This wasn’t even one we had to crash. We were invited. “Puerto Rico invites you to a hall party this Friday night at 5pm!” the Xerox said. “We’ll bring the rum!” I love debauchery disguised as fellowship. Of course, Peter and I would be there, but I was confused about one thing.
I turned to Peter, “Puerto Rico is a state?”
While there was a table set up aching for a potluck, no one even bothered to bring napkins. The bottles of rum, however, outnumbered the guests. All booze, no food makes Peter a bad boy.
“Come have sex with me,” Peter whispered in my ear.
“What?” I squawked an octave above casual. He gestured towards The Congressman’s private office. It was unlocked.
“When in your life are you ever going to get to have sex on a Congressman’s desk again?”
Clearly, the PR rum was brought in illegally, laced with something, and he was hallucinating. Peter put on his serious ‘look you in the eyes’ face. We were way past Sour Toe pilgrimages now.
I looked into the dark office and saw only piles of paper on The Congressman’s corner desk. Logistically this would be a problem. Should we take the time to take the piles down and put them back? Do we go full abandon and let papers fall where they lie?
What if we saw something confidential and had to be assassinated? Maybe there was a list-share among congressmen, and Gary Condit had already sent an email recommending his intern hit-man and contact info.
In hindsight that night I made a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad mistake.
He was right.
I’ve never had the opportunity to have sex on a congressman’s desk again.
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