Growing up in a liberal suburb of New York, I was raised with progressive principles: to unconditionally accept anyone regardless of race, gender, income, or taste in teak furniture — and to always stand up to bigots.
The problem is, what if that bigot is a total beefcake?
On one hand, I know Paul Ryan’s comments about the laziness of “urban” America are indefensible conjecture. But when he struts that pretty little ass on stage, my incorruptible moral compass goes out the window, only to be replaced with pure, unbridled libido.
The problem is, I could never tell my parents any of this. “Didn’t we raise you right?” Mom would say. “He’s anti-choice, he’s a climate change denier, he’s a chauvinist.” I know in my heart of hearts that she’s right. But seeing him grab the sides of the podium as he spouts neo-conservative rhetoric, all I can think is how it might feel if he were grabbing my sides instead, whispering sweet nothings in my ear as I trace little itty-bitty circles in his thick, groomed chest hair.
I know this Trump business should pose more of an issue to me. Can I trust Paul Ryan to stand up to our populist commander-in-chief? Is he an enemy or an ally? A top or a bottom? Please, please let him be a top.
I didn’t choose to want to fuck Paul Ryan. It’s just the way I am. I hope my parents will find a way to move past their politics and accept me for who I want to be. Until then, I’ll be daydreaming of Speaker Ryan and me, taking that trip to Venice we always talk about but never get around to.
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