With Obama recently elected, there has been an enormous upsurge in the popularity of progressive candidates. People come by and beg you to run for a state seat. In fact, you're offered an unexpected shitload of dough for the campaign. Enough to make you think "what the hell," and give it another shot. And there's a heartening number and variety of volunteers willing to help in all kinds of way. You've got a decent sized storefront for most of the operation -- it even has upstairs offices for private meetings in addition to the open area down below. It's hectic, but you're mostly enjoying yourself. You like arguing with your opponent (a conservative asshole) and are pushing for a debate. That's where I come in. Some of your handlers figure that it wouldn't hurt to consult a poli-sci professor about various lines of argument. Sure, your jerk opponent wouldn't recognize a fallacy if it came up and bit him on the ass. But someone in the audience might, and this will probably be televised. A reporter might. Anyway, it's truth you're after rather than rhetoric. That's the whole point. So late one hot summer afternoon someone gives me a lift to the storefront. I don't teach summers, which means I don't have to wear very many clothes. Mini-skirt and tank top are good in this heat, with running shoes in case I need to walk back home if I can't get a ride. We're introduced and shake hands. I tell you that I'm a supporter even though I'm not in your district. What can I do to help?
We sit around going over the topics that might come up during the debate, tossing various lines of reasoning back and forth. We find that we both have a weakness for good one liners. I'm beginning to find you VERY attractive. I like the way you look in jeans. I've caught you having a look at my legs. We've talked our way past dinner time, and people are beginning to bail out for the day. The few of us engaged in the conversation about debating strategies send out for pizza. Once it comes, we pay off the delivery guy, close up the storefront and repair upstairs. Your campaign manager gets a call from her significant other about parent problems and bids us goodnight. Your assistant grabs pizza to go and leaves to relieve his babysitter. We're the only ones left in the office.
The office above the storefront is seedy but pleasant. There's an old overstuffed couch up against the wall, a geriatric rolltop desk with a broken catch, a sturdy wooden table in the corner with stacks of posters and flyers. There's one phone on the desk and another on the floor. Both floor and desk are also littered by file folders in various stages of disarray or disintegration. It all reminds me of my own office. I feel totally comfortable. Also increasingly horny. You're looking good. We're both sprawled on the couch, with the pizza box open on a straight-backed chair in front of us. I've got my legs propped up on the edge of the chair. Can't hurt to be tempting.
"You know," I say reflectively, "you've got to try and resist being outrageous at least a little. You have a chance of winning this thing if you don't give way to your irresistible inclination to shock the crap out of people."
This pisses you off. "If they can't cope with what I really --"
"Not the point," I interrupt. "Why should they have to? Most of your outrageous thoughts have nothing to do with any of the things you'll have the power to change anyway. Why risk --"
"I cherish my outrageous thoughts," you point out. "I'm having outrageous thoughts this very second. Thoughts which -- were they but known and publicized -- would create a scandal that would lose me the election."
"Oh well -- thoughts." I say. "It's deeds that have the real shock value."
I stretch my legs a little. I think I like where this conversation is heading.
