The Thrill of Lazio’s Drill
One of my old fillings has been acting up, and I ought to have it looked at. At the same time, I feel like having my space violated by somebody young and eager. This combination of need and desire, added to all the tension generated by the elections, conspires to make me imagine (as I think it would anyone) that Rick Lazio, Republican candidate for the U.S. Senate from New York, is my own personal sex-crazed dentist.
I visit him in his ground floor office on Park Avenue, where he has been beautifying the smiles of moguls. His own enthusiastic grin is not only his calling card it is his billboard.
“Can I trust you?” I ask coyly, the question with which every woman greets an attractive dentist.
“Yes, because I’m from here,” he replies, pushing me into the chair and chaining a paper bib to my neck in one masterful motion. “I’m not some foreigner or immigrant or Hispaniard. I went to West Islip High and Vassar, giving me a native understanding of every mouth from Long Island to Poughkeepsie.”
“That’s not a very big area.” I smile, touching first his sternum, then his navel.
“Yes it is,” Lazio replies earnestly. “Add it to Israel the only place guns belong and it’s everything.”
“Are you going to show me your Gaza Strip, Mr. Lazio,” I purr vampishly, “or just tease me with it?”
He adjusts my chair so that his thigh is directly in my face. It’s encased in a gray wool pants leg, a plump, succulent altar boy’s thigh, that would look good indented by my blood-red press-on nails.
“Nurse, hand me that sharp thing with a hook,” he cries, but instead he sticks his finger aggressively in my face the way he did to Mrs. Clinton. I take his pinky in my mouth and pet it with my tongue to calm him.
“I am the world’s best dentist because, being from New York, I understand what a New York mouth needs,” he repeats, or at least I feel like he repeats it, because it’s so similar to something he said before.
“I agree totally,” I reassure him. I’m beginning to catch on that this dentist is running for office. “As long as you let me pay for this with soft money,” I wink, baring my breasts.
“You can pay with a credit card at my website as advertised,” he replies soberly, bending over to peer into my mouth. As he pokes around in there with his tongue, he brushes his groin along my arm. He does it slyly, as if he’s only leaning against the armrest for support, but I know an improper solicitation when I get one. I reach between his legs and cup his jewels gently in my talons, jiggling them deftly.
Rick is the sort who free-associates when he gets hard:
“I’m upbeat,” he gushes. “I live in a place called Brightwaters, and I feel bright about all the progress they’ve made upstate without government programs that would compromise the precious autonomy and dignity of unskilled rubes who, unlike my kids, have every right to remain disposable.”
His double standard reminds me of my husband’s notion that it’s fine for him to have an affair but not okay for me to have a fantasy. As I’m fuming about Max, Rick slips inside me much as he slipped into the senatorial race forcefully, but on the momentum of another man’s disgrace.
“If you’re a white suburbanite who hates guns, civil liberties and Hillary Clinton, I’m your man,” Rick declares, drilling deep into me for emphasis. How can a guy so cute be so angry?
“Why go negative?” I scold him, my plan being to make him last longer by putting him on the defensive. Rick has been known to complete a fundraising pitch in under four minutes, and you know what they say about men with short speeches.
“Even though I define myself by who I’m not, I never go negative,” he drones, “not even on lying women who think that they are a law unto themselves just because they have been acquitted of crimes I am nevertheless certain they committed. I signed a negative fundraising letter not to endorse it, but to show I know how to delegate leadership must in these busy times when housewives who vote have so many errands that I sympathize with.”
He pounds me the way he speaks in what The New York Observer calls, rather redundantly, an “even monotone,” but I see why teens find him adorable. He makes you feel like you’re being wired for Internet access and high-speed rail service even while nothing much is actually happening. And in this, he is so like all the other adorable candidates, that when I finally do come, moaning and panting my way through a whole mouthful of empty promises, the experience so sets my teeth on edge, I think I’m going to need a biteguard.