“No-means-yes me, baby!” A love story.

http://www.rawstory.com/rs/2014/09/rush-limbaugh-on-consent-for-sex-no-means-yes-if-you-know-how-to-spot-it/
{now I realize that he is not “advocating rape” per say, I just feel like making light of, dancing around, and generally attempting to water down a topic such as consent by blurting lines and tossing around bullshit hot air about romance and seduction being lost arts is a generally pompous stance to take on a subject that has affected so many people. He loves to trigger. I know it’s a slight overreaction, but he loves those, and it just felt like a good time to write a romantic short story on his honor.}
In this one case, can I hope that someone no-means-yeses him right in his pooper? No drinks, no dimming the lights, I want complete coherence, the shake of the head, the bead of sweat down his pasty brow as he, in slow motion, bellows “NOOOOO” like a Bassett Hound and The Gimp gives him a knowing nod while committing a B&E on his back door.

On the nightstand lay a crumpled piece of hotel stationary with “your welcome” scrawled in rudimentary cursive. The Gimp was never one for good grammar or good byes and the blinds cracked back sharp as Rush released a thick sigh, much like the hot air he was notorious for contributing to the atmosphere, but slightly defeated and laced with just a pang of butt-rapey longing. Much like his asshole, his heart was somewhat inside out and he would never again look at the news or sauerkraut in the same way. The sun began to peek over the tops of the china berry trees and the muffled cry of an illegitimate baby found it’s way through the walls as he lit a cigarette and wept gently into his shit-stained hands. Yes… he thought… no means yes.