Tag Archives: politician

“All I Need in This Life of Sin — Is ME…”

Ahhh.  I went to sleep dreaming of Carla Bruni.  Titillating myself with her nudes in my bed last night might have had something to do with it.  (Don’t worry ‘bout it:  It’s a hobby of mine.  A very hands-on sorta hobby.)  Or it could be my still unquenched desire to go see her in that latest Woody flick, Midnight in Paris.  Or maybe it was the throaty whisper of her song that played in the background of my ‘hood’s bohemian coffee shop the other night, while I studied the face of my very exotic, multi-lingual companion.

“L’amour,” she purred sounding like Tinker Bell after a decade of bad smoking habits…

Oh, I’m sorry.  Have you not been introduced?

Behold:  Carla Bruni-Sarkozy.  The First Lady of the French Republic.

(Yep.  Yourr velkom.)

A model, an actress and a songbird; a muse to many beholders of her beauty; an heiress and a style icon of her country, she has been adored by her people for years.  However, one of her other, less agreeable for some accomplishments, has been her reputation as a lover to several famous (and quite difficult) men:  the very androgynous Mick Jagger and the very mercurial Nicolas Sarkozy alike.  Recently, as the First Lady, she has also tried her hand (and other body parts) at motherhood; and, from what I hear, she has been raising the bar all over Europe on pregnancy fashion and motherhood’s sexuality.

Yet still, both the French and the rest of the world continue worshiping that woman’s sex.  I myself have been a modest fan of hers since she took office as the First Lady.  But the main reason I went rummaging through my files of beautiful women last night (don’t worry ‘bout it:  it’s a hobby!) in search of her likeness — was my yesterday’s rant blog on power broads with a questionable past.  (That ranty-cunty bit focused on the difference between male and female politicians who may have committed certain promiscuous acts while holding public office.  As of yesterday, the conclusion was:  Men fuck around; women — not so much.  Because men run for office to be somebody, while women — to do something.)

But today, my ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my cunty pontifications are taking me a bit further:

What is the big deal, may I dare ask, when sex — is in the limelight?  And when it is, can we just have some fucking dignity about it?

Back in the 90s, when one of the smartest Presidents in human history (note:  a fact), William Jefferson Clinton, was going through his own trials and tribulations due to his poor choices of sexual partners (note:  an opinion), my comrades back in Motha Russia found themselves wondering about the reasons for such an uproar:

“Americans don’t want their Clinton?  We’ll take him!”

Do forgive them their flippancy, ladies and gents of the jury; but in comparison to the alcoholic buffoons and the greedy egomaniacs that have been running (or may I say, “ruining”) my Motha’land for centuries, a person of William Jefferson Clinton’s intellect, education and charm — with his world-famous talents for compassion and diplomacy — would not have been a bad choice for our own righteous leader, for a change.  His work ethics have proven to be unmatched (before AND after his Presidency); and to discount his work due to his promiscuous behavior seemed somewhat outrageous.

Yes, yes, yes:  “But he lied!”  Not a good choice, I agree.  But a lying politician:  What an oxymoron!  Who could’ve thought?!  Now, William Jefferson Clinton (mmm, I do like saying that!) has already been redeemed by history, so I’m not much worried about that power player.  But a part of me wishes that all of that lying and retraction didn’t happen.  Because William Jefferson Clinton (mmm!) was — and is — a man of power; and that comes with plenty of sex.  And to watch him grovel and apologize, in my eyes, appeared mismatched, back in the day.  I mean:  Can we just have some fucking dignity about it?

Back to the French and their own sexpot of a public figure:  I’m not seeing the First Lady of the Republic panic much about her previous sexual choices.  She is not retracting her history of sexual adventures or the galore of publicly available nude photographs of her famous bod.  In her reincarnation as a politician’s wife, she had chosen to cover up quite a bit — and quite well — and just do her fucking job.  And something tells me that when other lovers come out of the woodwork with any further evidence of her promiscuity, she won’t be crying in front of a microphone or wringing her hands.  True to her national character, she may even have a sense of humor about it all.  But as long as she returns to her current job (which cannot be easy considering the famously difficult character of her hubs), I bet she will continue to be adored — as long as she doesn’t grovel. 

So, where do I go from here:  with all of this pontificating and dreaming of Carla Bruni?  Ahhh.

Well, you see, my gentle gents and ladies of the jury:  I have been flagellating myself with theories on my own sexual past.  When that sexual past catches up with my taut ass, I can only hope to find myself holding the ground with some dignity, style and humor.  I pray to Shiva — and to all the world’s divinity — that having forgiven myself now, I won’t go defending my past choices, undermining my former self; and that I won’t start groveling for the public’s forgiveness to redeem that very current self.

And I also do so very much hope that my partner at the time (my own power player, however difficult he may be:  mmm!) will have the balls to stand by me and back me up.  And maybe — Shiva and all the world’s divinity willing! — in that mutual dignity and style, I can find some redemption, in my own and my public’s eyes; and then:  just go do my fucking job!

Keep Your Pants On! Seriously.

O-kay!  Let’s just have it all out now, shall we?  Some broads — come with a past.

A huge past with multiple mistakes and redemptions.  The type of a past that often makes them fascinating, mysterious, and desirable to the other gender; and inspiring to their own.  She is that broad who is often flocked by male companions; whose lovers remain friends and whose friends wouldn’t mind a toss or two in between her sheet.  Getting a light in roomful of strangers for her long cigarette requires a single gesture:  perhaps, an eyebrow raise, or a parting of her lips.  She knows the power of her hair flip and the ability to regulate traffic — and to save hearts — with the shape and extension of her leg.  Typical to the feminine fashion, she may not know what she wants exactly, in the moment; but once she does — she knows very well how to get it.

Oh, she is fantastic!  Seemingly, she’s tried everything and would often surprise you with unusual skills, like spitting fires or riding tigers.  Or a stick shift.  Or a tractor and a tank.  She makes for a phenomenal traveling companion; because even if her standards of living have been raised high, she can easily let them go for the sake of an adventure.

Her style — has been tested for years.  She lives in her garbs, not just wears them.  They are her second skin.  Clothes are meant to have fun with — or be taken off.  Her scarves turn into blouses; skirts — into dresses; sarongs — into head wraps; and she always wears killer pants.  She is the one with the closet full of men’s dress shirts — small mementoes of her loves — and she can twist your mind with desire when she shows up to your bedroom in nothing but a raincoat.

The maintenance of her needs — hygienic, spiritual and financial alike — has been her own responsibility.  So, she will never burden a man with seeking solutions.  She needn’t be rescued, don’t you worry about her:  She’s got it covered, in spades!  Now, secretly she may wish to be cared for — by a failed parent or a capable partner — but you’d never know it until she’s down with a stomach flu or a broken ankle.  And I bet you, even then she’ll feed you her routine of:

“I’m fine, I’m fine.  Forget about it:  I’m fine!”

But being a power broad comes with tremendous consequences.  Any human existence filled with self-examination and high standards causes a few discomforts on the part of its witnesses; because it is hard to keep up with those in pursuit of personal perfection, isn’t it?  First of all, people with fascinating lives can be painfully annoying to the rest of us, because they reminds us not only of our failures but of our lapses in our own pursuits.

“Who the fuck does she think she is?!” some of us may wonder.  “What is she:  Invincible?”

Probably not, but her failures have not stopped her.  She will be the first to admit to her fuck-ups (and she won’t even cover them up with a diplomatic excuse of “a lesson learned”).  But somehow, she hadn’t lost the view of the big picture; so despite the detours and the surmounted losses, she is still seemingly well on her way.

To others, she may be inspiring (especially if she can downplay her power with “just being SO nice!”)  But even then, she doesn’t seem to aspire to that.  Because her friendships have been tested for years; and she’s learned that her true friends don’t give a flying fuck as to what she does with her life, as long as she is happy.  So, seeking their approval hasn’t been on the list of her needs in a long while.  As for others, if they want a piece of her — she’s down with it.  She will choose the ones to mentor, but as far as “inspiration” goes, she’ll leave that in the hands — and eyes — of her beholders.

O-kay!  Shall we continue having it all out now?

Here, we can all agree that a power broad’s dating life — will be painful.  But then again, it is painful for most of us, right?  Yes.  Hers, however, will be struck with an obvious loneliness, because her dating pool has been diminished by her pursuits, and not many partners can keep up with those.  Had she been a man, of course, her desirability factor would shoot through the roof; because “powerful men attract women, powerful women repel men”.

“Who the fuck do you think you are:  spewing out such generalizations?!” some of you may wonder.

Actually, I’m not the one spewing them out.  Last night, while hanging out on the couch of my Bohemian brother in a cloud of an apple-spiced hookah, I came across this lovely bit here, in the good ole New York Times:

When It Comes to Scandal, Girls Won’t Be Boys.

Inspired by the recent Twitter scandal of a one inventive politician (although not so, when it came to metaphors), the piece was dedicated to badly behaving male public figures.  Although never in the mood for sex scandals, even I haven’t been able to ignore the recent missteps by the few politicians unable to keep their hormones from affecting their ethics (or even, their common sense of judgement).  And yes, the Times bit particularly focused on why women rarely find themselves in such predicaments:

“Female politicians rarely get caught up in sex scandals. Women in elective office have not, for instance, blubbered about Argentine soul mates (see: Sanford, Mark); been captured on federal wiretaps arranging to meet high-priced call girls (Spitzer, Eliot); resigned in disgrace after their parents paid $96,000 to a paramour’s spouse (Ensign, John);  or, as in the case of Mr. Weiner, blasted lewd self-portraits into cyberspace.”

And so, along with the Times pontificator Sheryl Gay Stolberg, I found myself wondering last night about the reasons for such an obvious statistic.  Still, as at the time of every one of these scandals, I wasn’t tempted to wag my finger at the male politicians:  I come from a collectively horny nation — and family; so passing judgements would make me look like a hypocrite.  But that is the very reason that a broad like me would never run for an office, in the first place.

Because you see, I AM that woman with a past; and that past comes with consequences.  I would never want for my fuck-ups (NOT “lessons learned” by the way!) to resurface and tarnish the dignity of my beloveds — or of my political party.  I surely still want to create change in this world, but I just might have to do it via my career as an entertainer, a writer, or a philanthropist — but NOT a politician!

The Times journalist seems to agree:

“Women have different reasons for running,” she writes, “are more reluctant to do so and, because there are so few of them in politics, are acutely aware of the scrutiny they draw — all of which seems to lead to differences in the way they handle their jobs once elected.”

Last night, I decided to leave it to the big dogs to pontificate on the gender-related statistics and differences.  In the mean time, while I continue to aspire to my personal perfections and altruistic objectives (some of which are indeed drawn from my rich past), I must surrender to my own consequences:   my very limited dating life; the loss of acquaintances to their judgement and fear; and the departure of my suddenly repelled male companions while I give ’em all my routine of “I’m fine, I’m fine!  Forget about it:  I’m fine!”  But such is the pickle of life, ain’t it:  A man or a woman is free to make choices, but it is consequences of those choices that make a man — or a woman.