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Pat Robertson in Love
He was in God’s Country; Houston, Texas. The Annual NRA meeting was the most amazing one Pat had ever been to. He had seen Cheney speak, and of course, Heston, a few days earlier, but the man he had secretly traveled there to see was scheduled later that night.

He walked through the crowd and admired the booths.There was a great exhibit about Guns and God, and another with a tribute to the fallen of September 11th. It was wonderful to see all of these great moral values in one place, Pat thought to himself. He signed a few autographs, but mostly people were respectful and would simply nod as they walked by. Pat felt at home in Texas.

Above all of the other speaking he heard a sound check from the left corner of the convention hall. That was his cue. Weaving in and out of people as fast as his weathered legs could take him, he found the entrance to the stage. He took off the “Whackmaster,” hat he had purchased from a booth and when the security saw who it was they let him in without delay. Taking a deep breath he walked elegantly past the road crew and up the stairs to the stage.

The man behind the guitar caught a movement from the corner of his eye and stopped tuning. “I was wondering if you were gonna come up and see me!” he exclaimed.

“Ted!” Pat declared, “I have been looking for you all day!”

They embraced. Pat could feel Ted’s long hair entwine itself though his fingers. He knew the Lord was not fond of long hair, but with all of the great things Ted had done for the country, he thought he could let a few things be as they were.

“You should come see me play tonight!” Ted exclaimed as they parted bodies.

“Can’t......I have to get back on a plane at 5:00. I was worried I wouldn’t find you before I left.”

Ted looked defeated. “You never stay.”

In truth, Pat though Ted played Devil Music. That loud guitar. Those lyrics about cat scratches. He could never stay for an entire concert without feeling like he had left the Lord. But he wanted a few minutes with Ted.

“Why don’t we step into your dressing room and pray before I leave?” Pat offered.

Ted’s eyes lit up. He held out a the guitar and obediently a roadie came and collected it. Without another word Pat followed Ted off stage and down a little hallway to a door with a taped sign that said, “THE NUDGE,” on it.

“So, how are you likin’ the con this year?” Ted asked as he fumbled for the keys and then opened the door.

Pat could see the room was not well used, except for the large pile of gun cases and a guitar case. Ted grabbed two chairs and faced them to each other and waited for an answer.

Pat did not sit down at once, but walked to the guns. “What is this one?” Pat asked as he ran his finger down a black shiny case.

Ted walked up behind Pat and moved his arm just above Pat’s waist and touched the case. He whispered into Pat’s ear, “It is my Glock M29.”

“Mmmmmm...I bet it is big,” Pat said. He could feel himself stiffening with Ted behind him.

Ted let his hand slide from the case and down to Pat’s zipper. He pulled it down reached inside and began stroking Pat’s cock. “Why don’t you take out that beauty and let me see you stroke it while I work you.”

Pat did as he was told. The gun was shiny and deep black. As Pat ran his fingers back and forth clutching the barrel, Ted reciprocated. Pat moaned out; he could feel himself nearing climax.

“Why don’t you put it in your mouth and suck on it like you want me to suck on you,” Ted said in a stern voice.

Pat liked to be told what to do. He placed the barrel into his mouth and began sucking. He sucked long and hard as shivers danced though out his body. “Just a little more...yeah,” he heard Ted say, “almost home daddy yeah you suck it hard.”

Pat could feel his orgasm coming on as Ted worked him faster and harder. Barrel still in his mouth, he exploded into Ted’s hand.

BANG! The gun fired. Ted felt the bullet graze his ear as Pat’s brains splattered onto his face.

“Shit! Old bastard went and killed himself!” Shit!!” Ted screamed and he backed away and watched Pat’s body fall to the floor. He ran out the door and to the bathroom where he washed his face and hands. He couldn’t believe this had happened again. He went back out to the stage, composed himself, and jammed until the concert started.

Current Mood: amused amused
Current Music: Cat Scratch fever.

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Title: A Long Day
Who: Pat/Gordon
Where: Pat's Office
Rating: PG
Chapter: Prologue

Pat sighed and leaned back in his chair. Another day, another bevy of souls to save.

This is hard work, he thought to himself.

Gordon waltzed in, cheerfully whistling a happy showtune from the '40s.

"Gordon, how are you today?"

"Fine, Daddy. I just got done interviewing a right-wing blogger for the segment about how liberals are killing religious freedom in America."

"Well, that is just super. Just super. Come here and give Daddy a hug."

"Yes, Daddy."

Gordon always called him "Daddy".

To be continued...

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Current Music: Crazy hip jazz!

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Pat knew this was Scott Ross’ interview, but he had to sneak in on a commercial break and ask jim Caviezel a few questions. Ever since seeing, “The Passion,” last Saturday, Pat could not get the images of the movie out of his head. He thought it must have been amazing to play his Lord and Savior in such a compelling picture.

“I had to come and sit down and talk with you for a few seconds,” Pat said as he leapt into the vacant interviewer’s chair. Scott seemed to always excuse himself though interviews. Pat assumed this was to pray between takes and never questioned him about this practice of leaving guests unattended. It gave him a chance to sit down and get to know some of the more distinguished guests.

Jim simply smiled. Oh, how Christlike he still looked. Even having cut his hair for the press tour, he looked like the angels themselves had blessed him with kisses of beauty.

“Was it a tough discussion to take this role?” Pat asked.

Jim seemed a little confused that the cameras were not rolling, yet went on answering the question the same way he had answered it to a dozen reporters over the past few weeks. “Well, I had to figure out if I was worthy of playing Jesus Christ. I knew that this.......” Jim’s words trailed off. Pat tried to stay focused, but he found his thoughts floating to scene after scene of Jim as Jesus. Shirtless and bound. The whips. The agony. Pat had been thinking about those scenes every free minute of the day. He felt closer to Jesus and yet he felt even closer to this man sitting right here in front of him.

Pat realized Jim had finished his speech and was looking at Pat with his head a bit tilted to the left. Both men looked at each other for a few more seconds as they sat in silence. Pat searched for another question, but could only look into Jim’s large brown eyes. Like looking into the eyes of the Lord. He swore there was some heat growing between them, some unspoken tension.

“Are you all right, Sir?” Jim asked, breaking the silence.

Pat adjusted his tie and posture, but stretched his legs out just to where his foot reached the border of Jim’s loafers. Oh, if only these chairs were not bolted to the ground.

“Do you face a lot of temptations being in Hollywood?” Pat asked. He knew his time was running short. Even thought this was a, “Feed The Children,” break, his moments were little and Scott would be back soon.

“I have learned to fight temptation through loving the Lord.” Jim stated. While he said this, however, he too stretched his feet out. Both men’s ankles entertained and when Pat felt Jim’s sock against his he nearly stood up and praised Jesus. Both men's eyes blazed into one another. Pat trembled at the thought of moving his leg up a little to feel Jim's flesh-- the same flesh that had been beaten to a bloody pulp on film. The same flesh who played Jesus. It would just be like touching Jesus.

“Yesssssssssssss. I, er, mean, yes,” Pat stuttered. “There is nothing wrong with throwing your arms around the Lord. Feeling every sense of him............. enter.............................your body.............. er........heart. Having him control you and move you in ways you never thought possible....”

Jim blushed.

“Um, sir,” said the intern, “We are back from commercial in 25 seconds.”

Both men jumped. Feet back into position and Pat bolted up from his chair. Scott was standing on the stage platform fixing his make-up and waiting to sit down.

“It was great meeting you, Jim.” Pat said.
Jim smiled and stretched out his hand. They locked in a shake that ended with Jim slightly caressing Pat’s wrist with his pinky finger.

“I am sure we will meet again” Jim whispered.

Pat went to the back to pray for all of the great things God sent him.
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The year was 1985, and I had begun to dream of running for President. Little Gordon wouldn't be on the Club with me for another nine years, so I had to make do with old Ben as my cohost and cohort in the saving of souls and the taking of donations. Now that's not to say that I've ever developed a case of the old man-boy love, because no matter how many times I said something about those queers and their pedophilia, it's just not true. I should know.

Now Ben and me, we were drawn to each other. Not just as friends, either, because we sometimes caught ourselves staring at each other in a sort of way that my mama told me was going to get me sent to an eternity of damnation. I knew it was wrong, but not even God could quench the man-lust that took hold of my brain that summer.

Ben was just the first in a long line of conquests. Now, the secret thing that no one knows about Gary Hart in the '88 election is that it wasn't Jessica Hahn he was getting his rocks off with, it was me. Now, I know you all think that the scandal was over him engaging in extramarital relations with that girl. But that was just something I had to leak to the media on account of I couldn't take a chance that he would spill the beans about our tryst on his yacht in the summer of '85. There are just some things that good, upstanding Christian men don't do...like admit that they've just spent a week and a half boning another man on a yacht under the hot, hot Caribbean sun. And that's a fact.

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It was a stolen kiss, and they were lost in the moment, hiding in an empty stall of the men's restroom.

Teeth and tongues clashed, as passion nearly overcame them. Then one of them pulled back.

"Wait, Ben, this isn't right. God doesn't approve of what we've been doing. He can't - it says in the Bible that this is wrong! We've got to fight this unnatural attraction!"

The man who spoke was older, with creased, pale skin. He embraced a mocha colored man of approximately the same age. They stood there, panting, as they tried to fight the feelings stirring in their hearts and loins.

"Pat, that's only one interpretation of the Bible," soothed the older black gentleman.

"Besides," Ben continued in an angry whisper, "how many commandments have you broken already? You worship money more than any God! I thought you got into this because you got a sign from God that told you to move to Virginia and start the Christian Broadcasting Network. Not because God told you to steal money from old people, you hypocrite!"

Pat turned away from Ben, and tried to hide the tears in his eyes. His voice quavered as he tried to speak calmly.

"You don't know how many times I've told Charles Taylor that I can't take his gold, but he forced me to do it! I couldn't say no! He'd just take me and force me to work in his gold mines with all of the other slave labor. Why can't you understand?" Pat flung back heatedly.

Ben appeared to consider this.

"It's okay, Pat. God is love, right? This is love, isn't it? At least of a kind, anyway. How can this be wrong?"

"I...I don't know, Ben. I want to believe in this love, but all the preaching I've done over the years has been ingrained in my own head. I don't want to think that God will send us to the fiery pits of hell for indulging in just a little bit of hot old man on old man action, but..."

"I mean, didn't all those queers and dykes and liberal left-wing terrorists cause 9-11? I can't be one of them, I just can't!"

Ben pulled Pat into a tight hug and rubbed his back.

"Just feel. Don't let the past bother you."

Pat laid his head against Ben's withered brown shoulder and sighed.

"I guess you're right. Let's just see what happens."

Ben kissed Pat's lips gently.

"That's okay by me," he said, stroking his gnarled hand over Pat's lightly hairsprayed hair.

"You've got a sweet ass, Pat, and I'd hate to lose it."

Pat just smiled and closed his eyes.

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