It’s literally impossible to look at lagging Republican presidential candidate Jeb Bush and not think about s-e-x. That wan, empty smile, the way he brings up 9/11 almost constantly—oh my god, where are my pants?
Just goofin’ with you! Following mind-blowing I.I. Dene masterpiece Bernie’s Desire, in which Vermont Senator Bernie Sanders hosts an orgy and turns into a bear, Hard Books’ insane “Presidential Passion” eBook series is back with a dark 63-page sexual thriller called The Light in Jeb’s Eyes, written by the formidably named D.M. Regis. Unfortunately, even the handsome not-at-all-Jeb gracing the cover couldn’t save this novella from its rigid ophthalmological focus and startlingly violent plot twist.
The story’s protagonist is Marietta, an eye doctor who begins to have an affair with the presidential candidate, then becomes obsessed with his glasses, then realizes his glasses have evil powers that allow Jeb to not see Palestinians, Trayvon Martin, and Syrian refugees, then becomes a misandrist, then purposefully (spoiler!) blinds him during a Lasik surgery, and then gets locked up in Guantanamo Bay where she writes this story on a roll of toilet paper. The word “glasses” appears 39 times.
Here are the 16 least sexually exciting moments of this book, ranked in chronological order:
He usually came twice. When it was happening, I couldn’t believe it.
Sometimes being with him made me sweat so much I’d get shivery, which was the feeling that went up my spine whenever I thought of God or the devil.
Holding his glasses in my hands, I felt connected to his power.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, as he kissed me. He looked in my eyes. “I just don’t like it when women clean my glasses. They never feel clean afterward. It’s a pet peeve of mine.”
I’d tell the world, Jeb is going to save this country, and I know all his secret plans. He’ll make the rich richer, bring the middle back to the middle. He’ll take the nuclear weapons out of Iran. He’ll do it all with a level head and a full heart. He’s my level head. I’m his beating heart. He is not his father. He says, I am not my brother. I am…
My patient who no longer had her eyes held open said, “You’d put another Bush in the White House? How could you vote for a man like that?”
I thought, any man that kisses a woman’s feet can’t be a bad man. I was wrong.
You see, the problem is that I hate men. Once you realize this you’re doomed.
I would dream about Columba washing up on a shore, blue-faced and dead. I would dream about her being thrown off a mountain. I know I sound crazy.
After a while he said, with some trouble, “What do you think of my glasses?”
“I think they make you look intelligent,” I said. “You look handsome in glasses.”
“They’re not polling well,” he said.
“Have you thought about Lasik?” I asked him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I think it’s a shame what happened to Trayvon Martin, but I don’t see how that was Jeb’s fault.”
And I can’t tell you what possessed me in that moment, but I put his glasses on.
In the two columns of the split screen interview set up, one was empty. On the left side was Anderson Cooper. On the right side, just a backdrop. I removed the glasses and rubbed my eyes, thinking that the glasses had given me a hallucination. When I took them off, Trayvon’s parents were back in the right column.
It was as if my whole way of looking at him had changed; his closed eyes were small and beady. His red skin was inflamed, almost sick. His belly fat hung over his hip bones. He slid his thick penis along the line of my thigh, as it hardened.
I made another slice on his left eye. But where I was supposed to stop, I kept going. The laser was silent. I cut the flap until it fell off, like sawing a piece of wood that drops on the floor with a thud.
They put me in a room with heavy metal music for what felt like hours. They tortured me into a confession.
Surprisingly, they gave me toilet paper when I asked. So that’s what I’m writing this on.
Join me as I explore our presidential candidates’ sexuality this election season via an ever-expanding crop of fan fiction. If you spot a work of political erotica that deserves literary review, email us at firstname.lastname@example.org or email@example.com.
Contact the author at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Illustration by Sam Woolley.