by Chris Haire
I can't vote for Mark Sanford. I can't.
Which is a shame, because at one time I wanted to more than anything.
More than Joe Riley wants an endless parade of cruise ships in Charleston Harbor, more than Bobby Harrell wants to fly his plane on the taxpayers' dime, even more than the Luv Guv wants to trace his fingers along Maria Belen Chapur's tan lines. But the gerrymandering gods said no.
See, I may call Charleston County home, but I don't live in the First District like Sanford and nearly all the other candidates in the race to fill Tim Scott's seat — that is unless the secret sex cabal on C Street hasn't taken care of it first, somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of their Beltway sex dungeon.
However, that doesn't mean I have to stop caring. In fact, my love for the Luv Guv is stronger than ever. And it's a love that I can only express in the form of slash fiction. Here goes:
Mark had cheated before. As much as he hated to admit it, at heart he was a cheater. He was just too good at it. He was also an egomaniacal sociopath so he really didn't give a damn about who he harmed. It didn't matter if it was Jenny and the boys or even his Argentinian soul mate. The heart wants what the heart wants and in Mark's case, his heart was hard, oh so hard. Some might even say cruel.
It was a long day out on the campaign trail. Mark needed to get away from all the hand shakes and back slaps and attempts to feign interest in what anyone said to him — especially the vets at the VFW hall where Sanford had debated his fellow candidates. And so, he did what he liked to do in these cases. He ordered his driver to drive him back to his plantation.
There, back home, he was safe and secure and protected and sure of all that he felt and all that he knew about the love — nay, the lust — that he was now feeling, Sanford climbed on top of his John Deere ditch digger and he began to dig.
The first time Sanford thrust the ditch digger's steel plow into the ground, the hardened earth resisted him. But he would not be denied. Not here. Not now. Not when he so desperately needed release. And so he thrust the plow's head down, again and again and again, until the earth finally relented, parting itself willingly to the ditch digger's thrusts.
And Mark dug deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper, the sweat building on his brow. He had begun to pant. His heart was racing. He was getting closer.
But he didn't want it to stop just yet.
And so he ate a sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly to be exact.
The heat from the ditch digger had warmed the sandwich. The bread had become moist and the warm jelly had begun to ooze out over the crust. When Mark took a bite, the jelly spilled out onto his chin and then his bare chest. He swiped the jelly with his finger and licked it. He felt naughty. So deliciously naughty. With each bite, with each swallow, Sanford imagined that he was floating on clouds, that he was flying high over the Appalachian Trail.
When he was done, his face was covered in jelly. He licked the jelly off his lips and the corners of mouth and he moaned, "Yum."
Tomorrow, he'd pack a pimento cheese, the creamiest one he could make.