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Why the right wing can't resist the siren call of the single, female progressive Democrat.

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In a time when the United States are not and feeds are aflame with political outrage, there are blips of bipartisan cooperation thanks to progressive women. There is nothing quite as seductive for a man of rigid morals, black-and-white ideology, and overriding disdain for the needs of strangers as intimacy with the progressive woman. The siren lure of the single, female progressive Democrat is undeniable. Both campaigns deny the existence of these sporadic alliances, but this is one of those thermodynamic realities undulating beneath our society's surface.

Progressive heterosexual women are six times more likely than their conservative counterparts to own a hula hoop or to have performed burlesque. A liberal woman is 10 times more likely to have received college credit for studying French pornography and seems to be genetically predisposed to an almost inhuman flexibility of body and mind.

On the other side of the statehouse aisle, conservative women are a dozen times more likely to have fallen in love by the age of 16 with a fictional or actual horse. What man wants to compete with that mindset?

With Tumblr folders from Burning Man, homemade deodorant made from porch-grown organic lavender, and nonprofit-paid incomes supplemented by their Etsy stores, progressivistas are a welcome respite for suburban men who have been limited to commitment-obsessing, household-chemical-abusing, Bush-raised bush. Something about Bill O'Reilly's voice just makes these men long to sample the voodoo of a chest-tattooed vixen they saw coming out of a record, yes, record store.

Progressive hetero men have long lamented our willingness to lie down with the lion of our political nemeses, even if our forays remain brief. Every time we do the do with one of these agents of patriarchy, a Vespa-riding adjunct professor of Eastern philosophy looks over the rims of his vintage glasses in disdain. Liberalos wonder, appropriately enough, why we are so willing to flex the muscles of our ideologically liberated pelvic floors with men who sincerely believe our nether regions are wards of the state. This shows an unfortunate ignorance of what is seductive, albeit fleetingly so, to the liberal woman.

Progressive women explore boundaries, commune with diverse populations, and revel in the freedoms for which our mothers and nanas marched braless and blissed out on gnarly ganja. While progressive males are fussing over their kale chip recipes and punk rock T-shirt collections, conservatives focus their full lascivious attention upon us as if we are mythical. Because according to their fraternity brothers and racquetball partners, we are. Red-stated gents speak of the serpent and the garden, we of the freedom from shame-based Manichean dualistic upbringings. What but taboo-heated physical affection could bridge the vast chasm between these Weltanschauungs?

The base attraction is mutual, thanks to the unique traits of the right-winger. Conservative males are naturally competitive and willing to make asses of themselves in order to gain our attention. They have thick, strong thighs from climbing in and out of their high-perched, gas-guzzling vehicles. They can afford the Belgian microbrews we crave. And to be perfectly honest, to our saffron- and tofu-accustomed noses their necks smell like baby back ribs. It's exhilarating.

Every progressive woman has stories from her rumspringa-ish trysts with men who own firearms and whose cars don't break down, even if she only whispers them to her womyn friends while guerilla knitting a bus-stop bench in pink and magenta upcycled yarn.

Sure, their failings are well-known and numerous. Their repressed homoerotic urges, their crippling remorse if the lights never go off, and that offensive habit of oppressing us; this is why we don't mate for life with them. But on a weekday night when City Council isn't meeting and there's nothing in the fridge because community garden veggie pickup isn't until tomorrow, getting busy with a barbecue-scented, sex-starved, right-wing man who paid some tolls to drive to you certainly helps pass the time.

However, as our ironically bearded and student debt-laden progressive brethren point out, this is an election year with our vaginal freedom on the line — meaning now is the time for austerity measures that benefit the greater good. We've already survived months without Chick-fil-A and years without Mel Gibson or Domino's Pizza. Perhaps the needs of American womanhood are better served by keeping our lucky condoms safely unopened and tucked in the purses we made at Occupy Richmond from hemp thread and old Fugees T-shirts.

Better yet, in honor of freedom perhaps we should ask out the vegan baker on the rusty Schwinn whose mom knows ours from a Carter-era La Leche League latch-on festival. Our country needs our united strength. Although not scintillatingly forbidden, after an all-natural night of tantric ice breaking with a Democrat, he will probably bring you gluten-free, fair-trade cocoa cupcakes.

Goddess bless America. S

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Alane Miles is an ordained minister, freelance teacher, writer and grief and bereavement counselor.

Opinions expressed on the Back Page are those of the writer and not necessarily those of Style Weekly.

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