Free Sex for America: Politically Inspired Erotica by Stephen Elliott Page B

in sullen silence, with Russki breaking the silence occasionally to reminisce about a boy- ish escapade the two of them had shared in Angola.
But Apache’s behavior really rankled with me. I’d had a lot of that in Max, and I figured I’d exceeded my quota. Plus I had been trying to steer clear of entanglements that dirtied me. The episode was disrespectful of G.B.
After the meal I retired to the empty guest bedroom that con- tained the second TV and watched taped footage of President 41 while eating ice cream until I fell asleep. I considered approach- ing the authorities with reference to Apache, but dismissed the notion, deciding such action would be bound to have unpleasant repercussions ultimately. I had broken my parole the year before, by relocating to take the job at the factory. (My parole officer had found only sewage work for me, and the fumes had been sparking
blackouts that reminded me of those olden days on PCP.) So red tape was one of my many enemies.
With only three days remaining in Apache’s planned visit, I had almost decided to let bygones be bygones when he announced to Russell and me that he was extending his vacation.
The truth of the matter is that I could not identify Apache’s Achilles’ heel. Every man has a weakness, and every woman, too; and it is never wise to launch a first strike without foreknowledge of the target’s vulnerability. And because of the détente that had arisen between us, I had few chances for in-depth study. No mat- ter how many meals I cooked him, I could not win over Apache to induce him to confide in me. Like G.B., I cannot be all things to all people; some of my fellow humans lack the ability to see the greatness and the wistfulness in me. Frankly, I will not stoop to teach them.
“The anchor in our world today is freedom,” G.B. had said in his 1990 State of the Union. I didn’t know about that metaphor at the time. If I had been G.B., I would have found myself some new speech- writers. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m under the distinct impres- sion that an anchor, like a leg shackle, is there to hold us down.
Still, the sentiment was nice, and fully worthy of G.B. When he talks about freedom—and he does, he used the word free twenty- one times in that State of the Union address—he means it. That was becoming clear to me in the early days of what they were then calling the Persian Gulf Crisis. The thing about freedom is that the more you have, the more the next guy doesn’t. It’s kind of like fresh water: as long as you’re upstream, there’s plenty to go around. The freer you are in the mountains, the thirstier they get near the sea.
Take Max Sec, for example. If I exercised my freedom to de- fend myself against bodily assault, that meant that Rump lost her freedom to express sexual preference. Either way you sliced it, someone wasn’t free.
And there could be no freedom for me while Apache the mountain man was ruling our roost. The sight of his beard over the breakfast table, its greasy tendrils decorated with fragments of scrambled egg, made me nauseated for an entire day as I recalled our forced intimacy. I ceased to cook for Russell and him, and I regretted that I had not yet learned how to rig up a simple incendi- ary device. One would have fitted snugly beneath his truck’s right front wheel.
I was between a rock and a hard place. There were only so many hours I could spend on the factory floor. I tried passing the time at local bars, but I was growing highly impatient to be back, safely ensconced and media-vigilant, in my personal war room dedicated to G.B.
As Week Three of Apache’s stay began, I was set in an uncom- fortable routine. I would put in an hour or so of unpaid overtime at work, making sure, when possible, that my supervisor saw me; eat a microwaved dinner in the employee lounge, which resembled nothing so much as a World War II bunker; and return to the house via Skullduggery, the nearest purveyor of liquor and entertainment,