One thing my Christian fundamentalist background saddled me with was sexual thought policing. The main character in Christianity made some ridiculous claim about a person being guilty of real-life sexy wrongdoing simply for having thought-life sexy brainwaves. Then a bunch of centuries later my Sunday School teacher is leading us in a rousing chorus of “Be Careful Little Mind What You Think,” and my pastor is preaching about how God reads minds like a super-sensitive voyeur, which is why we are all ordered to take every thought captive for him.

It took a while before I could relax with a nice daydream about a stupid fleeting sweaty adventure and not fear what God would think of me as he watched it from his giant projector screen in Heaven’s basement. And what is stupider than wondering just how I would seduce the current candidates? The answer: nothing. Absolutely nothing.

So fire up that projector, and I’ll give you a show.

Bernie: After enjoying a meal at a restaurant that pays its staff at least $15 an hour and has at least twenty-seven employee unions, I’d slide my credit card suggestively under his while panting, “Let me get half the bill since I now make as much at the office as the menfolk.” Back at my place I’d slip into a matching bra and panty set made with lace hand-sewn by my new Syrian refugee neighbors, who got full market value for their efforts. With This Land Is Your Land playing on full blast, I’d snuggle in close and raise his taxes. If we then discovered that the box of condoms we had picked up earlier from our local and well-funded Planned Parenthood was empty, I would simply remember his commitment to provide paid maternity leave for up to 12 weeks and go for it.

Trump: I would set the mood by dimming the lights down low. A burning cross on the front lawn of the church next door would be casting romantic shadows through the windows and complementing my candlelight. Our mood music would consist of re-runs of The Apprentice humming in the background. I’d cook Trump steaks of course. Waiting in line at Sharper Image and packing my freezer with sub-par meat products nine years ago will have been worth it to see those delectable bits of cow cross his pink, slightly bloated lips. Sexy. Afterwards there’d be no need for fancy lingerie. I’d simply wear my red cap that reads, “Make America Great Again,” punch a small immigrant child in the face, and crook an eyebrow in his direction while saying in a breathy voice, “Let’s see what those tiny fingers can do, all over me.”

Clinton: I’d let her seduce me, and she would. Thoroughly. But I wouldn’t appreciate her efforts until we were officially dating. Then I’d love her. Everything about her would turn me on: from her advocating for threesomes (that were mostly between me and my doctor) to her tireless commitment to bipartisan romance. Eventually she’d want to be exclusive and I wouldn’t like her at all. Who does she think she is? But seeing the tide turning her way, I’d say fine and she’d win me over again with her acrobatic smooth moves and endless energy. Things would go so well that I would encourage her to do more. So she’d propose! Then I wouldn’t like her again…

Cruz: Easiest seduction ever. I would know exactly what to do… after the extensive coaching I would have received from Cruz earlier that day. I’d lose my undies faster than a man can shed his unwanted Canadian citizenship, turn on some Nickelback to get us in the mood, then I’d slide into my role as sexy undercover detective Lushes DeVagina on the manhunt for the infamous Zodiac Killer. The mask Cruz would don would only help things. There’d be no shortage of rubbers on this night.

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After all my hard seduction work was done I’d find myself taking long walks just to end up in your neighborhood, listening to your old speeches on my voice mail, and stalking you on Facebook under my new fake account Red White AndBlueforYou.

Oh Obama, why did it have to end?

[Image Source: DonkeyHotey via Flickr]

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