I have to say-- a little bit of scandal is pretty healthy in politics, I think. Keeps things spicy. I mean, there's always a closet with a skeleton in it. My question is who is #8? Who's #10? Are you thinking what I'm thinking?? Yeah, I have a feeling you know just the "john" I'm thinking of who also has a well-worn name. There-- I think I've come to the edge of slander. Don't make me spell it out, but the name I'm thinking of starts with the letter B. . .
Quite honestly, I think all men cheat. Maybe not with women (or men) but there's always something they secretly want as much if not more than you. Like crisp bag of Funyuns. . .
Like never having to say I'm sorry. Like gadgets. Like some video game. Like an interactive version of the epic film, 300 complete with leather codpiece. . . or something.
For a friend of mine, whom I will call . . . binary code 10010101 . . . his "mistress" is a certain comic book series. More like an addiction. Every week he visits his pusher-man in a seedy strip mall on the outskirts of town. His pupils dilate, he's giddy as a school boy, smoothing out each page of the graphic tale as if he's caressing perfectly shaved human flesh. Don't tell him I said that.
Speaking of flesh, I found something on etsy that I find arresting, tasteful, intriguing, and a little dirty. I include it here, as body art, as exquisite, photographic intimacy, freeing the female form, enacting her own desires. Check out Belles Lettres. We know that some people just like to watch, voyeurs craving what they can't have. Then I dare you to purchase 365 days of portraits from Belles Lettres. . . for one year, the images are for your eyes only. There are lots of other mod, hip, sassy, things to buy in this store, collages of modern life, quaffed playboys, pouting fashion models from the 50s as nesting dolls, laminated flip books for your pleasure, but the 365 days photographic project is exciting. NO-- the 365 days aren't a bunch of nekkid pictures-- some, maybe. . . it's about mystery, it's about curiosity, and it's out of your control, which absolutely delights me. . . This is a project/product I think Anaïs Nin would be super proud of.
Another etsy store caught my eye:
Grey Goat boasts a panty style to fit all bottoms and all budgets. All handmade, in sumptuous satin, Grey Goat panties are flirty-- I can easily imagine my ass bouncing around in those cute booty wraps, and I'm not really an underwear kinda girl. I mean, I like somewhat pedestrian underwear, I'm more into cotton comfort, underwear to run from zombies in, unless I'm in a hot, sexy zombie film. But . . . hmmm. . .I feel a sensual awakening coming on. . . I like the idea of Grey Goat's timeless, stylish, custom made knickers. How much fun would it be for your special someone to find a pair of these panties hiding under your skirt. Or do what I plan to do when I get mine-- stare at my big, pretty ass in the mirror, and do a little dancin'.
. . .
Anyway. . . Spitzer. I know, as a woman and a feminist, I should be more upset, right? I should be PISSED. Livid, and the only justice is rough justice. On your knees, foul creature! Hmmm. . . WHY can't we be more like the French? Meeting a mistress/call girl/gigolo is not le scandal. It's what rich and powerful men (and women) do . . . on Tuesdays. . .
I guess I'm a little desensitized. A) Because I feel like upholding some pristine image of our puritan past as if it were our raison d'etre has made us complete and utter hypocrites-- we break moral, spiritual and Constitutional laws all the time. Go ahead, call me a card-carrying member of the Sisters of Hester Prine. What happens within the bounds of the Spitzer marriage is really none of our business, and if his ho (and I write this with all due respect)had not crossed state lines to service her client (somewhere in there a felony lies) ye old Spitz would still be tripping the light fantastic in a rented bed as Mr. #9. B) Because I started watching The Secret Diary of a Call Girl-- a BBC program featuring British actor Billie Piper, (teen pop-star turned faithful assistant to Dr. Who) as Hannah a.k.a. Belle-- a high-priced ho, living and working in London. Swinging London, indeed.
(Hannah and best mate Ben in Secret Diary . . .)
The Secret Diary of a Call Girl (I like "call girl" better than prostitute) is based on a collection of blogs written by Belle du Jour, a real London call girl. A brilliant team of writer/producers compiled the loose tales into a great story . . . about some tail. Hannah, the main character is a throw-back to the ancient courtesans: educated, lovely and talented. And, if you look under that tight skirt of hers (pay first) you'll find the girl next door who's just great at her job. When she's not working hard for the money, she's hanging out with her best mate, Ben, played by actor Iddo Goldberg, who is really almost too hot to live. DAMN!
I have to say, the show not only turns me on-- it has enlightened me-- I mean, I never really thought much of men who pay to play. But, after breathlessly watching Secret Diary. . . I realize there a lots of reasons why men (and women) pay for sex. Sometimes it's sex, sometimes it's about living out some fantasy without shame, sometimes it's freedom from having to talk about who's picking up James from school tomorrow. Who knows why Eliot Hot Mess Spitzer strayed. Maybe he was always that kind of man.
So, what do we do now? Go on a witch-hunt, further diverting the Nation's attention from the race for the presidency, and the inevitable recession and the on-going bloody war? What about the people of Tibet pushing back against Chinese rule? Exactly who in the hell do I need to blow to find out more about THAT story, lost in the deep, daily annals of our scandal-hungry media outlets?
2 comments:
I love your writing style baby.
My man secretly cheats on me with his guitars... all 14 of them!
WOW! THANKS!!!!
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