There are, I assume, somewhere in the immediate neighborhood of 50 United States Governors, and while I don't know where she places relative to her peers on a great number of performance metrics, I can say with frank assurance that not one of them outpace Alaska Governor Sarah Palin in terms of fastidiously well-groomed pubic hair (though Charlie Crist's admirers may dispute it). It is a magnificently cropped and tended little Pontiac emblem of androgenic down, lightly scented of cinnamon, centered by just enough tufty length that she can pull at its ringlets as she whimpers in climax, leaning back in rapturous submission in a leather-appointed executive desk chair, her legs splayed over the armrests as she grinds her pubis against the cartilaginous ridge dividing this reporter's nostrils and holds the back of his head with somewhat surprising strength. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It was surprisingly easy to arrange an interview with the woman that might have been next in line to the most powerful person in the free world, if only the ban on lead paint hadn't led to so many fewer cases of irreversible brain damage and potential supporters. In my query letter I said my hope was to publish the interview in either US News & World Report or Highlights. The response from the Governor's office was direct, six words long and conveyed in somewhat urgent allcaps: HOW SOON CAN YOU BE HERE? I have since learned that the Governor is only too happy to disregard whatever State business she hasn't delegated elsewhere for the opportunity to be interviewed by anyone with a tape recorder and even crudely forged credentials from a Junior High School newspaper.

I was in a downbeat mood when I arrived. It had been a bad week so far; Monica Crowley refused to return the cufflink I’d lost fisting her rectum, and it was one of a pair that I’d received from my grandfather on the occasion of my Junior High School graduation. When I arrived in the antechamber of the Governor's office and announced myself to her assistant, I heard a familiar voice respond 'Send him in! All of you, get out!' As I went to enter her office, a number of State bureaucrats pushed past me, holding armfuls of hastily gathered up materials and eyeing me coldly. Pushing them out the door was a small, perky woman who extended her hand confidently toward me. 'Hi!' she said, winking and making a clicking noise in the side of her mouth that established her 'aw, shucks' affability in less than a second, 'I'm Sarah!' I have to say, there is an undeniable something that made her America's LPMILF--'Lenscrafters Print Model I'd Like to Fuck'--last year, and she is no less a beauty in person.

'Regarding the fire at your Church last December: have there been any breakthroughs in the arson investigation?'
'Bachem, neither I nor my family members had anything to do with that fire, and there is no evidence contradicting me on this.'
'I, uh, didn't think you did...'
'Sometimes people do crazy things when they get used to having the nation's attention and then poof! just because an election goes one way and not the other, suddenly they're yesterday's news. Maybe they have a few Jager shots one night and odd things start sounding like good ideas.'
'What are you saying?'
'I'm saying maybe we should ask where Joe the Plumber was that night.'
‘Do you think that your attacks on President Obama’s ‘spread the wealth’ comment were odd, coming from the governor of one of, if not the, most socialized and federally-subsidized states in the nation?’
‘Now, Bachem, I think the agreement was no "gotcha" questions.’
'I don’t think we said anything about…’
‘I agreed with myself to not have them.’
She threw my line of thinking with another of those damned winks. It struck me that the implicit power of her winks was that she was agreeing to something naughty. It's a lascivious wink, fully aware of its own capability to make a man's testicles leap.
'Er,' I continued. 'What do you think, in retrospect, of the criticisms made when you expressed what some believed was a poor understanding of the prerogatives of, and limitations on, the office of Vice President? Your ideas about initiating legislation and such?'
'I'm not going to answer that question the way some of my critics would want me to.'
'Meaning?'
'I'm not going to answer it. Except to say that we feel like their position is open to dispute on Constitutional grounds.'
'Their position is based on the Constitution, though.'
'We feel like the Constitutionality of the Constitution is strongly questionable. I'm prepared to do anything necessary.'
The way she said anything made my underwear feel a size too small.
'What is the objective of your political action committee?'
'Well I'm gosh-darn glad you asked that, Bachem. We intend to keep a close eye on the liberal media and expose their unfair reporting.'
'And the liberal media is...?'
'Anything not broadcast by the EIB network.'
'You cited what you felt was the pass given to Caroline Kennedy by the media, compared to how you were treated.'
'Exactly. Where was uproar over her daughter's teen pregnancy?'
'I don't think her daughter was in that situation, actually.'
'Well, how do we know? Where was the inquiry into the highly questionable account of her most recent alleged pregnancy during the same period that her daughter missed months of school due to "mono"?'
'Did that happen to Ms. Kennedy or her daughter?'
'Again, we really don't know, do we?'
I had to concede I did not.
'How do we know Caroline Kennedy didn’t have a few hot fucks in my Chevy Suburban with her husband’s partner in a snowmobile dealership? We don’t!'
Startled, I dropped my pen. She winked again.As I reached down to retrieve it, I could not resist a quick sidelong glance under her glass desktop. She had evidently avoided wasting too much time deliberating over underwear choices that morning; she wasn't wearing any. When I straightened up--variously--in my seat, we both considered what I'd seen. But only one of us was blushing.
'Aw, you're cute when your embarrassed, Bachem,' she teased. 'Let's keep this light. I know a joke: what's the difference between a hockey mom and a machine built to milk a man's nuts dry?'
'I...'
'Lipstick!' she said. 'Now get over here and kiss my baby-chute!'

Before I knew it, I was around her desk and on my knees in front of her desk chair, wondering if it was an unforgivable breach of journalistic ethics to allow her to handle my ears as roughly as she was doing, holding my face to the most tropically humid region in Alaska. I unbuttoned her blouse, opened her front-clasping bra with a finger-snapping motion, and pawed her left breast roughly as I used the thick, sweet runoff from her man-gash to lubricate the thumb I worked up the brown flower of her asshole. She cooed, demonstrating the cool-headedness one would hope to expect from their State's chief executive at the rough intrusion of a thumb into their shitbox, and my respect for her composed demeanor remained as I tongue-fucked her toward a shrill, shrieking climax.

I stood and presented her with my straining beaver cleaver. She marveled at it. 'Darn, Bachem--are you part moose?' She removed her glasses. ‘Won’t need 'em to see any of this!’ She cradled my billiard ball-sized manapples in her hand, impressed with their heft. ‘Feels like you’ve brought a nutsack full of face cream for me,’ she smiled.
‘With all due respect, Governor Palin, my big fat nuts aren’t going to suck themselves.’
Fitting as much of my chowderpouch into her mouth as she could, she began yanking at the neck of my snotmusket with a well-manicured hand just slightly too small to close its grip around my girthy manshaft.

Now, I feel it would be disrespectful to detail the mind-pulverizing, porn star-grade blowjob skills rendered to me by a sitting governor, but I will say that while gnawing on my dangling junk she gives a handjob like a lady, with her pinky out, and that was only the prelude to the pleasure she gave me as I fucked her mouth, my hands clamped on either side of her head. If she had performed this skill at instead of playing the flute in the talent portion of the Miss Alaska competition, she would've gotten the bouquet and tiara for sure. But as enthralled with her high-grade pleasure-delivery as I was, I could not resist picking up her glasses and looking through them.

Just as I suspected, they were not prescription, merely a clear-lensed impression of intelligence-lending disguise.

She hummed a lost symphony on my pulsing fuck-muscle, and my head swam with the melody as I beat out a Wagnerian rhythm on the back of her throat. But, expert that she was, she knew better than I did, bashing her epiglottis with abandon, exactly how far she could take this celestial music before it would crescendo into gagging torrents of ropey chord clusters spilling over her face and neck, and there she stopped; indeed, I was only notes away from completely opening up the tap on my goo-spigot. When she pulled my meat hammer out of her mouth, it was sucked so clean I swear would swear I saw a star-shaped cartoon sparkle, pling!, gleam off of it.
'Hey Bachem,' she said, wiping her mouth, 'What do they call that stuff wrapped around a foot long salami?'
'Uh, casing?'
'No--my pussy.'

She stood and lifted the back of her skirt to reveal the sumptuous, tautly muscled ass of a teenage gymnast, raised in offering and covered with expectant goose pimples at the vigorous crash-testing it was about to undergo. She gripped the edge of her desk with both hands to brace herself, but I didn't think she'd be strong enough. My thunderstick stood so tall it was difficult to force it down to the angle at which I penetrated her, introducing myself roughly to the wet velvet vise of her panty-oven. She gasped. 'Oh! Oh yes. Oh! You're darned tootin'!'
As it happens, dirty talk during sex is a little different up here in Alaska.
'For Pete's sake, hon, that big fella feels nifty back there; Oh, you betcha!'

I got the sudden feeling I was balls-deep in Marge Gunderson.

She crawled up on her knees on top of the desk, and reared her ass back in a deep crouch, sitting on her shins--the yoga pose Garbhasana. With her arms extended in front of her, she was completely prostrating herself in obeisance. 'Harder!' she demanded. There was no pleading in her voice; her calls for a cock flogging of the greatest possible severity were delivered with the imperiousness of an executive order. She would grant no clemency, and wanted none granted to herself or the stretched inner confines of her cock-pocket, the lips of which clung to my groin missile on my every outstroke, as though refusing to let me go, ever.

What was I doing? I didn't agree with a thought in this woman's head, and somehow I found myself having the half-baked Alaskan. How could she be so proudly, defiantly ignorant and still so brilliantly intuitive at harnessing the ignorance of others to her advantage? Was her vapidity an adroit con, or was it genuine? Which was worse? Wasn't being engaged in a meat exchange this way with her still worse on my part? Wasn't this a betrayal of everything I felt and believed? Was I just the monkey, and she the organ-grinder? Wasn't I in effect forcing a thick, meaty vote for Sarah Palin into her impossibly tight, slimy ballot box over and over and over, with ever increasing force and rapidity?

She must have sensed the clouding conflict distracting me from the task so plainly laid out before me, for she then leered over her shoulder at me and started grunting out a chant, familiar to viewers of the RNC convention, to urge me on and marshal all available force to the laying of the Alaskan pipeline between us.

'Drill Baby Drill! Drill Baby Drill! Drill Baby Drill!'

My crisis of conscience lifted, I rose to her exhortations and bullied my way back into the upper threshold of her cock-catcher. I had nothing to be ashamed of; the woman I had my hands locked onto the submitting hips of, the woman I was striking sparks deep inside of with my sap-swollen man-maple--she was one of the biggest reasons my candidate won; she had, by playing her part so perfectly, virtually assured America of her first Black President. And I rewarded that effort with the newfound ferocity with which my snatch-hammer went about the controlled demolition of her innermost confines.

Her chant was soon reduced to a repeating 'Gnaaaahrrr! Gnerrrrrrr!' as the slurping, slapping sound of our meat hydraulics echoed in the high ceilings of the Governor's office. I felt a sweet knot inside me pull tight and begin to unravel; I knew I was well down that Last Mile, and no call from the Governor would stay the execution; I threw the switch and felt 3000 volts rip through me as I withdrew my pig stick and shot off surge after surge of manmilk, like so many liquid blasts of machine gun fire. When I finished, her back looked like she had been standing too close to an electric fan when someone threw eight ounces of plain yogurt into it. Her smart suit coat and skirt combo was festooned with my still-cooling DNA.
'Ah, I'm, uh, sorry about your outfit.'
'Oh, don't worry about it. I've still got to return it to the Republican National Committee anyway. Get that thing up and running again, Bachem; there's a whole lot of exploration to be done in heretofore protected, pristine regions.'
'Anwar?'
'No. My asshole.'

By the time I dragged myself out of there, drained, I had spent so much time inside her I qualified for Alaskan residency and collected my $3000 dividend from the Permanent Fund on my way to the airport, where I caught my flight back to civilization.