Friday, 14 April 2017


(or: "Now There's a Kink I Never Thought of Owning Up To...")

A few years ago, I stood as a candidate in a local by-election, called as one of our local councillors absconded with a large amount of money and was last seen in Cyprus. Being a safe Labour seat and with no viable other candidates available, I didn't think I stood much of a chance, not campaigning for Labour. The Tories I bumped into were vile, the 'kippers even more so (one pushed me aside outside a polling station), and TUSC got a derisory vote. I'm surprised the Lib Dems even stood - but they did.

On the day of the election, I went to work in a suit, then pinned on my rosette and went out campaigning. I got a few odd looks - some schoolgirls bowed to me ironically as I passed by; a guy yelled out of his car that he'd voted for me and thought I'd do well; somebody asked me what party I was standing for while I bought a sandwich at Subway (it's on the rosette, genius); I even had a young man on a bicycle tell me that he'd vote for my party when he was 18.

Halfway through the afternoon, I realised that I was actually incredibly horny.

Aware that I wasn't going to get elected, I nevertheless felt at least a little influential. The ballot paper had my name on it, and people were putting little crosses next to it for whatever ungodly reason. People were stopping me in the street to ask me things. And yet, this heady mix of an inkling of power, the dispensing of knowledge and the sheer amount of physical energy I was putting into my actions - politicians do that, apparently - was all combining into a mass effect of arousal.

"I don't know what it is," I remember tweeting at that time, "but I've been busy all day, and now I suddenly want to have sex with everyone."

Possibly a bit of an overstatement, but that was more or less how I felt. I considered, fairly heavily, skipping out on the evening class I was meant to be attending to go home and fervently make love to my girlfriend until the results came in. I also, more realistically, considered going to college and having a cheeky wank in the toilets before class. I even, briefly, pictured myself in an office, having sex with somebody bent over the desk... before remembering that I wasn't going to win this election. I've never even had a desk in an office.

I practically floated to the train at the end of the day, still shaking hands here and there but by now more a being of phosphorescent sexual energy than a human. Every step I took sent a jolt through my crotch, which shot through my body; every time I moved, the soft fabric of my suit against my skin sent a shiver down my spine. Every word I said was heavy with passion; every breath a gasp, waiting for release. I was electric, ready to detonate in the atmosphere, covering the world in my light.

Finishing my evening class, I limped home, my face flushed with the deepest red - the evening commuters having all voted and ready to ignore the guy with the rosette. Got in, shed my jacket, sat down on the sofa with a crackle as my family turned on the TV.

The first thing I saw was Nigel Farage's face. And after that I wasn't horny any more.

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