My Heart's On Fire
With all this detail I learned about illicit gay bathroom sex after Senator Craig's arrest, it would have been a shame not to use it.
(I claim no monopoly on the concept. Other interested writers are welcomed—nay, encouraged—to take it further.)
The Singing Senators broke up in May 2001. This takes place shortly before that.
Rating: PG-13 for what the kids call "cottaging"
Words: 767
Disclaimer: The usual. Last I knew, the real Larry Craig was still insisting he doesn't do this.
My Heart's On Fire
There was something very ironic about doing this at JFK.
It was Larry's tenth year representing the great state of Idaho in the United States Senate. In that time he had built himself a good reputation, comfortable public support, and a record that he was proud of. But he also had a three-hour layover and a need to fill, so he was tapping his very expensive shoe on the tiles of a men's room in Terminal 5, hoping he had picked up the right signs from the stall next door.
Sure enough, the foot adjacent to him (clad in a fake leather shoe, the cuff of a pair of suit pants, and an immaculate white tube sock) edged under the barrier between the stalls; he met it with his own. A good sign.
He reached tentatively under the stall divider.
The other foot pulled back, a scrap of paper was pressed into his palm, and the toilet flushed. Larry watched the fake leather shoes stride purposefully out of the stall, and for a moment he was afraid the man could be heading for security. Then he looked at the piece of paper.
It was part of a map of the airport, with the most remote terminal circled in Sharpie.
—
He didn't look too closely at any feet as he made his way to the terminal; out in the sunlight and the fresh air, he didn't want to dwell on what he was doing. There was less and less activity as he got further from the main hub of the airport, and the first men's room in the terminal was completely empty, but he walked until he found another, and went inside.
There was a man at the lone sink, studying his reflection in the mirror. Young. Handsome. Soft peach skin, thick brown hair, rimless glasses. His suit was cheap, but the tie at least was nice.
He looked up as Larry entered, and then glanced at his feet. Larry responded in kind. Yes, those were the shoes.
And then their eyes met. The other man's were brown, dark, deep—and, all of a sudden, widening in recognition.
"Ohmigosh," he exclaimed. "You're Larry Craig."
It was a scene straight out of his worst nightmares. Larry had gone over a hundred versions of it in his mind, knowing his career was over if he wasn't prepared to meet whichever one he ran into; and still he froze.
"You can't prove anything," he said. Stupid. Stupid. If this were a sting, he had as good as admitted that he'd had unlawful intentions.
But the other man's expression wasn't matter-of-fact or accusatory. No, his eyes were sparkling. "You have nothing to be afraid of, sir. I'm a huge fan of yours. I have your album, and bootlegs of most of your appearances, and, oh, wow, this is the kind of thing every fan dreams about, but I never thought it would actually happen!"
It took Larry a second to catch on. "Wait. Are you talking about the Singing Senators?"
"Am I talking about—? Don't be so modest! You, John, Trent, and Jim are the standard by which all other senatorial singing acts are judged!"
"I'm flattered, ah . . ."
He trailed off expectantly, and the younger man's enthusiasm waned a little. "This isn't exactly a good time to give out my name."
"You seem to know all about me," pointed out Larry. "It's only fair that we take the same risk."
"Oh, all right." The other man lowered his voice. "My name is Stephen Colbert; I'm a political correspondent for a nightly news show; once my flight arrives, I'll be on my way to do a field report; and when I'm in bed with my wife I think about my boss."
Larry raised his eyebrows. "And you're going to use me as a substitute for him?"
"No! Oh, no. He's a secular liberal Jew. You're a good Christian conservative, and what's more, you can sing. Boy oh boy, can you sing. And you're a right-thinking man, I know you are. Do you remember what you said about Clinton, a year or two ago?"
"I had a lot of things to say about Clinton. Which one are you referring to?"
"You called him a naughty boy," murmured Stephen. "A bad, nasty, naughty boy."
He leaned forward and whispered huskily into Larry's ear:
"I'm a bad, nasty, naughty boy. Punish me."
And then there was nothing for it but to drag Stephen into a stall that instant, where there was no chance of someone walking in on what Larry was going to do to him next.
—