Private Magazine

Tag: sex scandals

Tragic Mike

Men

I’ve taken a new number at the meat market of life. The edges of my soul have hardened, like cheese left in the sun. With that salty taste always deep in my throat, I’m forever thirsting for more.

That’s what I should have expected, after going out with someone I met at The Bend.

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When I came back from Austin, I met some guy at the place formerly known as The Bend. It’s now called “The Exchange.” Honestly, we only went in there to see if it still carried the same seedy ambiance.  Sure enough, my friend Maurice and I found ourselves seated besides two guys in their early thirties. Something in the air between us whispered “I’ve got issues.”

It was early evening – cocktail hour. We’d gone to some old crusty hippie gathering at Nietzsche’s, featuring a crock pot of slop. I met DBGB’s handsome new bartender. Ladies, he has a man bun. Maurice and I were topping off my homecoming with the rest of The Exchange’s wine when I began a questionable flirtation with one of the weirdos there. He had narrow droopy eyes and muscles, which I never really care for. Honestly, I prefer hairy torsos and bellies that double as a comfy pillow when I drink too much. His stance seemed apropos for hanging at Bottom’s Up. His friend’s glasses were clear plastic frames with tinted lenses, which might insinuate he sells coke. But despite all these oddities and incongruities, we exchanged phone numbers, because well, I haven’t written a blog in a while.

Sure enough, my date with Justin proved to be very bloggable indeed.

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Gin

Go figure, Justin’s house is near mine. We meet up at the neighborhood tavern. I’m not super aroused by the sight of Justin, and literally exhale a poignant sigh of despair while getting ready. I just need some writing material. A writer’s life is filled with sacrifice.

Justin’s puffing on a cigarette like it’s 2006 when I drag my lazy ass feet to the door. We sit at a lopsided table with a bucket of ale. Justin’s all about the baseball game on the TV – and is that a tribal tattoo peeking from under his tee shirt? I begin drinking. Justin’s got a serious look on his face. Sure enough, he begins an elaborate story.

“Century Grill never gives me many hours bartending,” he begins. “I used to work way more at Templeton Landing, but after the summer they always get rid of people. So I’m kind of strapped for cash.”

“You just need a side hustle,” I reply. “I’m going to make candles!”

“Well, I used to be a dancer,” Justin continues. “My friend Mike and I, we were strippers. His name’s Mike so we called it Magic Mike’s, showed the movie, and after did our dance performance. We sold tickets and had it at this hotel in Corfu, and later ended up doing a bunch of bachelorette parties.”

“Ok. How innovative.”

“My girlfriend at the time, she didn’t care for it. She was a lawyer and 10 years older than me. She bought me this Cadillac and I was making payments on it and everything, but when she broke up with me she took away the car and now I don’t have one. I had saved up $10,000 but I wasn’t working so that went pretty fast. So I have a rental car, which is expensive.”

“Why not just get a hoopdy for $700?”

“I have credit issues, financial issues. My dad, he’s paralyzed after an accident. I have to go up to the Adirondacks and see him. It’s stressful and hard, but I’m dealing with it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And also, my other ex girlfriend, I asked her to move in with me, because after a month of seeing her I realized she was living in a grimy basement on the Lower West Side and I felt bad. So she moved in, and one day she got all dolled up for a ‘job interview’ at nighttime, and didn’t return for six hours. She was all glassy eyed when she came back, and turns out she sold her phone for heroin. I forgave her, and a few weeks later she disappeared again and I never saw her since.”

“Since when?”

“January.”

“Ok…”

I feel like Justin just dropped a whole JFK terminal of baggage on my shoulders. So me being a pretty empathetic person, I agree to accompany him to Hardware for his “friend’s birthday celebration.” It’s Monday after all –  it should be a chill, drama-free evening…

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Chandelier

I’m texting with my mom while Justin’s outside smoking. She’s asking me all about Justin’s last name, which I’m going to find out asap, since the last guy I met in Allentown turned out to have been in prison for holding his girlfriend hostage at gunpoint.

“Justin what? I’m sure he’s a nice man.”

“No he is BORING *yawn*.”

Justin suddenly shows up and starts reading over my shoulder.

“Justin…?” he says.

“Oh yeah, sorry, my mom, she just likes to find out who I go out with and stuff.”

“My name’s Jason.”

The shards of strength it’s taken to maintain my stoic expression disappear. My mouth slackens; my eyes become a blank stare.

“No, I know, I just told her the other day when I first met you, I must’ve said Justin.”

Jason rolls his eyes but buys me another drink so it seems he’s gotten over the error.

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Jason is driving me home in the  rental car. I rejoice in the night finally coming to its conclusion. He lives in the hood, not gonna lie, but I agree to check out Jason’s paintings. They’re landscapes and actually pretty good, if the photos of them on his iPhone are any indication. Besides, Jason’s friend, the one with the glasses, has given him some “epic pot” that he says I can try.

We enter Jason’s clean, well-lit dwelling off Genesee. Sure enough, his landscapes glow from the walls in blue and green hues.

“Wow, neato! Loving the colors. They make me happy!”

Jason’s dug out the marijuana, a couple hundred dollars worth in a large Ziploc – quite a bit for someone who by their own admission “rarely smokes.” We sit on the couch. I’m moderately buzzed, not in a bad way, and when Jason begins making out with me I go with it for five minutes or so. A make out session never killed anybody.

I turn away and start puffing away on the weed. When I look back at Jason, he has removed all of his clothes. He stands up and moves toward  me in true male stripper fashion.

“No, wait -” I say. Overwhelmed, I burst into tears. “I don’t want to do anything,” I choke out between sobs.

Jason looks confused and sad, then his expression shifts to annoyance.

“Are you on something?”

“No!”

“Do you have issues, were you raped as a child?”

“What? No!”

“Are you worried I’ll never speak to you again?”

“Definitely not.”

I continue bawling and dry my face on a couch pillow.

“I don’t want to sleep with you. You look like my cousin.”

The cousin thing – which hit me about halfway through the night, a cousin I don’t really like on my mom’s side – pisses Jason right off. He starts pacing around, still naked.

“Your cousin? That’s the most goddamn stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Just take me home!” I shriek, cry some more.

Jason drops me off down the street from my house. I run across the muddy lawn, breathing a sigh of sweet surrender at being home.

 

 

Update: One week later, I was in Rafferty’s (the local tavern that Jason and I went to) with Maurice. A random biker approached us and told me, “The guy you were here with last week is a convicted sex offender.” He found his profile  for me on the U.S. Dept. of Justice Sex Offender Web site. Sure enough, it was really Jason. He date-raped a 19 year old ten years back, when he was 22.

Giving & Receiving

Celebrating with those you can’t publicly acknowledge

Book

I’m at work early in the a.m, when a handsome late-thirties yuppie rushes up to me. “Please tell me this is part of the sweater sale?” he implores, holding up a gray French Connection fuzzball.  It’s a former state Assemblyman and DA, whom I immediately recognize. Hello, he’s Kennedy status, in Erie County anyway – strapping, privileged, and just a little naughty.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I reply, running a hand down the front of the sweater, “It’s included.”

My eyes trail the outline of his moisturized jaw. “If you open a charge, you’ll save another 15 percent.”

“Oh, I have way too many store accounts,” he says with that mischievous political smile. “I’m sure you can understand?”

“All too well,” I say, sashaying away to the register. “Let me just wrap this up for you.”

The brief affair that I had with this politician (in my mind) ended way too soon. Is he married?  I wonder who he was buying that women’s sweater for.  The encounter got me thinking about the salacious sex scandals of politicians’ past. How their hot steamy nights turned into blinding media-frenzied mornings. Politicians enjoy more than their fair share of extracurricular boink fests, as those with money power and respect are prone to do. Much has been written after the undercover lovers got busted. I’m more interested in the hotel room highs – the mini bar fueled confessions of a Senator blindfolded with his own necktie, before the National Enquirer comes to take the piss out of the whole thing.

So, I’m going to shamelessly glamorize some famous yet fleeting Politician/Other Woman couples. I also included cocktail and music recommendations to party in style. This should break up any winter monotony at home.  Let’s examine some scandals, shall we?

Eliot Spitzer/Ashley Dupre

After his bank activity drew suspicion and he was wiretapped by the feds, Eliot Spitzer got busted. Busted for what, you say? Old Spitzy (as he liked to be called between the sheets, but you didn’t hear it from me) dropped $80,000 on call girls, most prominently on a bae named Ashley Dupre.

In 2008, Dupre – who worked for escort service Emperors Club VIP – took a train to DC to meet Spitzer at the Mayflower Hotel. This transaction eventually led to the arrest of four Emperors Club employees for prostitution and money laundering. Eventually, it was deduced that “Client 9” – who by all accounts was considered “difficult” – was in fact New York Governor Spitzer. “Kristen,” her escort alias, was identified as Dupre- a girl trying to make it as a singer. Listen to her song “What We Want,” where she sings “Can you ride with me boy, Bonnie and Clyde, die with me boy?” Considering Spitzer and his wife are still a thing, I guess the answer’s no.

It all ended happily for Dupre. She wasn’t prosecuted for prostitution. She got a sex advice column in the New York Post, “Ask Ashley.” She’s featured in the May 2010 issue of Playboy. Last year she got married in Paris to a “construction magnate beau” and had a baby girl! Follow her on Twitter @AshleyDupre.

Drink: The Spitz on Your D**K Ciderhouse Bourbon

2 oz bourbon

1 oz boiled cider

Strip of lemon zest

Combine bourbon and boiled cider over ice and gently stir. Twist lemon zest, drop into drink, and stir some more.

Listen: Black Sheep “The Choice is Yours”; “Bad [remix],” Wale feat. Rihanna.

Bill Clinton/Monica Lewinsky

Maybe it was Clinton saying he “didn’t inhale.” Maybe it was the semen stain held in tact. Any way you slice it, the Monica and Bill scandal had television audiences hypnotized. “I never had sexual relations with that woman,” Clinton insisted.

While I usually root for the underdog, I never really bought Lewinsky’s schtick. Oh, she just so happened to have the notorious blue dress with presidential jizz all over it ready to use as evidence? I was eight years old at the time, but I still thought Lewinsky was being a traitor.  When two consenting adults engage in oral sex, it’s with the unspoken agreement that one will not save bodily fluids to be used against the other in court.

As president, Clinton was a  jovial, saxaphone-playing charmer everyone liked. Maybe he inhaled that day and allowed Lewinsky to fellate him. Maybe she was just  a young girl who couldn’t resist blowing his saxophone. Perhaps Lewinsky never had the desire to capitalize on notoriety. They both went on to publish memoirs, and Lewinsky started a handbag business. On an episode of The Tom Green Show from 2000, Lewinsky and Green searched for new handbag fabrics. It’s a killer episode.

Follow Lewinsky on Twitter, @MonicaLewinsky.

Drink: The Backstabber in Blue

Fill shot glass halfway with peach schnapps, then some Baileys, then blue curacao, then top with grenadine.

Listen: “Peaches,” Presidents of the United States of America; “Loyal,” Chris Brown.

cal

John Edwards/Rielle Hunter

When Southern fried presidential hopeful Edwards was splattered on the cover of the National Enquirer with headlines about an affair, he denied it. He let his aide take the blame. His family-friendly stance was a major playing card with voters. But when the Enquirer ran another story about Edwards’ soon to be born love child and the mistress hidden away in a Beverly Hills hotel, there was no denying it.

After meeting and beginning an affair with Hunter, Edwards hired her to create videos for his website. She was to help with his political campaign – what a joke! After the media scandal, Edwards dropped out of the race. His aide shuttled pregnant Hunter to hotels all over the place. Rumors of a sex tape featuring Hunter and Edwards surfaced (she was his videographer, after all).

What’s totally fucked up about Edwards is that he was supposedly SO ABOUT “family values,” while not only cheating on his wife, but denying his own daughter for TWO YEARS. Hunter seems like a total hot mess, too. She posed for racy photos in GQ  (she said images the media used weren’t flattering and came off like a desperate old person) and even claimed the two were still a couple after Edwards went to trial for alleged misuse of campaign funds. (He was found not guilty).

Drink: The Love Child Iced Tea

1 oz rum;1 oz vodka; 1 oz gin; 4 oz lemonade; 1-2 oz simple syrup; 3 oz unsweetened iced tea; mint sprigs and lemon wedges for garnish. Mix into a mason jar.

Listen: “Johnny I Hardly Knew Ya,” Dropkick Murphys; “Big Poppa,” Notorious BIG.

This short list does not include political sex ending in murder (Gary Condit/Chandra Levy), closet homosexual solicitations (Larry Craig, Mark Foley) and inappropriate sexts gone viral (Chris Lee). I tried to stick with the most romantic ones (except John Edwards- I fucking hate that guy, and his hair). Never trust a man with  a schellacked ‘do.

If you think having an affair with a politician will make you go from 0 to 100 real quick – it will. You will have to write a memoir, do interviews with Barbara Walters, maybe even Playboy. But, it will hopefully recoup all the money you’ll have to spend on legal fees.  Trouble will no doubt come your way. Your politician flame will probably just deny the whole thing and fall back to his wife. Who wants to be second fiddle?

You don’t see Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg out chasing tail like some liquored-up tomcat. Or, do you? At least not yet. Clearly, male politicians are a horny bunch.

Moral of the story – there should be more women in politics.