At night I dream of Vladimir Putin
Dressed only in skin tight leather pants
Riding his white stallion to save me
Because that is the image he loves
In which he poses playfully
For cameras that always seem to surround him
Both imaginary and for real
He takes me by the hand
And tells me to call him "Bubbles"
Kisses me on the lips
Before anally violating me
All under the baleful glare of his 1950's Russian knockoff Kodak camera
With it's lens glinting cool and cruel beneath the flickering neon lights
It's not that I don't want it
Oh no
After all
Didn't I vote for him three times?
Or did I vote for the other guy?
Was there another guy?
I forget
I'm sure there is a picture somewhere of it all
None of that matters now though
As Bubbles straps me to his back
As if I were an errant infant
Flying me high and far in his ultralight aircraft
While he heroically guides a flock of geese to their winter homes
Snapping pictures of it all wildly
As if he were the Russian Gonzo of photography
Landing atop a passing train
We adjourn to a private compartment
Where we do very private things
Involving his wet and rubbery lips
And fingerprintless fingertips
Taking selfies of ourselves
Cheek to cheek
Lip to lip
Bubbles then holds me like a baby again
Leaping from the train before the station in Sochi
Before sprinting like an Olympian to the main stadium
Where he skillfully flips me into the air like a circus acrobat
And places a camera in my hands
Bubbles straddles the enormous flaming Olympic Torch
Grinning sexily as it juts from betwixt his legs
A concrete sculpture of his Bubbley manhood
"Take a picture, take a picture!"
He cried gleefully
And so I dutifully did
Together
From the only finished hotel room in town
We cuddled nakedly under a Russian goose down comforter
And posted the pictures to Instagram
Under the bold heading:
"My Perfect Day With Bubbles"
Dressed only in skin tight leather pants
Riding his white stallion to save me
Because that is the image he loves
In which he poses playfully
For cameras that always seem to surround him
Both imaginary and for real
He takes me by the hand
And tells me to call him "Bubbles"
Kisses me on the lips
Before anally violating me
All under the baleful glare of his 1950's Russian knockoff Kodak camera
With it's lens glinting cool and cruel beneath the flickering neon lights
It's not that I don't want it
Oh no
After all
Didn't I vote for him three times?
Or did I vote for the other guy?
Was there another guy?
I forget
I'm sure there is a picture somewhere of it all
None of that matters now though
As Bubbles straps me to his back
As if I were an errant infant
Flying me high and far in his ultralight aircraft
While he heroically guides a flock of geese to their winter homes
Snapping pictures of it all wildly
As if he were the Russian Gonzo of photography
Landing atop a passing train
We adjourn to a private compartment
Where we do very private things
Involving his wet and rubbery lips
And fingerprintless fingertips
Taking selfies of ourselves
Cheek to cheek
Lip to lip
Bubbles then holds me like a baby again
Leaping from the train before the station in Sochi
Before sprinting like an Olympian to the main stadium
Where he skillfully flips me into the air like a circus acrobat
And places a camera in my hands
Bubbles straddles the enormous flaming Olympic Torch
Grinning sexily as it juts from betwixt his legs
A concrete sculpture of his Bubbley manhood
"Take a picture, take a picture!"
He cried gleefully
And so I dutifully did
Together
From the only finished hotel room in town
We cuddled nakedly under a Russian goose down comforter
And posted the pictures to Instagram
Under the bold heading:
"My Perfect Day With Bubbles"
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