Me and Dick Cheney are kneeling in a clearing, shanks touching, souls ajar. Does afar a bobwhite whistle? Yes. Dick’s suit is grey flannel, his tie red, his shirt snowy, and at this moment I am unsure if he has ever looked as beautiful to me. Perhaps, on a midnight stroll through the poplars, under a harvest moon, his eyes flinty and harsh with longing – before we had known each other, when his every movement was mystery, when beneath his clothes lurked unknown vistas, mountains and vales whose paths I longed to walk . . . yes, early in our love, he was as beautiful to me, but now, looking at his warrior’s dimensions, I can gauge the length of every muscle, I can parse every pore, and he is more dear to me, more unrelentingly attractive to me, than ever he has been before.
I realize that I have been holding my breath – this is how much I want him and how I want him. Just the way that he settles himself upon the turf – the graceful glide of him, the way that each muscle sits on the other – this is more than enough, this is what I will keep, this is the eerie prescience with which we encounter first love, knowing that every little thing will be carved, pure, hieroglyphic – the rawness of the cave-painting at Lausanne – the delicacy of beginnings that cannot be avoided. But Dick is looking at me now, and the blows he has taken at the hands of the press have left bruises, bruises that endear him to me in ways strange and new.
The love I had for him previously was that of the maiden for the hero; he was the man on the white horse; but now the maternal stirs within me in the wake of his recent pain. Our love has new hues, subtler nuances, and within it I almost feel a grown woman. And I know that which I must do. I take him, the uncut beige length of him, between my little white hands. He likes this, the smallness of my hands against his fine gleaming big cock. He likes it as a Kansan pioneer might like the stark heighth of his cabin against a flat skyline – it is symbolic of progress and of strength.
The strength of Dick, rising between my hands, like the steeples and cupolas of the conquerer against the wilderness. At a time such as this, a time of darkness, he needs the reminder of his fortitude. He says his name, swears it to me – I am Dick Cheney, I am Dick Cheney, as he lights his candle against the night, as he raises his own and very personal protest. You are Dick Cheney, I chant with him, and we continue in this vein for awhile, until his identity is of near-Biblical proportions, a burning bush in the desert, proclaiming I am that I am. (And I! so proud to know him and to help him and to bear witness as I indeed do, a veritable handmaiden of the lord, a woman in her place.)
And he knows that place as well as I, and so – he takes my hands, very gently, and places them at my sides. And then, in the space behind us, he carefully removes the yellow Ocober maple leaves, the sprig and spore of the season, until the grass is as green and swept as a bridal bower. And then he eases me back upon the grass. And what did I think of, then, staring into a linden-laced sky, my hands secured above my head by his red callused paw? Not of the GOP, I assure you.
My case of bones creaking, my breath at a premium, my very being assaulted by this manifest destiny I had – such a short time ago! – fallen into, I thought of – to begin with – Faulkner. His heroines slain by the fatal flaw of lust, consigned to the bloodred Georgia dirt. I felt cleaved asunder, the sides of my being falling neatly to the ground, as Dick became my driving force – and I was indeed driven – despite the cold of the earth seeping into the small of my back, the ache of my inner thighs as they split to accomodate him – and was there not a faint frisson of fear? yes, as I wondered who, exactly, he was, and as I felt myself becoming another.
Mostly, though, I thought of God and of Emerson, as I died to myself, and as Dick became more, his dick being a sort of meta-dick, by which I was pierced into reflection.