in 
nature. Besides emulating the hysteria of the political campaign, they are 
in themselves caused by factors of political frustration and alienation. As 
Louis Masotti and Don Bowen put it in their book Riots and Rebellion, the 
riot is caused by one of four political causes. 

The first cause they call the derivational hypothesis: "Men engage in civil 
violence because the current or anticipated distribution of values in their 
societies is unfair or unjust by some standard." Usually, the authors say, 
this cause has to do with respect to the distribution of wealth. Two 
corollaries to this hypothesis must be noted: first, that the inequality is 
felt by the people themselves, and second, that the people perceive not only 
the un-equality, but the fact that this inequality is unjust. Without 
including the first corollary, we would have a hard time explaining how 
countries in the world which contain obvious inequalities among their 
citizenry still manage to have extremely peaceful populations. Studies 
conducted on the derivational hypothesis attempt to determine what the 
nature of the deprivation is among rioting groups in the population. One 
study indicates that poverty is the main cause, another study emphasizes the 
relationship between land distribution and rioting, with those without land 
ownership being the most prone to riot. 

Masotti and Bowen summarize the second factor thus: 

Let us turn our attention now to the second emphasis: that which moves men 
to violence is deprivation relative to something else. The answers to the 
question of what that "something else" is are varied. Some suggest that one 
feels deprived when invidious comparisons are possible with the achievements 
of other salient individuals or reference groups. Here, for example, is Marx 
on this point: "A house may be large or small; as long as the surrounding 
houses are equally small it satisfies all social demands for a dwelling. But 
if a palace arises beside the house, the little house shrinks into a hut." 

This theme pinpoints the reason for social violence as a result of the 
comparison between what one currently enjoys and what one aspires to. The 
expectation of better things, when thwarted, leads to violence. According to 
this second hypothesis, it is neither the completely downtrodden (who have 
no expectations) nor the completely wealthy (who can satisfy any 
expectation) who represents a possible sector of social violence. It is only 
possible for the middle-class man to fit into this picture. This view 
stresses the factor that hope, not despair, produces with respect to 
dissatisfaction with the system. This view states "that people riot because 
the political system cannot meet with their rising expectations. 

The third hypothesis related by Masotti and Bowen is the factor of 
alienation, of the breakdown of consensual norms and the "inability or 
unwillingness of the agencies of social control to act in such a way as to 
restore these norms." This hypothesis is amply illustrated by the inability 
of the town mayor and sheriff to get the situation which Ogden was creating 
under control. When the ruling class fails to respond to social acts of 
violence, more violence follows, at least according to this third 
hypothesis. 

The fourth hypothesis is the one that applies to the situation of this case 
most aptly. According to this fourth reason for rioting, civil violence is 
the result of conflict between various groups within the society. This 
"group conflict" idea primarily calls attention to the various fragmented 
groups within the society, where differences are most likely to occur with 
respect to race, religion, or some regional factor (city/country). 

In Ogden's case, his takeover of the town was motivated by an age difference 
which manifested itself most noticeably in the degree to which Ogden 
practiced nudism and encouraged his followers to do the same. In today's 
American society, sexual differences, morally, between the young and the old 
are still quite pronounced in some areas of the country. Ogden realized that 
nudism would polarize the neighbor-hood very quickly (divide the people into 
two opposing and supposedly irreconcilable factions). By continually 
accenting the sexual motif, Ogden managed to completely alienate the old 
from the young, and therefore found establishment of a power base, in the 
one faction that wasn't represented, quite easy to accomplish. 

Ogden's big mistake was in calculating which side of the social split he 
created would eventually end up with the political power. In fact, his 
mistake is so obvious that it seems impossible that his whole story could be 
true. If he really did have some knowledge of the law, then why did he 
directly expose himself to criminal prosecution, and Why did he not stop the 
insurgence of his followers once the election was won? Even though he may 
have won the election legally, his conduct exposed himself as well as his 
followers to criminal prosecution. These are hardly the actions of a leader. 

Revolutions without tangible purpose inevitably bring about a 
counter-revolution which usually sets social conditions back to 
pre-revolutionary standards. Politics, as the cases in this journal 
illustrate, is a complex game involving many individuals and emotions. To 
bring about effective political change, careful consideration must be given 
to the means of power and how best to acquire this power. Impetuous moves, 
hasty maneuvers, the action without foresight and thought-these hamper all 
effective political progress. Social advance and social change must be the 
product of the society as a whole, or else whatever advances are brought 
about will be merely temporary in nature. Only a few times in the history of 
the world's countries has a revolution been successfully carried out, and in 
each and every case those revolutions which encouraged popular support were 
the most successful. Society cannot advance when divisive tactics are 
used-only one special group, in this case, has anything to gain. 

CONCLUSION 

Richard Rose, a British political scientist, feels that political 
irrationality is the main cause of corruption in government. Political 
irrationality is caused, he states, by the nature of democratic governments 
which require a continuing public consensus for majority power and 
effectiveness. As such, no democracy can completely avoid political excess, 
but, as he states in his study of propaganda, Influencing Voters: 

The prevalence of irrational behavior is not meant to imply that politicians 
can do nothing to affect the conduct of elections-for better or for worse. 
While the efforts of decades of reformers in America have not altered most 
campaign practices, some practices have nonetheless changed greatly in 
recent decades, in response to a complex series of social and political 
developments. At every election, the possibility of increasing rational 
behavior does exist, and a few campaigners do take advantage of such 
opportunities. Moreover, the alteration of laws regulating election 
procedures and party activities can also affect campaigning. 

Change is possible. Political irrationality, while seemingly the worst form, 
at times, of social madness, is amenable to public effort for reform. 
However sharp the backlash from the Watergate affair, no amount of 
legislation or government reorganization will insure a higher ethical 
standard during the American election process. Even though advanced 
communications has made it easier for the public to participate in 
government, their participation is by no means guaranteed. 

Because an apathetic public invariably breeds apathetic government, it is up 
to the people to make the necessary changes. Only when a government has an 
extremely close relationship with the people it governs is corruption 
minimized. Through some means, the government of the United States and the 
people must be brought closer together. 

Two schools of thought dominated political analysis about the capability of 
the voter for many years, according to a study published by the American 
Institute for Political Communication in Washington, D.C. The first opinion 
was typified by the thinking of Walter Lippmann, who questioned the 
rationality of the voting public under present circumstances of democratic 
procedure. The second opinion, exemplified by the writings of Lord Bryce, 
held that the voter could make reasonable decisions given adequate access to 
the facts. 

A third evaluation came into fashion following the advent of television in 
national campaigns; one that could be described as taking a midway position 
between the views of Bryce and Lippmann. Simply stated, the "collective 
properties" theory concerns the position, not of the individual within a 
democracy, but of the group within a democracy. Even though the individual 
is exposed to many differing pressures in an election, his decisions can be 
expected to produce beneficial results because the society as a whole 
contains certain elements which guide him to the proper choice. 

Despite all its inequities, the political campaign is a procedure which 
enables a democracy to be elected. As the Institute for Political 
Communication states in the publication The New Methodology: 

In a democracy, the ideal political campaign is the medium through which men 
and issues are drawn into focus for the voter. The campaign-more than the 
casting of the ballots per se-makes it possible for the governed to 
periodically decide not only who shall govern but, within broad limits, the 
policies to be pursued by the governors. In a way, it is a regular rite by 
which those who have political power to give offer it to those who seek and 
can convince the givers that they deserve to have it. 

Public responsibility for the tenor and tone of government policy is a 
crucial element in any understanding of the present government crisis. Even 
though the public cannot be blamed for specific actions and political 
policies of the administration, the public must share some of the 
responsibility for their existence. The underlying problem, the apathetic 
trend of voter thinking, must be changed for effective reform, and yet there 
has been no substantial mandate from the voting public during this present 
crisis for any great change in government. The traditional barriers still 
exist between the government and the people, and neither side is making any 
great effort to overcome them. The people resent further governmental 
interference in their personal lives, and the government is reluctant to 
extend controls any further into the fabric of American society. History may 
force a strengthening of the bonds between our people and our government, 
but for the moment most people are reluctant to exchange any measure of 
their freedom on the chance that greater involvement with the national 
government will make it any more morally conscientious. 

Some commentators have thought corruption to be the sign of a healthily 
functioning government body, while others have condemned corruption as the 
great inhibitor of social justice. But corruption in itself is always based 
on an ethical, moral judgment, and morals are cultural entities, free from 
permanent definition. Those who feel some change need be made in the very 
structure of our government should remember not only that government is in 
many ways a reflection of the people governed, but that morality and 
politics are two separate, and by no means mutually inclusive, ideas. 

Konrad Lorenz, the noted naturalist and behavioral scientist, believes that 
morality is a behavioral condition subject to many of the same influences as 
any other pattern of human behavior. In no way can it be measured in 
absolute terms, as political ideology is subject to. In his book On 
Aggression, Lorenz outlines the causes of moral breakdown: 

The stress under which morally responsible behavior breaks down can be of 
varying kinds. It is not so much the sudden, one-time great temptation that 
makes human morality break down but the effect of any prolonged situation 
that exerts an increasing drain on the compensatory power of morality. 
Hunger, anxiety, the necessity to make difficult decisions, overwork, 
hopelessness and the like all have the effect of sapping moral energy and, 
in the long run, making it break down. Anyone who has had the opportunity to 
observe men under this kind of strain, for example in war ... knows how 
unpredictably and suddenly moral decomposition sets in. Men in whose 
strength one trusted unconditionally suddenly break down, and others of whom 
one would never have expected it prove to be sources of inexhaustible 
energy, keeping up the morale of others by their example. Anyone who has 
experienced such things knows that the fervor of good intention and its 
power of endurance are two independent variables. Once you have realized 
this, you cease to feel superior to the man who breaks down a little sooner 
than you do yourself. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

American Institute for Political Communication, ed. The New Methodology: A 
Study of Political Strategy and Tactics. Washington, D.C.: published by the 
Institute, 1967. 

Bloom, Melvyn H. Public Relations and Presidential Campaigns. New York: 
Thomas Crowell, 1973. 

Brown, William. The People's Choice. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University 
Press, 1960. 

Bullitt, Stimson. To Be a Politician. Garden City, New York: Doubleday & 
Company, 1966. 

Felknor, Bruce. Dirty Politics. New York: W W. Norton, 1966. 

Geis, Gilbert, ed. White Collar Criminal: The Offender in Business and the 
Professions. New York: Atherton Press, 1968. 

Jonas, Frank, ed. Political Dynamiting. Salt Lake City, Utah: University of 
Utah Press, 1970. 

Lorenz, Konrad. On Aggression. New York: Harcourt, Brace, and World, 1966. 

Lubell, Samuel. The Hidden Crisis in American Politics. New York: W. W. 
Norton, 1970. 

Masotti, Louis, and Bowen, Don, eds. Riots and Rebellion: Civil Violence in 
the Urban Community. Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage Publications, 1968. 

Rose, Richard. Influencing Voters: A Study of Campaign Rationality. New 
York: St. Martin's Press, 1970. 

Rosenbloom, David. The Election Men. New York: Quadrangle Books, 1973. 

Shadegg, Stephen. How to Win art Election. New York: Taplinger, 1964. 

White, Theodore. The Making of the President 1961. New York: Signet Books, 
The New American Library, 1965. 


THE END
