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It’s 100 days ‘til the election, and Mencken’s pissy about the news cycle.
“Too much on crypto prices and McMahon’s open marriage cuck front,” he hands Roman a glass of something vaguely smelling of scotch. “We’re losing interest.”
“And not enough of your face?” Roman volleys back, taking a halfhearted sip. He shifts a little closer to the side of the couch to make space for Mencken. “Worried the public’s going to have some trouble sketching you from memory? Give you a crooked nose?”
Strategy meetings these days have been uncharacteristically doused in this haze of worry, which seems like such a far cry from the rising congressman Roman had met somewhere in Fuck Knows, Virginia. That Mencken had an engorged sense of confidence, had practically bent him over the marble sink, fucked him with a fistfull of machismo and his Little House on the Fascist Prairie, and forced him to fucking love it—which he still does, no question, he’d drink the fucking Kool Aid again. But he gets it, really. Four years is a long fucking time, and who’s Roman to say anything about anyone. Four years ago he still had something to call a family business, and now he has a dead dad and three dead-to-him siblings to match. It’s all gravy.
“Goldfish have an attention span that embarrasses the public, Roman,” Mencken presses two fingers on the bridge of his nose, eyes screwing shut. The tilt of his head makes the white on his temples pop out and holy shit—he’s actually graying over this. “With how passive we’re being, we might as well hand the next four to the Dems. Do you want to spoil my return to the White House, hm? Because I hear Jimenez is hiring.”
He’s getting petulant, whiny. In reality, it’s just been four days since he cashed in on a good headline over at the Post, and obviously, that spells out a failed re-election bid. Obviously.
Roman’s getting paid to be around the bitching and moaning this time around. Not like he had minded before, but now it’s different actually being a part of the team and having facts about semiconductors pelted at you full time instead of just the occasional mention.
“Are you saying you’d rather have my talents across the aisle? I’m hurt, prez. You know blue washes me out.”
“What I’m saying is that we’re not taking this seriously enough,” Mencken puts his own glass down, and repositions himself until he’s facing Roman. The way his jaw is set means business, shop talk, and Roman’s going to have to really pay attention now. This is serious stuff. He’s taking it seriously. He loves his day job, he does.
“Jimenez’s camp could drop two TikToks with his cracked-out rescue puppy, and it’s—” Mencken clicks his tongue twice, dragging his thumb across his neck “—for us. The House flipped blue, and both of us exiled to the golf course, taking up the noble profession of day-drinking.”
He sees the two of them, prodding tees into soft dirt, under the oppressive sun. Squinting through sunglasses, talking about the headwind, talking about nothing. A swing and a miss.
“Eh. Doesn’t sound half bad to me. We talking Potomac or…?” Roman waves his free hand. “‘Cause I’m really trying to avoid the Bible Belt transplants—”
“And then those green senators? Gonzaga and Ahmed?”
“Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum, yes.”
“They’re handing us one way tickets to the Guevara Gulag,” he sucks in a breath. “You fancy dying by suffocation in HRT gas chambers?”
Roman feels himself cringe.
“Thought so.”
“God, is this the Mencken through Menopause experience? I’d like to return my ticket, please,” he attempts a laugh, to lighten the mood. It’s in the job title—court jester. “You’re stressing me out, dude. You act as if you haven’t gotten your dick wet since ‘Nam.”
Mencken snorts, but it’s devoid of mirth.
“Ah, right, let me just ring my wife and ask her if she’s ready to step foot out of the East Wing. D’you reckon she’s game for a new pearl necklace?”
An image to behold, really. The First Lady on her knees, a little more color than usual on her face. Roman’s never been the biggest fan—of her and blowjobs—but who’s he to yuck the President’s yum? Anywho, he’s somewhat certain they haven’t bumped uglies since the little Mencken was conceived, so that’s clearly not an option. (He wonders if the White House has a Rolodex of DC pimps from the Clinton era he can dust off. He’s going to have to ask Dylan about that.)
“Dude, maybe you just need to—” Roman jerks his wrist about, tilting his head as if the answer is obvious. “—I don’t know, rub one out?”
Because that’s what real men do. Real men that get tense fondle their dicks until the stress comes up and out in spurts. Roman is a real man, he swears.
“Frustration is clogging your root chakra, like,” he rambles, swatting the air around them. “Your aura is rotten right now, way off balance.”
Mencken gives him a pointed look, as if to say ‘be serious.’
“Hey, I have a guy for this. I can get him to sage the room while you jerk off.”
The silence persists. Mencken drags his hands over his thighs, smoothening the creases on his trousers.
“What?” Roman continues. If he keeps talking it won’t make it awkward. Mencken loves a good, greasy, dirty joke. (He’s the kind of guy to air-hump some bent over loser from behind.) “Don’t tell me you’re too chicken now. If you’re scared that I’m going to run to the tabloids and say you’re just as bad in the sack as Jimenez, that you can’t even get yourself up for it—I won’t. We’ve already used that tactic once, I don’t want to be the boy who cried dick malfunction.”
Mencken laughs at that, and it’s a real one. Roman feels a flush of accomplishment. He’s good at this—he’s the guy that makes the President laugh—that’s why they keep him around.
“You’re all talk for a guy who needs his mommy around to stay up. I hear things, Rome.”
“Fuck off, dude,” he scoffs instinctively. The pit in his stomach grows about ten sizes. He wonders how many people in the goddamn office next door believe he sees his mum’s sagging tits when he closes his eyes and gets one out. Did Grace blab to someone in intelligence? Fucking fuck—this is Waystar all over again. “I’m so normal, I’m so fucking normal I make white bread Aiden from the veep’s office look exotic. I can jerk off like a normal person, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah, as in you’ll be going on a sprint while I’m running a marathon, easy,” he huffs, crossing his arms. “I’ll be just fine.”
Mencken whistles, low.
“Prove it, then, champ.”
Roman gives him a good look, waits for a moment to give him space to offer an out. He can’t be serious.
“As in?”
“As in if you’re so sure, take your dick out and we’ll see.”
There’s some resistance caught up in his throat. A thought snagged like a hook in a sweater thread: but wouldn’t that be—but isn’t that fucking queer? He sees them, side by side, cocks in hand, trying not to catch glimpses of one another. Holding back moans in some lame attempt at staying in the straight lane. No homos here, your honor. He’s just a man who loves pussy jerking it next to another man who loves pussy maybe as much as him. So what if their hands knock at some point, so what if a finger slips. His dick twitches at the thought. I always knew you were queer, his dad’s voice booms. He’s been six feet under for four fucking years but he lives on in the pockets of Roman’s mind to call him a fairy without fail.
If Mencken, patron saint of homophobes, says they’re in the clear—they sure as hell aren’t doing anything fucking gay. He can pop by a confessional and have nothing to report back to his pervert priest. Sounds about right.
“Chop chop, boy, panties off.”
Mencken leans back into the couch, free hand slinking across his trousers. His fingers curl around his crotch, and with a twitch of the wrist it becomes clear that he’s begun palming himself. His thumb slides across the pant zipper, of which Roman can feel his own pressing against his rapidly forming tent.
“Jeez, take a girl out to dinner first, would ya.”
“If you’re too chicken, you should squawk now. I’m still willing to forgive, but lying is a sin, if you didn’t know.”
Mencken’s pulling his pants off, perfunctory and efficient because what else is this if not child’s play for him, and Roman tries his darndest not to take a peek at his underwear. In simple terms, he puts up a half-hearted effort, and stares like an indulgent creep when Mencken isn’t paying attention. The half-hard outline of his cock doesn’t really do much to help, and if Roman squints really hard, he thinks he might see a wet spot where the tip should be. Microscopic proof that this—that he—might be doing something for him. His hand over his own cock tightens reflexively. Fuck.
He’s really going insane now. Somebody must have slipped him something. That godawful blueberry Elfbar the new intern puffed in his face must have had something. He is for sure losing his fucking mind.
He pulls his own pants off. He acts like Mencken isn’t staring too from his periphery. To tremble like a fucking leaf underneath his gaze would read as a pathetic admission of some kind, so he goes as slowly as he can to the point where he can pass off as indifferent. Roman can think nothing worse in this moment than possibly showing him so openly how affected he is by all of this, practically drooling at the possibility of seeing another dude’s cock like a fag in heat.
Soon, there’s nothing but cold, hard air between him and Mencken’s cock. Like, he can spaz once and he might accidentally swipe it. Like, if he trips and falls slack-jawed, it might slip between his lips and into his ready, willing mouth. That would be convenient, but it won’t happen, not with the outpour of masculine, testosterone goodness just oozing around them. As if to reinforce the dude-talk in Roman’s head, Mencken leans back into the sofa, arm outstretched behind Roman and thighs spread wide. He leaves it all out for display. He’s a man. He’d be a man’s man if there ever was one.
Suddenly aware of his own nakedness, Roman grabs his dick as if to shield it with his hand like that’s supposed to do anything. Because there’s nothing like a hand on a bare cock that screams modesty. It’s not under the most ideal conditions, his palm is dryer than his mum’s maternal instincts, and the friction sears like a bitch. Right—he’s historically been fucking awful at this. This is a good time, a great time even, to have a stab at it after spending the last two years avoiding his dick like it’s carrying traces of Chernobyl. It can’t be that bad.
He winces, giving it an experimental jerk. He thinks he’s closer to leaving this predicament with a rag burn than an orgasm. A rag burn and a need for a new job, probably.
Maybe if he keeps it this way, he’ll have a chance against Mencken, make it look like he’s got the stamina of a fucking horse. He won’t have to come in front of him, either. Who’s the queer one now?
“That won’t do,” Mencken tsks. He takes his free hand from where it’s resting on the sofa behind Roman to pull him by the wrist, hacking up a wad of spit and sending it into his open palm. It lands like a rubber bullet, and Roman swears his hand loses all feeling at once. What the fuck. “We can’t have you squeezing your dick around like a virgin phony. That’s cheating, Roman. We don’t do that outside the election.”
Mencken drops his hand without a second thought and gets back to the task at hand, like he hasn’t just done the dirtiest fucking thing Roman’s ever experienced. He’s seen his fair share of deviant shit, has toured the dark underbelly of New York’s club scene, but this—slicking his dick up with the president’s spit takes the cake for… for all of it. He wonders if there’s a point in time where he’ll be able to break this one out in a room of people, tell it how it is and be met with a jumbled bag of uncomfortable laughter, the statement too fucking absurd and out there to actually be true, right?
Well, POTUS told me, ordered me to rub one out properly. Didn’t have any lotion around, so the next best thing was his spittle. He’d drop it in the same way he’d talked of his little number in Gerri’s bathroom, just to have it tossed off by everyone.
They’ll never fucking get it—they all think he’s fucked in the head in all the wrong ways. They think he says shit so he can bask in the way it makes everyone else scratch their heads like useless fucking monkeys and stare at him like he’s grown a second head, prodding and provoking and sketching out what the hard limit is. That’s just the way Roman is, they’d say. He talks a lot of crap, but he never means it, not really. Not enough fucking imagination, if you ask him, because the way he’s fucked in the head means he actually follows through on the fucked up things he says he does. But he’ll know—he’ll know.
There’s really nothing he can do but return the hand to its place around his dick. If he stares too long, well that’s just straight up homo, isn’t it?
He resolves to keep his eyes screwed shut while he works on his dick, focusing less on the sensation of it and trying instead to think about mutilated puppies or that sweat-stinking turkey costume from management training or quite literally anything to keep him from blowing his load within two minutes. Even worse is trying to drown out the obscene slapping noises and labored breath not even a foot away from him. One peep and he could know, satiate his curiosity, see what POTUS is packing. He’s got big feet—surely it’d be at least seven or eight, no?
And suddenly it dawns on him again. He’s sat on a couch next to the President, whose spittle is greasing up his cock.
“Fuck.”
Mencken whines, just barely. Roman’s breath hitches, grip almost slipping. Hold on.
He can feel it, a warm sweep of air, brushing by the nape of his neck. Closer and closer. Creeping up and around until he can sense it where his jaw meets his ear. Before he knows it, he can hear it clear as fucking day. Shallow panting. Little ah noises, buried between the rhythmic pump of his fist. He grinds his teeth, willing himself to focus—on ugly inbred babies, cats drenched in piss, Peter’s cheese. He works his hand from the base to the tip of his cock, thumbing the slit. Jesus wept: he’s leaking.
It’s good now, the way it couldn’t possibly be before. His cock slides with ease against his grip, and it burns—burns good. It burns all over, his palm, his thighs, his toes curling in his socks. He lets out a puff of pleasure, brain buzzing.
The panting continues, persistent and punctuated. He can feel himself salivating, a knee-jerk reaction. His cock stays heavy between his fingers, red-hot and honest-to-God vibrating.
“God, that’s good,” Mencken moans.
Roman comes.
He splutters as the heat of it hits his stomach, eyes springing open as he fucks the rest of it out of his own hand. He couldn’t even get past five tiny minutes before he had prematurely jizzed all over himself like a twelve year old. A pathetic effort.
Mencken doesn’t drag it out, his smug-fucking-face staying in place as he finishes himself off in a few extra jerks. Roman can’t look at it. Avoids it like it’d be staring into the face of the sun. He, instead, condemns himself to a far worse fate, meeting Mencken’s eyes instead. He catalogues it—the furrow of his brows, the residue of spit on his lips, the flush on his cheeks, the way his eyelids droop just slightly, pupils blown.
A beat, a moment of silence.
“Loser.”
A soiled hand to the face before he can react, and the President’s come left to dry between his lashes.