I usually fuck socialists. “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need,” is generally the most satisfying approach to sex.
But recently I was overcome by an urge to try something new. I wanted an experience that wasn’t just different, but a little dirtier than I was used to. I wanted it rough. That’s why I decided to fuck a metaphor for right-wing economics.
I met the Invisible Hand of the Free Market exactly where you’d expect: its college dorm room. After some perfunctory small talk about stocks, it initiated contact.
The Invisible Hand demonstrated the agility of market forces by awkwardly fumbling at my belt. When I realised it couldn’t undo the clasp, I undid it myself along with the zipper. The Invisible Hand muttered something about economic interventionism before pulling down my underwear. At least it could tear something down quickly enough.
Things only got worse from there. Careless and without empathy, the Invisible Hand alternated between painfully gripping me tightly and barely gliding over my skin at all.
It clearly lacked a coherent plan to make me orgasm, a goal which, while eventually and barely achieved, was frequently delayed by moments of physical pain caused by insensitive handling.
Watching trickle down economics trickle down my chest, I vowed to never fuck people or metaphors from the right again. When it comes to politicians and fuckbuddies, I need someone with vision, compassion, and good handwork.