Dreams of Herman Cain (Episode 5, Part 2)

You can read Episode 5, Part 1 here.

The Ugandan reporters turned their attention back to Herman Cain. "If what this man says is true, Mr. Cain, you sexually harassed him." Herman Cain became defensive. "First, I have never sexually harassed anyone. And yes, I have never sexually harassed anyone. Secondly, I have never sexually harassed anyone. I can tell you unequivocally, I have never sexually harassed anyone outside of the plane in question."

Herman Cain and I were walking around in the bush of northwestern Uganda searching for Joseph Kony and the Lord's Resistance Army. On advice from Rush Limbaugh, Herman Cain intended to join up with the supposedly Christian LRA in order to fight President Obama's supposedly socialist Muslim troops. I was threatened into joining Herman Cain despite my stringent objections.

We stopped as the sun passed to the west and set up camp. As we became settled, Herman Cain pulled a skirt out of his knapsack. "Here, put this on." I took the skirt and became puzzled. "What? Why?"

"Listen, just do it. If you do not I will leave you stranded. You will be left out here to die." I did not posses Herman Cain's acumen for the outdoors. I relented. "No, take off you pants and underwear." He must be kidding, I thought. I checked his face. He wasn't. I did as I was told and covered my exposed genitalia with the skirt. "No, hike up that skirt so your goodies are showing." My head sank, but I did as I was told. My privates hung in the cool Ugandan night.

"Now that is what I am talking about, baby." Herman Cain's fingers danced up my thigh and he then clutched my bare rear. In graduate school I had read about South African miners who took boys as lovers. These boys were gendered as women, replacement females in a society where the fairer sex was non-existent. We are all familiar with the sexual activity that occurs between males in prison. On the outside they are straight, but without that option in the slammer, they find sexual satisfaction anyway they can.

In that Ugandan forest, something similar occurred. Herman Cain made his move. I wanted to fight back. I wanted to resist. But my livelihood, and my ass, rested in this man's hands. Herman Cain laid me down on my stomach and lifted my skirt. He yanked off his pants and stuck his stiff penis in between my thighs; there was no penetration. He thrust as he lay on me, spanking my butt and using his baritone voice to whisper dirty talk in my ear.

I dreamed of Camila Vallejo. I dreamed of Yulia Tymoshenko. Of Miri Ben-Ari. Scarlett Johansson. Shakira. Between those fantasies, a longing for sexual touch, and Herman Cain's hand fiddling with my penis, I became erect. I felt a concoction of shame, anger, sadness, pleasure, and guilt. I hated my penis for its stiffness. At one point the emotions overwhelmed me and I released. Herman Cain did the same shortly afterward. My taint and balls were covered in his ejaculate.

It was disgusting. I nearly threw up. Herman Cain grabbed me hard in a loving embrace. I could not even clean myself. I was trapped. I had to accept that I was Herman Cain's woman now. I hated it. I hated him. I hated myself. But I was powerless to do anything about it. My life depended on Herman Cain's good graces.

Throughout our time in the forest, I was Herman Cain's plaything. We engaged in numerous sexual acts that I would rather not discuss. I often dreamed of being in Guantanamo, forced to listen to Rod Stewart songs and watch a nude Dan Marino masturbate nonstop. It seemed to be the better option than this hell.

One day, as we were walking aimlessly, we came across some Chinese construction workers. "Ching chong ching," Herman Cain said with a smile. The Chinese workers pointed at my skirt and my hanging penis and laughed. Herman Cain tried to ask the location of the LRA repeatedly, slowing down his English each time. The Chinese men merely mimicked me.

We left the scene when Herman Cain accepted that these men would not be helpful to his cause. "At least those Chinese buffoons do not have the bomb. Then we would all be in trouble." My eyes widened. "Um, Mr. Cain, the Chinese have had the bomb since the 1960s." Cain sneered, "Well, kiss my grits." I retorted, "No, it's true." Herman Cain's eyes narrowed. "No. I am requesting you to get on your knees and kiss my grits."

We spent three weeks wandering around northwest Uganda. We never encountered the LRA or the 100 troops sent in by Obama. Instead, it was a three week period filled with Herman Cain sexually abusing me.

We flew back to the United States. I spent most of the plane ride in the bathroom, trying to scrub away the memory of Herman Cain's cum covering my privates. At one point during the flight when I was back in my seat, Herman Cain leaned over to me and whispered in my ear. "Here's $35,000. Don't tell anyone about what happened."

I woke up in my bed. My taint and balls were clean. Herman Cain remained in first place in the national polls for the Republican presidential nomination despite facing numerous accusations of sexual harassment and an apparent lack of basic foreign policy knowledge.