Starfucker Friday: Jeremy Scahill

Hello Readers–

I hope you all had nice Halloweens. I can’t say I’m a big fan of it falling on a Wednesday, since that turned one night of moderate fun into an ultimately grueling week-long ordeal starting last Friday. By the time Halloween proper rolled around I didn’t want to do anything but go to Whole Foods and stock up on yogurt while all the soccer moms were busy taking their kids trick-or-treating and the elderly people were too busy being afraid to go outside. (Which, by the way, is exactly what I ended up doing.)

Which isn’t to say I was a party pooper the whole weekend. I did manage to get my costume on at a party or four over the weekend, including the premiere of an awesome B-52’s tribute band that my hair stylist started. But the most interesting thing to happen this week was on Tuesday. I met the BF at the local Britpop night, which also happened to be a buffet dinner for about two dozen inebriated state senators. (Don’t ask, I don’t get it either.) Anyway, I got to see a former city councilman pat down a vagrant–at first I thought he was trying to buy drugs, but really it turns out the vagrant had stolen my boyfriend’s car keys and the former city official was trying to get them back. (Weird, no?)

Anyway, the whole thing was pretty nonsensical, so I decided to just focus on the TV, which was not at all hard because foxy Jeremy Scahill was on giving his commentary about, um, something. I’m not sure what, the sound was off. But my eyes were glued to the screen anyway, because boy is that one enormous hunk of hunky man.

Scahill, if you didn’t know, wrote Blackwater: The Rise of the World’s Most Powerful Mercenary Army, a book that I’m too terrified yet politically apathetic to read. He writes for The Nation, he’s often on Democracy Now, and he seems like an honest-to-goodness intelligent reporter who actually wants people to know what’s going on in the world. He’s the kind of guy whose conscience you can see a mile away, behind his smoldering eyes, vaguely Gyllenhaal-esque eyebrows, and eternally serious expression. He is also SO COMPLETELY FUCKING  HOT. Oh my Lord, do I wet my pants in the seminal way just thinking about him.

They say the man that works hard knows how to play hard, and that’s why I’d sell my kidneys to swap places with his wife for a night. Sure, it’s probably not generally fun being married to a guy who’s always running off to reveal secrets about how creepy the government is. But at the same time, this lady gets to see Jeremy Scahill naked.  And, you know, get his penis thrust around her insides. Well, that is, if they’re still married. Finding biographical information about him is quite the challenge. In fact, I could only find one article that even mentioned that he was married. Probably because the subject matter of his book is so terrifying that interviewers probably don’t want to ask him about his personal life. That, or with all the misery and evil in the world, they don’t want to further depress readers by reminding them that the hottest man on the political left is straight, married, and probably monogamous to boot.

Here’s what we do know: Raised by a radical Catholic family in Wisconsin, Scahill dropped out of college after one year, wandered around homeless for a awhile, and then started writing for the Catholic Worker in the mid-90’s. (He’s still only 32, which means he’s probably in what you might call his prime.) Also, he smokes. Hot hot hot hot hot. And he’s smart. Scruffy. Deep, but not unapproachable. Looks good in a suit.  And seems like the kind of guy who’d save a group of children and animals from a kindergarten/animal shelter fire, and then nonchalantly stick his (obviously whopping huge) cock in a glory hole for a relaxing moment of anonymity with Anderson Cooper before a CNN interview. (Because Anderson Cooper is totally someone who’d drill glory holes into CNN men’s room stalls and then pretend he didn’t know anything about it.)

Actually, whopping huge cock or not, it’s a little troubling fantasizing about Scahill, because Blackwater is possibly the least erotic thing in the world. Don’t get me wrong, I totally like a hot guy in a uniform*, but mercenaries aren’t hot, they’re creepy. Especially when they’re in Iraq, or New Orleans, or your town, if there’s a disaster taking place and they feel like saving you.  So it’s hard to project a fantasy onto a guy who won’t stop talking about them, despite his good looks, excellent sense of style, occasional use of nerdy glasses, facial hair that would feel really hot rubbing against your inner thighs while he swallowed your dick—well, okay, maybe it’s not actually that hard. I mean, obviously the guy can fuck for hours. Come three or four times and get hard again before you can even catch your breath. And, let’s be real, the guy’s probably seen enough pain in the world that it would mean nothing to him to shove all (let’s say) eight-and-a-half inches of his dick up your ass, then rip off the condom and make you suck on his sweaty nutsack while he beat you in the face with his cock. To say nothing about the armpit fetish I’m sure he has, or the way he’d 69 you, with his hairy legs pinning your arms down, leaving you no choice but to swallow his dick whole and try not to choke on its totally ample girth.

You know, I just realized, by 2012 he’ll be old enough to run for President….

(*Like the guy I saw delivering mail when I was at the hardware store today….hubba hubba!)