I have adapted the "love scene" in this
"You know, as a proper pageant queen, I am not supposed to talk with strange men on their snowmobiles--especially mavericks like you." Across the distance I could hear the smile in her voice, see the sparkle in her blue eyes that seem very hollow and empty. "But I like you very much. I like how you wear your tight jeans."
Her directness startled me. No woman of conservative Alaskan royalty should speak with me--a commoner, a mere hockey player--alone on the telephone and so brazenly. Suddenly I remembered with exact clarity her mesmerizing scene of moose urine, the texture of her blood stained gloves from valiantly hunting.
"Women like me don't meet men like you," Sarah said. "A lifetime could pass first. Men like you have tasted women up and down the great state of Alaska and some in the lower 48. I have known since I was a little girl that I will marry my fat, ugly half-brother with a meth habit. I also know he will not know how to please me, as he has no teeth. But you have practiced. I could see it in your eyes."
Now every pulse point in my body pounded. Her voice was like Texas tea in my ear. I imagined her playing her flute for me.
"Come to Wasilla," she said with sudden urgency. "Or Anchorage. This weekend. I will meet you wherever you like."
Wasilla? Anchorage? Reality hit like cold beer in my face: a trip like that would be hard on my snow machine and I had a hockey game. "I cannot come this weekend," I said. "My snow mobile gas budget does not permit."
The teasing sparkle returned to her voice. "Evidently, your snow mobile racing career is not paying you enough."
Maybe she does know the truth.
"I do not touch that money. That is for advancing the cause of the oppression of women and protection of fetal rights." My answer was true, and would also serve me well if Sarah was playing the spy.
"In any case, you don't have to worry about finances," she said lightly. "The state of Alaska pays for everything I do and I don't keep an itemized record of my expenses."
A long pause filled the line. And then, like a single raindrop breaking the still surface of a pond, it was broken.
"Come to me," she said.
Cut to the weekend:
Sarah disappeared, and a moment later I heard the voice of Pat Boone floating through the room. Sarah returned.
"I listened to this while I waited for you."
"So did I," I said, amazing.
She stepped close to me, so close I could feel the heat from her body. I looked down at her, reached forward, and brushed away her pink camouflage hunting hat. It fell away like air, releasing a burst of moose blood, the scene of her hair. She reached up, and like a cool fire her hand touched the back of my neck. She laid her head on my shoulder.
"I was dreaming you would dance with me," Sarah said.
Circling her with my left arm, I pressed my hand against the small of her back and pulled her to me. Her breath caught. I took her left hand in my right, and as we swayed to the voice of Pat Boone, time stopped and every question in life seemed answered.
We danced until sunlight faded from the windows and only the glimmering fire lit the room. When I kissed her, I drank as deeply as if I had never kissed a woman. And there before the fire on the bear skin rug, we settled on polyester cushions striped blue and gold, where we danced until morning, the flames reflecting off Sarah's pasty skin.
Just a little taste of Sarah Palin's ghost writers genius in writing scintillating Christian soft porn. Hopefully, we will get a love scene in Palin's book.