Damage Control

Grayson Hamilton was a virile man and very good at fucking—which is probably why he had three sons and a daughter and who knows how many boyfriends before me, including Zeb Clarke, the Baltimore Orioles centerfielder, who the governor had seen me with at a sports banquet in Washington, D.C., the previous spring. Since Hamilton had intimate knowledge of what Clarke liked and liked to do, he made an assumption along those lines about me. While we were standing around letting the photographers catch candid photos of either he or Clarke or both, the governor chatted me up. And it was his suggestion that he do an interview with me the following week for my Baltimore TV station, WJZ, in a hotel room overlooking Baltimore harbor.

The only notes I got from that interview were the smoothness of his seduction routine, that he worked out regularly enough to have a cut body at forty-eight, the length and girth of his engorged penis, and the fact that he could ejaculate twice in the space of forty minutes while fucking me on a hotel bed—and then would have liked and been able to go on for more if we’d had the time.

The time and place was what was always getting in the way since then. He was an opposition party governor during a period when hunting season on philandering opposition party politicians was at its peak. We expended more time and energy in just being able to arrange a safe meeting that his schedule permitted than he took to show me how virile he was and how much stamina he had.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to cool it for a while, Jeremy,” he whispered in my ear when he’d come and then stretched out beside me on the bunk of the wobbling Buccaneer 272 and pulled me into his body in an embrace.