It was never supposed to be like this. He slammed back the crystal glass, barely registering the smoothness or richness of the expensive Bourbon. The Don Juan 1845 tasted bland, plebeian in the depths of his despair. Thirty years he carried that channel, entertaining the grandmothers and racist uncle, keeping them happy. Thirty years he held the country together. And for what? To be tossed out the next moment? How many laps had he danced on (metaphorically and perhaps literally as well) to keep his bosses happy?
He barely registered the visitor sliding in next to him, smooth, with the grace of a thousand vixens.
“Carlson”.
Tucker turned slowly to gaze to face his nemesis. Glowing with youth, gleaming like a fresh diamond, the years had not aged him at all. Don Lemon still crossed his mind endlessly. Those long alluring legs, the tantalizing smile. What unholy things he wished to do to that mouth, where slurs once flowed like honey. The burning in his heart, to stroke his arm sensuously.
Goddamnit. Not now. Think of something else: fiscal policy, stock indices, extreme weather patterns. Nothing helped: with each new thought, everything circled back to the man in front of him. His brows furrowing at conservative fiscal policy choices, him standing amidst holographic hurricanes, looking very much the recreation of a young, sexually charged Ronald Reagan.
Those thoughts stormed his mind as he took in the man in front of him. Time had changed both of them: mellowed out from both of their dramatic falls from stardom.
“Don Lemon, as I live and breathe”. Tucker’s heart beat quickly as Don’s deep brown eyes turned to him. Passionately broken, unfathomably intelligent.
In a strike of inspiration, Tucker grasped the back of Don’s head, breathing in everything he was, everything he is. A sweet fire ensued. What happens next was not to the privilege of this author’s knowledge. Although……if you Venmo me $1.00, I might be able to give more details.
