In the dimly lit polling booth, a man's primal urges override political ones. His hand, guided by instinct rather than ideology, plunges into his pants, gripping his throbbing member. He imagines the nation's future in his strokes, each one more urgent than the last. His body convulses, a wave of heated passion washing over him as he marks his vote in a most intimate way, leaving a sticky, intimate 'X' on the booth's cold floor.