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!