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From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} A Red Christmas  (MF rom anal history politics)
Date: Sat, 20 Dec 2003 04:10:10 -0500
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A RED CHRISTMAS
by Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
Word Count: 1903
Copyright (c) 2002 by Carlos Malenkov
ASSM may post and archive this story, but all other rights are reserved.


Here's a little Christmas present for all of you.

Synopsis: What do you get when you cross Allen Drury with Jacqueline Susanne?
          Politics! Intrigue! Celebrity gossip! Explosive Sex!
          Explosive Diarrhea!


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Transcript from the hearings of the Senate Subcommittee on Investigations,
December 17, 1952:

SENATOR MCCARTHY:

In the absence of more urgent matters, we resume the testimony of witness
Ronald Bookman. Counsel Cohn, will you please continue questioning the
witness.


COUNSEL COHN:

Mr. Chairman, the witness has been cooperative in describing the
workings of the Communist organization of which he was a member. He has
demonstrated irrational stubbornness on only one key point, the naming
of the other members of that group. We have been patient and given him
time to reconsider his lack of patriotism.

Due to a schedule conflict, I would like to hand over the questioning of the
witness to Assistant Counsel Kennedy.


SENATOR MCCARTHY:

Counsel Kennedy --


COUNSEL KENNEDY:

For the record, I am Assistant Counsel Robert F. Kennedy, an attorney
on the staff of Chief Counsel Roy M. Cohn.

Mr. Bookman, I remind you that you are still under oath.

Now, let us recapitulate your previous testimony. You stated that you were
a member of the Communist front "Workers' Equity" organization during
the period February, 1935, to August, 1939. You let your membership
lapse because of your disgust with the purges and Bukharin trials and
your dismay over the Nazi-Soviet pact. Is that correct?


MR. BOOKMAN:

That is substantially correct, Counsel Kennedy.


COUNSEL KENNEDY:

You have not been a Communist for almost 14 years, and have in fact
repudiated all that the Soviet Union and Communism represent. Why then,
do you refuse to name names?


MR. BOOKMAN:

I won't have ruining careers and lives on my conscience. These people,
the people you wish me to name, out of naive idealism joined a group
dedicated to bettering the lot of the unemployed worker. Remember, this
country was still mired deep in the worst depression in its history,
and millions embraced Marxist doctrine as the only hope of averting a
total collapse.


COUNSEL KENNEDY:

While we understand your concerns, Mr. Bookman, nonetheless national
security requires that you give us the names. Do this simple small thing,
and the subcommittee will release you with your own name cleared of
any taint.


MR. BOOKMAN:

Still, I must refuse, even if it means accepting the consequences.


COUNSEL KENNEDY:

Mr. Bookman, please consider carefully the implications of your lack
of cooperation. If we cite you for Contempt of Congress, you may face
a prison sentence, and your future employment prospects will suffer
irrevocable damage. Do you still refuse to name names?


MR. BOOKMAN:

I repeat, I will not purchase my own freedom at the cost of destroying other
people's lives.




June 11, 1938

The man in the ill-fitting corduroy suit standing up front was trying to
call the meeting to order despite the noise of the crowd milling in the
room. Ron Bookman had somehow contrived to find a vacant chair next to
a tall, well-groomed brunette in her early 20's. She turned toward him,
smiled briefly, and offered a cheek for a perfunctory kiss.

"I didn't expect to see *you* of all people here, Ronnie. Not after
the executive board denounced you for deviationist tendencies, not to
mention disloyalty. You're about as non grata here as a persona can be."

"Claudie, you know my feelings for you have nothing to do with whatever
I may think of the Party. Damn it all, we've been as close as it's
possible for two human beings to be. We've touched, we've joined. I've
felt the heat of your passion. I felt your body embrace mine in the most
intimate way possible! Doesn't that mean anything now? Damn it, woman,
are you made of stone?"

She took both his hands and inclined her head toward his. "Ronnie,
Ronnie. Human feelings pale in comparison to the tide of history.
At this very moment, unemployed workers are marching in the streets of
this country, the bastion of capitalism itself. Fascism is on the rise
all over Europe. In the turmoil, the survival of the Workers' State and
even Marxism itself is doubt. At a time like this how can you entertain
such bourgeois fantasies as romantic love?"

"So, Claud, nothing we did before matters? I wasted my time sneaking in
here to see you? I risked being beaten and thrown out for nothing?"

"Oh, Ron. I did and do have strong feelings for you. But don't you
understand that my feelings don't matter? Only the Movement does. Only
that. We're caught up in something immeasurably greater than sex and
lust or even love. Damn, damn, DAMN. . . . Well, the least I can do is
give you a grand sendoff. And seeing you, talking to you like this does
seem to have aroused certain biological needs in me. What do you say we
find a private place for one final little tryst?"



It was cramped in there. A ladies room stall wasn't really designed for
two people. With the door latched, there was hardly standing room for
the both of them. Ron just did manage to pull down his pants and sit
down on the toilet. Claudia turned so she was facing away from him and
hiked up her skirt. She had already retrieved a small glass bottle out
of her purse and now she dabbed a rather large glob of Vaseline on her
anal opening. Laboriously, she maneuvered her way backward onto his lap,
gradually impaling herself on his hard penis. This was the way she liked
it -- getting sodomized in a public place, with the danger of discovery
adding spice to the proceedings.

They had discovered it quite by accident. He'd had trouble bringing her
to orgasm with vaginal intercourse, even in conjunction with protracted
clitoral stimulation. Then, one night when they were both a little drunk
and in the throes of a reckless, sloppy passion, he had accidentally
slipped into the wrong hole. She had spontaneously gone into massive
convulsions of intense, almost unbearable rapture. Her orgasm was
immediate, and it almost exploded the top of her head off. It was the
hottest sex she had ever experienced.

Balancing herself with the balls of her feet on the ground and the palms
of her hands pressing backwards into his thighs, she rode up and down
his shaft, jamming it deeply into her bowels, then slowly sliding it
out again. After a few minutes of this, she let her full weight down
on his groin and leaned backwards slightly for maximum penetration. The
pressure and friction against the thin wall separating her rectum from
the vagina set her off. And again. She wiggled her hips and groaned
softly with the rippling aftershocks.

The restroom door hissed open and there was the shrill, high-pitched sound
of feminine voices. A couple of women had come in to do their business.

"Oh, shit! They'll see your bony ankles and Florsheims under the door
of the damn stall," she hoarsely whispered as she unpronged herself and
staggered upright.

With near-incredible contortions, they managed to quickly exchange
positions -- he on her lap facing forward, she supporting his legs from
underneath, which he propped partway up on the door of the stall. It
was highly uncomfortable for both of them, but at least it would keep
two pairs of legs from being seen under the stall.

The women took their jolly old time emptying their bladders, fixing
up their faces, and jabbering about nothing of much importance. After
what must have been a half hour, they finally left . . . and as Ron and
Claudia began struggling to disentangle, there were other voices and
sounds and the door opened once more.

With Ron still on her lap and the restroom occupied by what sounded like
half a dozen ladies tending to various bodily functions, Claudia began to
get twinges, then increasingly painful cramps. This was what sometimes
hit her after a lively bout of anal sex. She felt, then heard the first
of several explosive bursts of diarrhea rip through her and splatter
into the water of the porcelain bowl beneath her bare bottom. The good
news was that the toilet lid was already up and so was her skirt. The
bad news was that Ron was literally right on top of her, involuntarily
grinding his bare buttocks into her groin. Meanwhile, women came and
went. And came and went.

Later, much later, Ron managed to escape out of the stall and out of the
restroom without being observed. Claudia stayed behind; she was taking
her own good time cleaning herself. He wondered if he'd ever be able to
dispell the memory of that infernal stench. Nothing like smelling the
contents of your lover's colon at point-blank range to put the kibosh
on any bourgeois illusions of romantic love . . .

It was fourteen years before he saw her again.






MR. BOOKMAN:

I repeat, I will not purchase my own freedom at the cost of destroying
other people's lives. (Oh, Claudia, I'll endure prison, and worse,
rather than betray you.)


"Hello? Hello, Claudia? It's Ron . . . Ron Bookman."

"Ron!"

"It wasn't easy finding you, Claud, much less getting up the courage to
call. I had to, though."

"Ron, Ron. I'm sorry for all the pain I caused you . . . for all the
pain we caused each other . . . so many years ago."

"What's past is past. I didn't call you to unearth old corpses."

"I had certain feelings for you once, Ron. There's not much left of that
after all this time. We've both picked up and gone on with our lives."

"Haven't we though, Claud. And I understand you've done quite well
for youself."

"Yes, I've been Jack Kennedy's private secretary for the last several
years. Since his election to the Senate last fall, and that seems to
have put me right square in the center of the political scene."

"Exactly. And that's why I contacted you -- to warn you. You see, I'm
testifying before Joe McCarthy's subcommittee, coerced under subpoena,
of course. I've been under some fairly heavy pressure to name names,
but I haven't, and I won't. But if they managed to track me down, that
means the hounds may come sniffing around you too."

"I thank you for your concern, Ron. Believe me, though, I've got some
pretty powerful protection."



A few days later, Claudia joined him for a drink "for old times' sake"
in the Power Broker Cocktail Lounge at his hotel.

"You look remarkably well, Ron. A little the worse for wear, but under
the circumstances that's understandable. I do believe you've finally
grown up."

"Thank you, Claudia. You, too, have finally come into full bloom.
You've put on weight in the right places, and it suits you well.
Your hair is graying and if you're  showing a wrinkle or two, even that
enhances your appeal. You're a magnificent woman, and I can understand
why Jack is so smitten."

She smiled ironically and handed him a sealed manila clasp envelope.

"What's this now?"

"It's a Christmas present to you from the Senator. Open it."

He did. Inside was a note saying, "Any friend of Claudia's is a friend
of mine." Clipped to it was a yellow cardboard "Get Out of Jail Free"
card from a Monopoly game. Underneath lay a large glossy closeup of
the man most feared by crooks and politicians alike for the last three
decades. The reigning head of the FBI. In drag.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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