hen it comes to hot women in the public eye to whom I can rub one out, 2017 offers pickings best described as “slim.” Most women considered sex symbols today do nothing for me, and were I to attempt to bust a nut to a mental image of, say, Emily Ratajkowski, well… let’s just say we’d be in for a long night, with success far from assured.
It’s not that her eyes are so far apart that she looks like she has fetal alcohol syndrome. And it’s not that her posture reminds me of my maternal grandmother, who wore a five-pound Hebrew letter “hai” as a neck ornament in the manner of Flava Flav, causing irreversible spine curvature that took four inches off her height, god rest her soul.
No, it’s none of those things. My failure to become aroused by Ratajkowski and other women currently considered sex symbols is a byproduct of her dead-behind-the-eyes facial expression. It suggests someone who is spiritually and emotionally comatose.
This is not to say that were I to meet Ms. Ratajkowski in real life, that I would not find her charming, enlightening or brilliant. This is to say that in photos, she looks like an android. And while I’m an old, overweight, creepy weirdo who goes in for all kinds of unprintable shit, I draw the line at robots.
You see, my imaginary paramours must be intense. They must be unafraid to stand up for what they believe, and they must put their backs into it. So what person better encapsulates the “I stand for something” ethos than someone who not only holds utterly repugnant views, but clearly enunciates said views into a microphone on live television, for a national audience of millions?
That’s right. When I masturbate, I fantasize about female, right wing media personalities.
“Real Time With Bill Maher” introduced me to numerous examples. The first was S.E. Cupp of The Daily Caller. I was bewitched by her dark brown hair, her glasses and her barely-contained hatred of entitlement programs. I could almost envision her removing her glasses and shaking out her hair, to erotically acquaint me with rugged individualism and pulling myself up by my own bootstraps.
Unfortunately, I later learned that like me, Cupp supports marriage equality and is a self-described atheist. So, while we could have some interesting discussions about political intersectionality, she was not quite the right fit for me to successfully commit an act of self-love within a reasonable time frame.
Next up was conservative talk radio host Dana Loesch. She brought the requisite combination of rage and instability for which I yearned, but sadly she said too many things that just pissed me off. I could no longer imagine us engaging in beautiful bipartisan bukkake. Sad!
Just when I had given up hope and feared I might have to rely upon back issues of Swank, Principal Deputy White House Press Secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders wandered into my field of view like a fever dream of a Lilin demon.
The fact that she’s Mike Huckabee’s daughter is almost enough to make me want to handcuff her to the radiator. But what really put me in the zone was her June 27 press conference, in which she invoked the selectively edited video footage of convicted criminal James O’Keefe as something every American should see.
When she said this, I felt that she was speaking to me and me alone, and that the television audience of millions had evaporated until she and I experienced oneness. This led me to an epiphany — she probably does anal.
Normally, I’m not a fan of life in the brown lane. But Sanders has iron-clad religious beliefs that forbid her from having potentially baby-making intercourse with a man who is not her husband. Fortunately, the Bible says nothing about serving her pink and wet asshole a brutal stretching until it finally prolapses. This made us safe to enjoy eternal anal congress, with me pausing only to wipe her tears of ecstasy with rose petals.
In summation, if the Republicans want my vote, they’ve got to articulate policies that speak to me, the urban 47-year-old Jew writer with a wife and child. If, on the other hand, they just want to help me out when it’s been a while and I’ve gotten a little backed up, all they need to provide is Sarah Huckabee Sanders in her huffiest and most indignant state.
Oh, and if they could make her look like Charo circa 1976, that would help too.