Ann Coulter And Michael Moore Have Sex - Part Two: THE TALK

Continued From Yesterday.

It was a diner on Route 15 a few miles south of Six Mile Falls, Maine, north of Bangor. Ann Coulter sat in a booth and she wondered how Michael Moore could possibly have maneuvered himself onto the bench on the opposite side from her given his enormous size. But Michael seemed comfortable in his fat body, moving with ease as if he were a thin man trapped inside. But it was clear to her why Michael was fat: his appetite. He had a stack of pancakes, two orders, eight cakes highs, with whipped cream and strawberries on top. They were the kind of pancakes that were each a half inch thick. Michael popped a strawberry in his mouth and then proceeded to pour half a jar of maple syrup on top of the mountain of carbohydrates.

“Good strawberries,” said Michael.

It was about ten minutes short of 9:00 PM and the diner was half filled with locals, mostly guys in flannel shirts with jackets stuffed to their sides on the seats. But for the three waitresses, Ann Coulter was the only woman in the diner. Her black tight blouse and black leather jacket over a short black skirt was too upscale for this venue, but she was wearing hiking boots with white socks that made her legs seem even longer and thinner than they already were. Plus she was sitting with fat Michael Moore who looked blue collar with his denim shirt and blue jeans. Michael seemed to provide cover for Ann who didn’t wish to stand out in this crowd.

Ann was sipping onion soup on this chilly Maine evening.

“How’s the onion soup?” asked Michael. By this point Michael had devoured a third of the stack of pancakes.

Ann thought Michael was angling for trying some of her soup. She would have none of that.

“So this was interesting, today that is, back at the motel,” said Ann.

“Yeah. It was great,” said Michael.

“I’m sure,” said Ann.

“You’re sure about what?” asked Michael.

“I’m sure it was great for you,” said Ann.

“Babes, you were screaming with pleasure. I think that is an accurate description,” said Michael.

“I was acting,” said Ann.

“You are not that good an actress,” said Michael.

“Well, you see, you can never know, for certain, can you. With a woman, that is. But you on the other hand. I have evidence inside me that you had a rip roaring time,” said Ann. The thought of Michael’s semen inside would have made her nauseated, but she had come to terms with the temporary intrusion. She hoped most of the Michael Moore ejaculation was removed with the shower she took. But, even so, her diaphram was firmly in place, thank you Jesus.

“I can have a rip roaring time with my palm, Ann,” said Michael, though he knew he had not done so in years, maybe even a decade.

“Well, I am not surprised that you are happy to be achieving pleasure just with yourself,” said Ann.

“So what are you saying about the acting thing? Why would you act?” asked Michael.

Ann did not know how to answer this question because in fact she was not acting. Having sex with Michael Moore was simply a vehicle for achieving an orgasm. To Ann it was an adventuresome and reckless means of possessing a throbbing and living dildo, which was amusingly attached to a big fat liberal. But that did not matter, did it. A throbbing organ is a throbbing organ whether it is attached to a Communist or a Fascist or an illegal alien. The important thing is that she did her research, as always, and Room 17 of the Bangor Motel had a large mirror over the headboard. And it was that mirror and feeling her long hair on her back and the site of her pencil-thin arms and firm breasts that gave her pleasure. Maybe she did scream. But it had nothing to do with Michael Moore, except possibly for the mere fact that she was dominating a loudmouth liberal while watching herself. She liked watching herself. She had cultivated her body with the care of a Renaissance sculptor, mostly using the tool of starvation, and examining her body while having a stand-in surrogate erect penis throbbing inside was enough to make her scream; yes, scream with pleasure. She found it curious that fat men do not have fat penises.

“OK. OK. It was not an act, Michael. I loved every minute of it,” said Ann.

“You’re patronizing me,” said Michael.

“Whatever,” said Ann.

“You know I have the whole thing on tape,” said Michael.

“What?” said Ann as she spit out a spoonful of onion soup.

“That mirror above the bed is a two-way mirror. I had a camera going the whole time,” said Michael.

“You did not. You did not,” said Ann, thinking Michael was just being provocative.

“I did my research. I paid Joe Bean, the Bangor Motel proprietor, several thousand dollars to retrofit Room 18 with a camera, cutting a hole in the wall, and installing that two-way mirror in Room 17,” said Michael.

The details made Ann nervous. She chose the Bangor Motel. She did her research. But maybe she made a mistake of telling Michael Moore where to meet a week in advance. Was a week enough time for Michael Moore to make all these arrangements, pay people off and do construction? And when she called the Bangor Motel she did recall speaking with a Joe. Damn.

“So you have video of me, like from what, the waist up?” asked Ann.

“I have not checked the video. I think it might catch the top of my belly, which means the video includes a shot below your waist, below your belly button, god knows how low it goes,” said Michael. How low can he go, thought Michael. He snickered to himself.

“But you do not have permission to use my image,” said Ann.

“I am a journalist. I am doing a documentary on the sexual lives of conservatives. I can use it,” said Michael.

Ann Coulter absorbed this information; but Ann was not about to show this asshole that she was concerned or upset. Anyway, she looked great. She saw how great she looked. The lighting was subdued. It would be all over the internet. And it would just create more buzz about Ann Coulter. Good buzz, because she was hot. Indeed, she would even watch it. She would get to watch it all over again. And wouldn’t that be a trip.

“Can I have a bite of your pancakes? asked Ann.

“Sure,” said Michael.

Ann reached over with her fork, cut a stack with the side of her fork and jabbed a forkful wedge of pancakes, swapping up a pool of maple syrup. She placed it in her mouth, carefully, not permitting any residue on her lips.

“Good, huh?” Said Michael.

“Very good. Very good,” said Ann.

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