Dick Cheney Gets Stoned — Sharon, That Is

Richard Cheney walked into his bedroom, neck tie pulled lose, white shirt collar open, his dark blue blazer unbuttoned with a beer stain on the lapel. He was pale, and sacks of tired flesh hung beneath each eye. The bedroom was empty but he heard the water running in the bathroom, the door of which was ajar.

"Lynne, I'm home," said Dick with the volume necessary to break through the faucet water.

Dick removed his blazer and then noticed the beer stain. He smirked and through the blazer onto the back of a large flowered upholstered arm chair in the corner of the room. He then plopped down onto the arm chair. He rested his head on the chair back, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The faucet water stopped. There was silence in the bedroom.

"Hard day?"

Cheney opened his eyes. He immediately recognized the woman standing before him, and he corrected his posture.

"What the? How did you get— Cheney was lost for words. The woman was wearing a white men's dress shirt, unbuttoned from collar to shirt tip, with clean white panties. One white tennis sock was on her left foot. The other foot was bare. Her hair was blond and cut short. No jewelry and no makeup. She stood at the foot of the queen bed facing the frozen Dick Cheney.

"I have a new movie coming out? I was hoping you would see it, "said the woman.

"Yes. Of course. But you should not be here. Where is my wife?" asked Dick.

"You want your wife? I mean at this moment you want your wife?"

"We've met before?" Dick forces these words out. Small talk trying to push out the electric tension building in the seven-foot space that separated him from the woman.

"I doubt it. Do you see my hand?" Said the woman.

The woman holds out her left hand, her manicured fingers, palm up, nails long but not too long. Dick saw this clean pearly white image, a female crafted with the hand of god offering her hand. Movie stars, some of them at least, did seem to be cut from better stock. He remembered distinctly the first impression he had of her, sitting on a chair on a wood deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean, smoking a cigarette and talking to Michael Douglas. Money, power, beauty and attitude. All things Dick admired. All things Dick thought of himself as having, except for possibly the beauty part. But now Dick felt small, powerless, his attitude fogged by the erection that was flourishing. Jeez, he thought. An erection. It had been six years. Wonders. The attitude started coming back.

"I will take this hand and touch you. I will touch you wherever I wish, because that is what I want," said the woman.

"OK. OK. OK. OK. OK."

"Dick. Dick, look at you," yelped Lynne Cheney standing at the foot of the bed wearing a paisley flannel full-length bathrobe that was tied tight around her midsection.

Dick opened his eyes. He felt the erection.

"Wow, you are making some new kind of recovery," said Lynne, who walks to Dick, leans down and strokes his thighs. She rests her head on Dick's lap as the erection slowly withers. Dick stares up at the ceiling, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again. He'll see her new movie. When it comes out in DVD.