Untitled Erotic Fan Fiction
I wrote this for the Erotic Fan Fiction event at Sydney's Giant Dwarf Theatre on February 16, 2017. Also performing that night were the wonderful Jo Thornely (who imagined a Scientology tryst between two of the highest, but not tallest, members of the organisation), the delightful Rowdie Walden (who shipped a pair of white-clad newsreaders fighting over a jacket), the magnificent Tracey Spicer (who introduced us to the concept of a bizarre conservative Q club key party - all while snapping the air with a bullwhip!) and our genial host, Eddie Sharp, who, dressed as Enya's vagina, took us on a whimsical journey of filthy Irish cliches.
I prefaced this story by saying that I am no fan of Cory Bernardi, but I am a huge fan of hardcore gay sex.
“You don’t even know what you’re opposing!”
The words hit hard at Cory as he walked past the protesters. He’d heard all of the loony left’s many arguments for why their so-called ‘marriage equality’ should be allowed, when clearly it was an abomination. Marriage is between a man and a woman. That’s all there is to it. Deviant lifestyles do not lend themselves to fidelity, those kinds of people are better off without marriage. They’d only find it a burden on their promiscuous lifestyles.
He wasn’t sure why he found those words so confronting, however. Maybe he didn’t know what he was opposing. He knew what he was protecting, the sanctity of marriage, between a man and a woman, in a church, and, yes, that protection created an opposition.
Did he really know what he was opposing? It’s not like he hadn’t seen gay things, as much as he tried to avoid it. He went to a twenty-four hour Canberra gym, there was all sorts of funny business going on there. On occasion, he’d seen members of the Greens in there. That Richard di Natale AND Adam Bandt, both of them flailing ineffectually near the pec deck.
He'd even seen gay porn, much to his disgust. When he was attempting to have lunch in the Senate staff canteen, that awful Sam Dastyari thought it was hilarious to drop an ipad in front of him. One day it would be an episode of that risible Will and Grace program, next day that dreadful ABC thing with Josh Thomas, another day a music video of Beccy Cole - that one hurt the most, how could a good Christian country music singer, one who had performed for the troops in Iraq no less! -- be tempted by, well, CUNTry music... (I'm so sorry, that doesn't even look good on paper, to be honest).
Cory tried not to give in to Dastyari's childish shenanigans, but one day, the little Labour troll went too far. It was actual pornography. Cory looked up from his Chicken Ceasar Salad to see one heavily tattooed man anally penetrating another. The man on the bottom, who seemed to be very much enjoying himself, despite being horribly violated by a homosexual, did not have as many tattoos, but nevertheless, Cory noticed he had a few of them, here and there, on various parts of his entirely naked body. Both of the men had done some magnificent work on their delts and glutes, and Cory was glad to see that even deviants could take pride in their appearance. Not like that corpulent Queenslander Christensen, who kept insisting he was on Cory's side when it came to party matters. The only time Christensen was on his side at a party was if he was between George and the buffet.
Cory went home that night, his mind filled with thoughts not only of the protester telling him he didn't know what he was opposing, but the look of sheer joy on those men's faces as they explored each other's fit and toned bodies. He supposed that only a man who had worked so hard at perfecting his physical attributes could really appreciate the effort involved. Sinead certainly never seemed to notice his efforts to stay fit. Not like the boys in the rowing squad did, when he went to Yugoslavia to represent Australia in the coxless fours. They were always telling him how good his abs looked. Why couldn't his wife see him that way?
Cory woke up at 2am to the sound of loud grunting. On his television were three very fit men enjoying each other's sculpted bodies. How had this happened? Was this some kind of secret ABC plan to turn him gay in his sleep? The same lascivious images appeared on his laptop, which he shut swiftly, and the image on the television blinked into black. Cory wiped the drool from his mouth and looked around his serviced apartment. Had Dastyari snuck in while he was lying on the couch? He realised he was wearing his tracksuit. Perhaps he should go to the gym, get some of these thoughts out of his head.
The gym was never very busy at 2am. There was only one other man there, who seemed to have been working out for some time, he was drenched with sweat. He was a magnificent specimen. As tall as Cory, but with the kind of definition Cory could only dream about. Cory had quite a tidy rig, especially for a 47 year old, and most especially for a senator. Some of those indolent lumps were indistinguishable from the upholstery on their seats.
As Cory dragged the lat pulldown bar toward himself, the other man at the gym approached him.
"Hey mate. I see you in here a lot at this time. Wanna grab a drink when you're done?" Cory nodded. "I'm just gonna have a shower. Let me know when you're ready."
Cory and his new friend - Trent, he said his name was - went to a karaoke bar. One where they had their own private room. After a few beers, Cory insisted on singing Kenny Rogers. The Gambler. It was his favourite. Trent chose Islands in the Stream, and sang Dolly's part. They draped their muscular arms across each other’s shoulders and belted the song out as best they could, drifting across keys in search of the right notes. As the song ended, they laughed heartily, and then something surprising happened. Their eyes met. They just stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, still smiling, exhausted from laughter, light headed from the many beers. Trent leaned in and gently kissed Cory on the lips. Before Cory knew what was happening, they were embracing tightly, their tongues probing each other's mouths forcefully.
Cory pulled away, swiftly, his face flushed. Was this hellfire come to claim him for enjoying this moment? He apologised and ran from the karaoke bar, his tracksuit pants unable to contain how excited that moment had made him.
He rang the only person he knew would be awake at this time. His very good friend Alan listened patiently as Cory detailed what had just happened.
"Look, Cory, I know you're troubled, that you think you've breached your marriage vows, but remember, these kinds of acts are a natural masculine impulse. If it was another woman, of course, there would be cause for concern, but you are far from home, and it is only natural to take solace from someone who understands you. If you are going to take this further, I would ask, that you make a video recording of it, and send it to me, so I can make sure your virtue is intact."
Alan was a very powerful man, not physically, like Cory, but nevertheless, he held a lot of sway, who was Cory to say no? Over the next few months, Cory went from kisses, to mutual masturbation, to dressing in leather as a queue of muscle bound men repeatedly penetrated him while he was hung from the ceiling by chains. Once, he went so far as to fellate a man wearing a full-length dog costume, a furry he was called, and Cory realised he had been right all along -- given the chance, these degenerates would marry a dog. Each of these encounters was dictated to him by Alan, after reviewing the footage of the previous rendezvous.
"Cory, we're going to have to stop this. I think you need to settle down, and just focus on one man for the foreseeable future." Cory hoped it could be Trent. He'd not had contact with him since that night in the karaoke bar, and with every thrust of a stranger's cock deep inside him, he thought only of that tender kiss, and those strong arms around him. "I've found someone in parliament who can fulfil your needs. I've noticed you are quite enjoying the painful, penitent acts. The paddles, the whips." It was true, the more painful it was, the closer Cory felt to God. "Your new mate will meet you at your apartment this evening."
Cory opened the door with trepidation, hoping against hope that he would see Trent standing there. Deep down, though, he knew it was going to be Alan. He was horrified to open the door and see neither Trent nor Alan, but Christensen. He was holding a heaving gym bag. Cory never had any desire to see this grotesque creature naked. This was going to be a more painful punishment than any humiliation he’d yet endured. Also, why did he have a gym bag? It soon became apparent. It was filled with a variety of dildos, whips, lube and leather gear. Cory thought only of Trent's sculpted abs as George rested his blubbery gut on Cory's rigid buttocks. As George stuffed his barely engorged member into Cory's pouting sphincter, like he was folding a pair of socks, Cory dreamed of once more kissing Trent's soft lips.
And this is the story of how Cory Bernardi left the liberal party.