OK, Anthony. If you're going to get back in the game, you need an alias. And not just any alias. You see, a man livin' on the edge needs a name on the edge. A sunglasses-and-'stache, panty-droppin', blast-some-AC/DC-and-fuck-me-on-the-deck-of-the-speedboat kind of name. This is not your Joe Schmo-level sexting here. This is some James Bond, John McClane, Jack Reacher-level shit. So strap in, and get ready for take-off. It's go-time.
Time for some inspiration. iPod Nano in the iHome. Playlists . "Flex/Air-Hump in Mirror". Yeah, that'll do. That'll do just fine. Shuffle. Well, well, well. What do we have here? "Smooth." With my man Rob Thomas from Matchbox 20. Oooo yeah. Boy can sing. What a song. You know it well, the song that always gets you so riled up and ready to go. All horned up from those Latin rhythms. By none other than why, the 'stached bandana-man himself, Mr. SANTANA. SANTANA, COMMA, CARLOS.
See, THIS is why you do what you do. You're fuckin' good. OK NOW WE MEAN BUSINESS. Volume UP HIGH. BLAST IT. On REPEAT. Huma can fuckin' DEAL. There AIN'T NO STOPPIN' ME NOW.
Fantasy time. You're in the music video. It's Spanish Harlem. 105 smokin' hot degrees. Empty street. Old men playing dominoes. Sweat dripping down Puerto Rican breasts. Weiner for Mayor stickers everywhere.
We hear steps. Heads turn. There's a man. He's hot. He cares about New York public schools. But who is he? CUE LATIN RHYTHMS. Wait is that Anthony Weiner, beloved future Mayor of the Greatest City in the World? No. Not today, baby. Today, that's CUE SANTANA SOLO, REMOVE SUNGLASSES, UNBUTTON SHIRT Carlos. Carlos . DANGER.
Simultaneous orgasm from all on street. You walk forward toward the band, and with every step hear moans from latticed windows. Women lean out from bright blue balconies, beckoning you toward them. "No tiempo for that, my dears." They laugh. You're cute. Your phone vibrates. A text: "Other candidates just dropped out. You're mayor now." Delete. That's Weiner business. And it's Danger Time.
You enter a street cafe. "One sangria, please." The heavy-breasted barmaid doesn't speak English, but she sure does speak the language of power and sex appeal. "Sorry, uno sangria." She melts. You laugh. Too easy.
Sipping your drink, you grab a fedora off a rack, pop that baby on, and walk back outside. That Spanish New York heat hits you like a thick, sexy mist. You breathe in deep and raise your glass to Rob. He nods back. You're bros. Santana tips his hat. "Caliente name," he says, mid-solo. "Gracias," you reply. "Caliente song." A smile of mutual understanding.
But wait. A crowd forms. Screams. Something bad is happening. Someone needs help. You push through the crowd or rather, it parts in your wake. A homeless vagrant with a knife is mugging a trio of topless women, asking for their New York City Metrocards. They scream, look up at you, and shimmy in unison, real nice. The vagrant turns around and makes eye contact with you. "No, no, I- I- I didn't mean to- "
But before he can say another word, you've whipped it out, swung it back, and knocked the knife right out of his hand with your rope of a dick. He runs off in fear. The crowd erupts. The trio of babes rush up to hug you, saying in unison, "Gracias, Carlos Danger, GRACIAS!!!! Como se dice sex?"
But you're too busy looking at your phone. Another text: "Crime in New York down 80%. Congrats Mayor Weiner." You roll your eyes, laugh, and snap your phone in two. You look up. "Si, mamacitas. Si."
The band starts up "Smooth" for a third time. A parade forms. It's entirely made of young professional women, all genuinely interested in public policy and ready to fuck. They pick you and the trio of ladies up, and carry you off into the sunset, gripping your toned quads and biceps. "Wait do you work out?!" asks one keen co-ed. "Yes. This morning, actually." She faints. Not exactly a surprise. You turn to the rest of the crowd. "I'd be happy to discuss these matters further in City Hall." The entire street bursts into laughter. A mariachi band follows. They are playing "Smooth."
Señor Santana leans back and wails away on his axe, sunglasses reflecting the steamy Manhattan sun, as you fall into sexual and political bliss. You become president a year later, but relocate the White House to this very street. You rename New York Dangertown, USA.
Now splash water on your face. You're back in your bathroom now, back in real life. Wow, Anthony. Not bad. Not bad at all. Now log in, take out your member, snap a pic, and let Carlos do the rest. The man knows what he's doing. And the best part of doing this online? Easy: no paper trail.
Illustrated by Nathan Yaffe.