Not everyone feels this way about Romney. This reporter was contacted recently by a reader who openly admitted, contrary to Boehner's statement, that she was "in love" with Mitt Romney. This reader, who requested anonymity, spoke frankly of her unquenchable desire for the GOP nominee. Her statement follows:
"I fantasize about our first encounter. He would sweep me into an embrace. He wouldn't be like the other Republicans I've been with, like Chris Christie, with his rubbery forearms and pizza breath, or reeking of cologne like Marco Rubio.
"I would feel his solid gold cufflinks digging into the alabaster skin of my back, the starch in his dress shirt rubbing against my aroused breasts, the rough denim of his campaign jeans making me go all tingly below the waist. I'd reach for his face to kiss him.
"Don't touch the hair,' he'd murmur, but I would forgive him for that.
"Mitt,' I'd say, "run away with me. Forget this election thing. You're too good for it. Let's go live on an island, possibly a Cayman one."
"I can't," he'd reply, his noble brow darkening.
"Mitt, darling, I know how they've hurt you. The things they've dredged up. Tying the dog on the roof of your car. I want you to know you can tie me up anywhere. Throwing your classmate on the ground and cutting off his hair. Throw me on the ground, Mitt. I'm begging you. Cut off anything that gets in the way of your bold desires."
"He'd get that adorable, pop-eyed, uncomfortable look on his face that he has on at least half of the still photos you see of him. 'What about Ann?' he'd say.
"She's the one who's fractured you, Mitt my love. If it wasn't for her you wouldn't have been for abortion before you were against it, for universal health care until you decided it was just wrong, against assault weapons before you were for them. She's let them accuse you of being a flip-flopper, my poor darling, when really all along you were just a hungry heart, embracing then rejecting, not knowing where to focus your ceaseless passions. But I'm here now, Mitt. Let me be your captive. Delegate, that is. We'll sweep through Tampa and on to DC."
"It's all too sudden," he'd murmur, but he'd still be holding tight to the warmth of my firm young body. My fingers would be entwined in the soft hair of his chest. I would notice that he had let just a few tufts of it go gray to match his temples.
"We can start off slowly, my love. I'll be available for any position you want me in, from frightened but fascinated girlish intern to your stern Secretary of Discipline. No one has to know except you and me."
"That's impossible," he might say, but then I would remind him of the choice before him. A place in history if he wins…"
And if he loses?
"Wandering the Massachusetts moors, shouting my name into the howling wind."