Hard Time: A Heartfelt Letter to Johnny Earle from One Who Has His Best Interests at Heart.

Dear Senator Johnny,

So it’s come to this! I’m writing as someone who donated money to your campaign and was really hoping you were going to win the nomination so you could restore integrity to the White House. But no such luck.

I am not one of those haterz blaming you for what is obviously not your fault. Clearly that space alien is to blame for the pickle you now find yourself in. Your only crime was to be too handsome. By the way, speaking of space aliens, to judge by her teeth she looks like a ‘scraper’ to me, in those intimate moments when a man needs a safe and welcoming place—if you know what I mean.

But as we all know, life isn’t fair, which is why she gets to rub Tiger Balm into your shoulders after a particularly grueling workout and all I got was a restraining order. Not that I blame you for that for one moment. I know it was the work of that bossy bottom you had running your campaign who was like totally jealous and a bitch. Not that I’m at all surprised that working at your side, bringing you coffee in the morning as you wake up, your hair still rumpled and your sheets smelling of hay and sun-warmed apples, rubbing sleep from your eyes, your lips moist, your pajama bottoms, damp with sweat, only just managing to cling to your hips… I’m not at all surprised that such a close working relationship would inspire a fierce devotion bordering, one might almost say, on obsession. Not surprised at all.

Speaking of workouts, I’d like to explain the reason for this letter.

I’m sitting here trying really really hard not to think of you being locked in handcuffs, helpless, your clothes ripped from your body by some brute of a cop before being led away to the ‘pokey’ to do ‘time’. I know the chances are remote because you’re obviously going to run rings around the prosecutor who is merely jealous of your looks and has dreamed up this way to punish you. Not that you haven’t been bad in your way. You have and you know it. Your eloquence at your recent press conference brought tears to my eyes. But you can’t think all you have to do is flash that million dollar smile and all will be forgiven. I’m not saying you don’t deserve to be punished in some way, darling, and a jolly good spanking might be the best place to start. By the way, I hope you don’t mind if I call you ‘darling’. No homo. Being English I tend to call everyone ‘darling’; friends, colleagues, cops, firemen, sailors, wrestling coaches, etc. But the idea of you being locked in a tiny cell for a period of time, a year or two, over some footling mis-appropriation of funds is grotesque! You might have to share. Though that could well turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

Say there was some Ryan Reynolds look-alike, a country boy like yourself who’s been led astray by some woman, also like yourself, with whom you could share workouts and the odd wrestling match with some light bondage thrown in for good measure—man to man. A kid who can take a licking and still come at you as hard the third and fourth times as he did the first. A boy who can look to you for guidance as you share with him the pitfalls of being incredibly handsome. Out of respect I imagine in time he’ll come to call you Daddy, or Sir. I know I would. I’d gladly offer my services as referee! Perhaps a live video feed could be arranged? I have photographs of Lindsey Grahame at a costume party some years ago dressed as Prissy, a character from Margaret Mitchell’s tale of the old south, which I feel fairly confident he wouldn’t want to go viral.

Speaking of which, darling, I have to confess I’m very concerned at the thought of you being subjected to prison underwear. It’s going to play havoc with your skin and I’d like to suggest you let me be a true friend and arrange a regular supply of freshly laundered jockstraps to be sent on a regular basis. After you’ve worn them long enough—four or five days, perhaps, even a week? Don’t worry. The smell of sweat doesn’t phase me at all—just send them to me in one of the handy zip-lok bags I’ll provide and I’ll see to it that they are cleansed in bio-degradable, unscented detergent and returned in a timely manner. The only thing I’d ask is you give me some idea of what size you might require because fit is so important in a support garment. A drawing or photograph, perhaps? Side by side with a ruler as a point of reference? Relaxed and… shall we say ‘rampant’?—I’m including a tape-measure for your convenience—would be a great assist to find something that will keep everything in place without being in any way constricting.

If by any chance you make a habit of wearing a cock-ring—I know that many presidential candidates do these days—you might include its size, 4in? 5in? 6in? 7in?The only shots I have of you were taken from so far away it’s hard to make out the details and I must say, it’s not at all easy to get a good angle on your bedroom window even with a super-high zoom lens. I would of course be happy to travel to assist you with fittings. Indeed, I would look upon it as an honor. Three or four should suffice.

I would only ask, not wanting to go through the tasering thingy again, that you mention my visit to the cops first and let them know I have your OK. (Fun story. After my last unfortunate encounter with the local constabulary I did form a mentoring relationship with one of the deputies, charming young chap, who was caught off-guard as it were by my frank, manly compliments on the muscular definition he had achieved in his triceps. Not an easy group to hit, as I’m sure you’re aware. I was able to put Jimmy Ray in touch with an old buddy of mine who specializes in DVDs for home consumption who has already featured him in a series of compelling dramas featuring various aspects of police work not generally exposed to public view. But I digress.)

No doubt you’ll tell me that under a wrestling singlet a jock isn’t absolutely de rigeur and can, in fact prove an encumbrance whilst grappling, but I’m thinking of those times you’ll want just to hang out with your buddies in the locker room, horsing around the way men do when like you they are in their prime. Naturally, I don’t like to dwell too long on the thought of you being incarcerated with a lot of brutal men, many of whom will most likely be hairy and/or extremely muscular, who, being kept apart from their ‘bitchez’ find themselves in a state of almost constant arousal. But we must think ahead and be prepared for any eventuality. I always say when life hands you lemons it’s a great time to work on your glutes.

Now there’s something constructive and fun you can do with your cell-mate! A Tim Tebow type springs to mind. I’m sure he’ll be only too happy to spot you—I know I would—and you can encourage each other in your work-outs. I’d suggest posing sessions where you both strip down to compare each other’s progress. So inspirational! Again, pictures or indeed video of such wholesome ‘guy times’ would be greatly appreciated. In closing I’d just like to say that as you begin your journey to the ‘Big House’ (it’s as well to be ‘down’ with the lingo) should you encounter any police brutality, strip searches, body cavity examinations, forced feminization, etc, I would beg you to let me know at once, giving as much detail as possible with pictures if available, so that I can get the word out. Not to blow my own horn but I’m not unknown to New York’s theatrical PR community.

I’m including a link to an online community where I think you’ll find an accepting and welcoming group of men who, like yourself, are packing more between their legs than they know what to do with. Here you’ll find a wealth of grooming tips as well as coping strategies for those times we are thrown together with men less generously endowed, or as I like to call them—Catholics. Those times when jealousy leads to spite. You’ll find all this, and more (check out the singlets gallery!) at www.lpsg.org (Large Penis Support Group) where big dicks rule.

Anyway. Must dash, darling. My hand’s cramping up. From typing.

Your friend,

Benedick (aka biglimeytool)