The Taft-Hartley Act

When’s the last time you heard an oral account of the Taft-Hartley Act? It’s been some time since I’ve been regaled by it. I had a business professor named Sam Cornerley who used to read segments of the Act to me after we’d have sex. I would curl up next to him with my head on his chest as he half-sat against the headboard with loose-bound pages of a copy of the Act in his opposite hand. He’d always begin by reading Section 206:

Whenever in the opinion of the President of the United States, a threatened or actual strike or lockout affecting an entire industry or a substantial part thereof engaged in trade, commerce, transportation, transmission, or communication among the several States or with foreign nations, or engaged in the production of goods for commerce, will, if permitted to occur or to continue, imperil the national health or safety, he may appoint a board of inquiry to inquire into the issues involved in the dispute and to make a written report to him within such time as he shall prescribe. Such report shall include a statement of the facts with respect to the dispute, including each party's statement of its position but shall not contain any recommendations. The President shall file a copy of such report with the Service and shall make its contents available to the public. (Section 206, Labor Management Relations Act, 1947).

I’d coo and stroke his chest hair as he read. His voice was soft, delicate, like fine china; I dared not move too much as I didn’t want to cause a crack in any of the words he uttered. Once finished with Section 206, he’d sigh, caress the hair of my head, and say, “Those fucking labor unions. Taft-Hartley was the beginning of ending them. Tell me, Michael, what do you love about the Taft-Hartley Act?”

I would giggle and squirm and say, "Oh, come on, you know." He did, but he’d insist on me saying it. "My favorite part is the swelling of your cock when you say, 'imperil the national health or safety.'" Young as I was at the time, I’d blush red-faced as he rolled me over to kiss me with his excessively thin lips. It was as if his lips didn’t exist, as if I was kissing the top of his chin and the base of his nose. It was disturbing, but to be in a sexual liaison with a staunch advocate of commercial enterprise was worth any amount of physical or emotional discomfort. If I could have made love to the Labor Management Relations Act, I would have done so. In a way, I had, as early in our sexual escapades, Professor Cornerly would spank me with a rolled up copy of the Act before insisting I masturbate onto its pages.

He kept cum-encrusted copies in a file in a bedroom cabinet. I saw him one night as he was inserting a copy I had ejaculated upon into a manila envelope. As I looked, I saw that there were at least a hundred manila envelopes in the file drawer. I wondered if there were other file drawers as well, not because I felt threatened that he’d had so many sexual encounters with so many other undergraduate and graduate students; no, I wondered because I wanted to internally celebrate my brotherhood with all those others he had sexually and intellectually stimulated with his readings of pro-business legislation. I was honored to be amongst the many.

He read the Taft-Hartley Act to me because he was doing research for a new book about how labor unions had nearly destroyed U.S. commerce in the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. He was planning to end the book with a triumph, Reagan’s use of Taft-Hartley to fire 11,345 federal employees during the Air Traffic Controllers Strike of 1981. The look of awe in Sam’s eyes when he’d talk about the event reminded me of a passage I’d once read about how Adolf Hitler had gazed in ecstasy at the spear of the Roman centurion who pierced the side of Jesus when he was being crucified. To witness such a deeply moving spiritual experience of that magnitude was … I can’t put it into words. I knew, though, that I was with a Great Man of Business when I witnessed his appreciative reverence of a momentous victory over what had been a threatening force to the Glory of Capitalism.

Those days have long passed and, sadly, Sam died alone in his lovely Victorian house. I learned of his passing when I was in my forties. I owned a consulting firm that contracted with the DIA and NSA. I was in a meeting with a senior officer in the DIA and I noticed he had a copy of Sam’s Taft-Hartley book on his shelf. I told the man I had studied under professor Cornerley in my youth. His eyes widened and his face lit up. “You’re kidding me! So did I!” We laughed and began telling one another stories about Sam. At one point we both stopped talking and laughing. Our eyes met and each of us knew. We were part of an exclusive club, young lovers of Sam Cornerley. I balked, though, and asked him if he had seen Sam since studying under him. He said no, but he had discovered through illegal wire taps and decrypted emails that Sam had passed away in his house alone, that no one had visited him in years. He’d suffered from Alzheimer’s for nearly ten years before dying, cared for by a 24-hour hospice care service that he had arranged in a living will when his mind first started going.

I looked across at my new DIA friend, Dean, and said to him, “I think it will be that way for all of us.” Dean nodded his head in solemn agreement. He said, “Once a person loses value in the capitalist cause there’s really no point to their lives any more. I’ve put a clause in my living will that should I suffer from a similar mind-rotting disease that I should be flown to Rhodesia, sedated, and fed to lions.” I laughed heartily … until I realized he was serious. He leaned forward slowly and looked at me with intensity and more than a little predation. He opened his mouth slowly and formed his words carefully, “You should make sure your living will is updated to account for any intellectually debilitating conditions. It’s an act of judiciousness.” I solemnly considered his words before rising from my seat. I extended my hand and said, “Well, an excellent meeting. I look forward to seeing you again, Dean.” Dean grinned with his eyes dancing, “As do I, Michael, as do I.”

…

“The best way to achieve success on Wall Street is to utter confusing jargon after snorting cocaine.” This was the advice given me by Dennis Naso when I worked under him at FBN Securities. He said this to me while we were stuck in traffic in his limo on our way to a function uptown. A Laotian immigrant was on all fours in front of him and there was a silver tray on his back with a quarter ounce of blow on it. Across from us sitting in the back was an intern who was busy chopping lines for us. There were also two absolutely stunning escorts sitting on either side of the intern, both of them completely naked except for high heels, each of them masturbating while we talked and watched.

Once the intern had chopped several lines, Dennis told him to “sit the fuck back.” He motioned for the sexy brunette escort to move over to sit next to him. She was careful not to bump the Laotian. Once over, he told her to undo his pants and suck his dick. As she did so, Dennis told the intern to lift up the silver tray and hold it steady under his chin. He motioned to the Laotian to get up and as the Laotian did so he pulled a silver coke straw from Mr. Naso’s suit pocket and held it up to his nostril. As he did, the intern moved the tray under the coke straw. As Dennis began snorting the intern moved the tray so that Naso could zoom the whole line. The Laotian then moved the coke straw to the other nostril and the intern once again positioned and moved the tray so Dennis could vacuum a huge line.

“Whooo! Yeah! That’s the fucking shit, motherfucker!" The brunette was still slowly sucking on Dennis’s cock. Dennis turned to me and said, “Now you.” I told him I didn’t have a coke straw. He looked at me like I was from Mars. He said, “Boy, you need to get your shit together or things aren’t going to work out so well for you. You need the tools of the trade, son. Forget about sleeping the rest of the year, okay? All work and no sleep makes you a kick-ass trader, know what I mean?” Dennis motioned to the Laotian and he opened a panel on the door next to me. He pulled out a coke straw, this one made of gold. “Ah, good choice, Chet. I call him Chet because, fuck, I don’t know his name and he answers by it so what the fuck, right?” Dennis let out a huge laugh as he motioned for the blonde escort to come over to unzip my pants and suck my dick.

“Whoa! Oh my!” Dennis smiled at me and said, “She’s pretty fucking good, isn’t she, Michael?” I lost the ability to speak and before I could regain it Chet had the straw hovering under my nostril and the intern was at the ready with the tray. I tried to slow my breathing so I could get a good snort and not accidentally exhale, blowing the coke all over the place. I focused and snorted the first line. It took everything in my power to suppress a scream. Between the blow and the blow, I was experiencing so much pleasure I could barely think. After the second line, I literally couldn’t think. I let out a wild scream and heard Dennis laughing his ass off. “Now, that’s how you fucking do it, son! Yeehaw!”

Dennis was cramming the brunette’s head to the base of his cock. I could hear her gagging. As I looked over I noticed she was beginning to flail her arms as she made choking noises. “That’s it, bitch, swallow the whole fucking thing! Come on, whore, let me ram my cock into your esophagus!” The gagging sounds became louder and louder. Part of me was disturbed and worried about her safety … but that part of me was getting its ass kicked by the rest of me which was completely turned on by this. I didn’t want to say it aloud, but I was hoping Dennis would choke her to death on his cock. With the idea in my head, I put both hands on top of the blonde’s head and forced her down. She hadn’t been prepared for it and she tried to scream but it came out, “Aughhphmmaughhphmlllechphthl.” I smiled with satisfaction and pushed her down even harder. She’d adjusted by now and was opening her throat. It’s not like Dennis or I were the first to gag-fuck these women’s mouths.

As I looked over at Dennis he was grinning like the Devil, like he’d just convinced a fool to sign over his soul to him. I sure as hell knew he didn’t mean me, because I had too much of the Devil in me to give a shit about anything that didn’t involve sex, drugs, or money. The brunette on Naso’s cock was puking all over it and as soon as Dennis noticed he pumped his fist furiously and yelled out “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, you fucking bitch, dump that puke-cum all over my fucking cock!” He let her up for air and as he did I got a good look at her. Her face was flush red, her eyes were watering, and her mascara was running. She had yellowish ooze all over her lips, covering the lower half of her face, and dripping off her chin. She looked up at Dennis, her eyes glazed, and said, “Thank you.” Dennis said, “You’re welcome, bitch,” and then he grabbed her by the hair and rammed her mouth back onto his cock.

Meanwhile, I was pumping the blonde’s head up and down as fast as I could. She quickly figured out my rhythm because when she veered from it her hair got yanked hard. She was gurgling and slobbering and gagging and if I hadn’t been so coked up I’d have cum a bucketload down her throat. But I was high as a kite, filled with furious energy, and so I just kept pounding her face into my crotch as fast as I could, trying, more than a little, to give her whiplash. If I hadn’t been using both hands on the wench I’d have high-fived Dennis.

Dennis had the brunette’s head buried as far as it could go onto his dick. He just held her there as she hacked and gurgled. He turned to me casually—as casually as a man who had just snorted an eight-ball could be—and said, “Have you met Bobby before today?” I shrugged and said, “Who the fuck’s Bobby?” Naso laughed and pointed his free hand over to the intern. Bobby had his head lowered somewhat, apparently still getting used to life on Wall Street. Dennis continued, “Bobby’s great grandfather helped craft the Taft-Hartley Act.” I nodded and said, “Damn, excellent credentials Bobby. Do you even know what the Taft-Hartley Act is?” Bobby looked like he wanted to punch me, but he respected the pecking order and merely said, “Yes.” He lowered his head again and I wondered if he wished he had chosen a field besides finance. He didn’t seem to be cut out for the eat-or-be-eaten world. FBN was hardcore; it was known as a firm where you “eat what you kill.”

Dennis turned to me and said, “Okay, you met Bobby and you know his background now—well, the part that matters.” Then Naso said to me, “That bitch you’re face-fucking and this bitch choking on my cock?” Dennis paused and started laughing. He tried to stop but he couldn’t. He finally slowed down enough to speak. He turned to me and said, “These two bitches, their fucking grandfathers were fired by Reagan during the Air Traffic Controllers Strike in 1981.” My eyes went wide as Dennis went back to laughing uncontrollably.

I stopped furiously slamming the blonde’s face on my dick. I asked her if that was true. She still had my cock in her mouth, but she looked up at me with her beautiful, watery blue eyes. I could see the running mascara was caused not just by tearing up from gagging, but from a deep sadness, a sense of shame and regret. I could tell I was on the verge of feeling sympathy for her, close to feeling sickened by this whole affair, but the trader in me swallowed that weakness and I smiled wickedly at her and said, “I want you to keep looking into my eyes while you suck my dick, okay?” She nodded yes. I placed both hands on the back of her head and began much more slowly moving her head up and down my shaft. I said to her, “I memorized the Taft-Hartley Act, the Act Ronald Reagan used to fire your grandfather. I’m going to recite Section 206 of the Act while you continue to blow me.”

I paused and looked over to Naso. He looked happy as hell and he said to me, “Now I know I picked the right son of a bitch to mentor. Fuck an ay, Michael, you are a sick fuck!” He laughed hysterically and kept jamming the brunette’s head down as hard as he could. I looked over to Bobby who had put his legs up on Chet, who was lying on the floor. Bobby was looking at me with a twinkle in his eye and a growing smile. I said, "Bobby, since your great grandfather essentially fucked this bitch’s grandfather in the ass, I think it’s only right that you fuck her up the ass while I recite Section 206.” Dennis’s laughter hadn’t abated, but now he was convulsing which caused the brunette to puke again and that just made Dennis laugh all that much harder.

Bobby, meanwhile had gotten up and was pulling down his pants. I could tell from the pleasurable hate he had in his eyes that he had indeed made the right choice by going into finance. Once he was behind her I looked back down into the blonde’s sad eyes and I said to Bobby, “Are you ready?” He said yes. I said, “Ram your cock into her as hard as you can as soon as I start reciting the Act.” He said okay with such glee that I started laughing. Dennis had never stopped and he was clearly enjoying the fuck out of the performance I was conducting.

I looked back down at the blonde’s eyes. There was fear mixed in with the sorrow now. I felt my eyes go dead and a silent hatred for weakness filled me. I began, “Whenever in the opinion of the President of …” I heard Bobby grunt and almost simultaneously the blonde’s eyes popped as her whole body forcefully jerked toward me and her mouth rammed all the way to the base of my cock. She started puking, not just a gagging puke but full-bodied, convulsing heaves of vomit were spewing out of her mouth all around my schlong. As Bobby kept railing her from behind, the blonde, who managed to maintain eye contact, was sobbing. The noises coming from her throat and out the sides of her mouth were unintelligible but clearly filled with pain, helplessness, and humiliation. I had never felt so satisfied in my entire life.