I Can't Stop Thinking About The Foreign-Policy Discussion We Had In The Shower Yesterday
By James Harrell
October 18, 2006 | Issue 42•42
I can barely keep it together at work today. It's impossible to focus. Every time I try to get something done, my palms start to sweat, my head spins, and I think about you, with your eyes half-closed and your head thrown back under that hot, steaming water, talking about how our current foreign policy is counterproductive to its stated objective because it is allowing Islamic extremist groups to exploit the U.S.-led conflict in Iraq to recruit an ever-growing number of anti-American jihadists.
You've always known exactly how to drive me wild.
I'm going nuts over here. It's all I can do not to drop everything, sprint to the car, speed over to your place, throw you down, and feel your breath on my ear as you tell me that America's unpopular, misinformed actions and its unwillingness to open any productive dialogues have had the effect of alienating our allies, and subsequently contributed to the inability to craft a true allied coalition in the War on Terror.
God, I love it when you do that.
I'm sorry I called you so many times today, but the things you said while I was inside you really had an effect on me. I'm trying to keep it under control, but it's hard not to picture you moaning breathlessly that turning a blind eye to the human-rights policy in friendly, oil-producing countries will only serve to engender greater anti-U.S. sentiment in the rest of the world. Oh, man. I can't get it out of my head. Picturing you, dripping with all that intense political jargon, your skin slick and sweaty from round after round of hot and heavy geopolitical deconstruction. Rubbing that soap all over yourself and working me into a frenzy over America's repeated neglect of the AIDS epidemic in Africa. You really know what gets me going—and that's an in-depth treatise of the U.S.'s bastardization of its own agenda of global democratization.
How can I hope to get anything done around here with all these sumptuous images of American hegemony floating around in my head? It's torture! People at the office have been looking at me funny because I'm all flushed and disheveled. What am I supposed to tell them, that I just had the most fantastic and mind-blowing shower session discussing the inevitable failure of our attempts to diplomatically isolate Iran? Yeah, right.
Baby, I just need to hear you whisper in throaty, smoldering tones that the crippling economic sanctions proposed by the U.S. against North Korea in order to halt nuclear testing will be difficult to realize, as they are contingent on the severely limited and reluctant influence of both China and Russia.
That escalating situation really turns my crank, and boy, do you know it. I may have to slip away for a little bit, just to calm myself down.
Not that it'll do any good. Even if I manage to stop thinking about your tight little argument against U.S. unilateralism, I inevitably drift back to all the other thought-provoking conversations we've had during sex. Like the time you rode me all night long about my preference for Roy Lichtenstein's earlier, pastoral work, and slammed me again and again and again with your thesis that his greatest achievement was questioning the effect consumer culture has had on the Western idea of self identity.
Or when you said that Camus' use of dualism was not morbid in nature, but put forth so that we might enjoy fleeting happiness when it occurs. Admittedly, that conversation was a little one-sided due to the ball gag.
I'm trembling just at the thought of having scintillating intercourse with you again and I don't know if I can even make it until Friday evening. I hope you're still free. I can't wait to come over with a bottle of wine so we can really get down and dirty with our thoughts about the ongoing genocide in Darfur.
This time, though, I want to finish on top.