Political Sexploits: A Brief History

Now that I’ve turned from anger and dismay about the state of American politics in Washington to finding ways to shamelessly mock politicians who can’t keep their dicks in their pants, let’s get down and dirty about….


Not just sex but rather, political sexploits.

I’ve been fascinated by politicians who engage in sexual shenanigans since the days of Gary Hart.  Remember Gary?  Mr. Catch-Me-If-You-Can?  Mr. Monkey-Business-in-Bimini?  It seems so long ago….

To steal a phrase from that true American wordsmith, Yogi Berra, it’s like déjà vu all over again.  Because, there’s a new chapter in the erotic saga of Sex Goes To Washington.


Gotta love that title.  Wish I’d have coined it.

But I didn’t.

Now, let’s take a walk down memory lane, shall we? It’s not as if the current POTUS reinvented the hard-on or anything.  It’s just that Pussygate has made me feel so nostalgic.  For the record, I am not a political animal but I do enjoy engaging in  mockery of a political nature.

I’ll start AFTER the Kennedy era due to lack of space….too many brothers and too much to cover and I’d probably have to look up how to spell Chappa-what’sit.

Let’s start with Mr. Monkey Business because I see poor ole’ Gary Hart as Patient Zero in the Politicians With Roaming Dicks epidemic as it relates to the media.  In my humble view, this was the beginning of open season on the personal lives of politicians and their wandering penises.

1987: Gary Hart announces his run for president then promptly challenges the media to find anything non-exemplary in his personal life. Okey dokey, Gary. Note for future reference:  This is like telling your massage therapist to “go as deep-tissue as you want…you can’t hurt me.”  Those of you who have uttered that absurd challenge knows what I’m talking about.

1996: Dick Morris. Oh, Dick, Dick, Dick.  The same Dick who loved to have his $200 per hour hooker listen in on his political conversations.  “Dick” isn’t quite as tragically hilarious a name as Anthony Weiner, but still damn funny.  He wasn’t a politician per se but rather a campaign strategist for Bill Clinton.   He now works for the National Enquirer after a brief stint as a Fox News commentator, then a columnist for The Hill.  As an aside, The National Enquirer is owned by a guy named Pecker.

1998:  Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. Holy shit. I mean, really?  I don’t know about y’all, but when I think Oval Office Bathroom, I think blow job.  I’ll never look at a cigar the same way again, own anything that’s blue or made of silk nor will I understand what the meaning of “is” really is.  Maybe this was what he and Dick were strategizing about:  how to keep the leader of the free world from being taken down by a chick from The Valley.

1998: Newt Gingrich: resigned from the House after admitted to having an affair with a staffer while he was leading the impeachment of Bill Clinton for the Lewinsky affair.  I wonder which word came first; hypocrisy or politics? I’ll have to research ‘cuz I’m seein’ a pattern here.  Is it just me??

2007:  John Edwards.  Damn it. We almost had a super hot president in office but there’s little one can do when the evidence of his sport-fucking is a squirming, wailing, bundle of joyous DNA wearing a diaper.

2011:  Anthony Weiner: Oy. Didn’t he learn anything from the pioneers who came before?  He should have been paying closer attention to Spermgate and the struggles of Dick who now works for Pecker.

Good thing I didn’t go back as far as the Johnson years.

So, dear readers, I’ll close with a lovely cliché that doesn’t quite ring true in the Wacky World of Washington:  Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

In the case of our illustrious political leaders, it’s more like Absence Makes the Hard On Wander.

Disclaimer: Not an original phrase.  I overheard it said by an ex-husband whose name escapes me. Good thing I’m not a politician. I’d never survive the scrutiny.

Photo Credit: No idea who took the featured image pic but I find it visually apropos.





Twitter Me Stupid

Not to be confused with “Twitter me, stupid!”

I don’t know if you can Twitter somebody but if you can, it sounds like something I might like. Maybe I’ll invent my very own form of sexual pleasure called twittering and tweet it (?) like this:  #ThingsAnaisNinWouldProbablyLoveToKnowIfSheWereStillAlive

(For some reason…I felt compelled to put a .com at the end of that hash-tagged-whatever, the same way I want to say Amen at the end of The Pledge of Allegiance.)

I don’t know where all those pound sign creations end up but it must be in some kind of Bermuda Triangle For Hashtags. Someday they’ll all be found alongside an aircraft carrier and their bewildered, ageless crew asking “What the Sam Hill are all these pound signs doing hanging off the sides of our beloved USS Cyclops and what the hell do you mean Woodrow Wilson ain’t president no more?”

But what I really want to know is this:  will that hashtag I just created automatically go to The Hashtag Triangle  just because I typed it and posted this blog? Or do I have to pass GO on my Twitter account that I don’t know how to sign into and collect $200, first?

If you know, please send me a “@” with a “#” followed by a smoke signal, a few Morse code clicks and maybe a voice message on that tin can and string device you probably have in your box of childhood memories.

But only if you’re staring down the business end of the mid-life shotgun.



Free Sex Toy With Purchase

A while back, I lent my highly sought after sorting skills to a local thrift shop where some of my friends volunteer.  It was our job to sort through all the interesting things that people drop off.  Some simply dash in, drop their booty, then skedaddle before the managers can yell “We don’t accept prosthetic limbs, goddamn it!”

Having spent just one memorably day as a volunteer…let me just say this:  humans are uniquely twisted and strange. Which, of course, is why I’m such a people person.

Take the “anonymous” donor of a particularly interesting package that I had the good fortune of coming across as I was checking through old handbags for loose change [and dildos…which I’ll cover in a future and equally trashy post).

It was a small, square box, good shape but old. The writing was clearly vintage:

“Stimu-Lax” by Oster the box read.

Hmmmm….Stimu-lax.  A Big Box O’ Laxatives maybe? [Damn. I hope it’s not that chocolate kind my grandma used to have in her medicine cabinet because that’s a memory best left tucked away in a dark corner of 1966.]

Curious, I opened the lid and found a bulbous, metal contraption of some kind. It had straps that you slipped your hands through and a frayed electrical cord that could probably be used to execute a serial killer.

Wait. There’s something underneath. Something….pink.  I gingerly plucked the Home Execution Kit out of the box and lo and behold in the bottom of the box was a book:

How To Make Love To A Man by Alexandra Penney.

Oh, joy. Sex Instructions. Nothing pisses me off more than sex instructions.

[begin rant]

Damn it, if one more asshole tries to tell me what to do in the sack, they’re gonna get a whack upside the head with a fist full of my Real Housewives of Orange County Ben Wa balls.

[end rant]

Once my green skin returned to its normal shade of Caucasian, I started thumbing through the book.

Page 134: Author walks into an erotic toy store….

“Could you,” I said in my most disinterested journalistic manner, “perhaps tell me a little more about… vibrators?”

Okay. I get it. Some poor unfortunate soul(s) read the manual and thought this Stimu-Lax gadget with its gnarly electrical cord was a decent substitute for The Rabbit. I hope they’ve come to their senses and discovered latex and batteries…unless, of course, it’s too late.









Women with short hair are less attractive to men.

I read that in a magazine.

A women’s magazine.

I was getting my hair cut.


And very blonde.

For some reason, they didn’t have the latest issue of People.

Shit.  I so enjoy reading about misbehaving 20-somethings that I’ve never heard of.  It calms me and takes my mind off the toxins slowly seeping into my brain.

Oh well.  Perhaps I’ll read something educational.

Oh, joy!  I love learning new things, don’t you?

According to a “study” where men were shown picture of women with both short and along hair, men where something like 12 times as likely to choose a woman with long hair because of some caveman-survival-of-the-species-genetic thing. 

Makes sense.  I mean, I’ve never seen a woman with short hair in a porn film that I can recall and the guys always have a death grip on something that I can only guess is hair. But I was never looking that far north and nothing down south has any hair at all if you’re a porn star.  I feel strongly about this, Regis.  Porn stars definitely have long hair. Final answer. 

Damn.  These survey-takers must be really, really smart.


There is the occasional super-model or celeb that busts out with a scandalous, pixie-short haircut that makes the cover of US.  For the record, I’m still trying to figure out who Victoria Beckham is.  Maybe she used to be a porn star and now wants to put as much distance between herself and that industry as possible so she can revive her…..uh, other career which is still a mystery.   Then again, I might be woefully behind the times.  She may already have hair extension by now in a desperate attempt to keep her marriage intact to that guy whose celebrity status also confuses me.  I forget his name.

Oh, that wacky, wacky world of celebrity.  What will those goofy SoCal kids do next?  As if a buzz cut were not enough don’t be surprised to read about something really outrageous and original like…say….getting pregnant!!  Now that’s what I call news since no other humans on the planet earth have EVER experienced childbirth. 

(Big Sigh)

Next time I get my hair done, I’m gonna call ahead and make damn sure they have the latest issue of People.

But don’t forget, girlies.  Unless you’re a quasi-celebrity or the 80 pound muse of someone like Helmut Lang, don’t ever cut your hair….

….or you’ll never, ever get laid!

P.S.  In the same magazine was an “advice” column that says if you’re clitoris is more than an inch away from your vagina you’ll probably have trouble achieving orgasm.

A Term Of Endearment?

What’s up with this whole “Cougar” thing?

Where the hell did that term come from?

Is there an equivalent moniker for men over 40 who date younger women?

Like….Typical Man Over 40? 

Is this the updated Helen Reddy version of female “empowerment?”  (God, I fucking HATE that word; not because of the word itself but because it’s been so over-exposed as psychobabble bullshit).

I looked up the lyrics to I Am Woman.

Oh, such insightful verses.

I am woman watch me grow
See me standing toe to toe
As I spread my lovin’ arms across the land
But I’m still an embryo
With a long, long way to go
Until I make my brother understand

Okay. I get it. I listened to it on some crackling FM radio station when I was young. I think I may have even liked it but that didn’t keep me from laughing my ass off when I looked it up today and found an ad for liposuction on the same page as the lyrics.  

Yes, we’ve come such a long, long way.

So, back to the Cougar question and what the hell it really means because I’m getting waaaay tired of seeing it everywhere.   

One web-site I found (cougarconvention.com) said Cougar’s are:

 “smart businesswomen, wives and mothers who have earned their stripes”.


Another one was way less attractive but they weren’t selling tickets to a convention in Vegas:

“Typically, cougars prey upon men almost young enough to be their sons”.

Prey upon? 

This description had me laughing even harder because it sounds like this new-age term actually has some significance and deserves an explanation, like, say…..Francophile. 

Here is how my simple brain works:

Older woman wants to bed younger man = doesn’t need a catchword.

Francophile, I get.  

It’s consistent.

It is without contradiction (at least not that I could find).

 It’s someone friendly or interested in all things French.  There are no opposing web-sites that claim Francophiles are actually freaks with an odd fascination with the sex lives of French midget, right? 

Not the case for Cougars.  They are at once predators AND prey. 

Once again, women get the short end of the sexual stick (no pun intended since there are so many wonderful male enhancement products available today which leaves NO room for excuses.)

But The Creator (or whoever runs this crazy asylum) is a comedian because men reach their sexual peak at, like, 12 and women don’t reach it until…well, I guess until they are so desperate for good sex they’ll turn into stalkers or so the web-sites say thus making the business of sex a veritable mosh pit of gender imbalance.  Some will survive; some will be trampled.  But in the end, we’ll all somehow destroy each other.

I wonder if this is what happened to the Mayans?

Nah!  I think they were just shitty farmers.

Okay…since I’m a believer in grassroots change, here are my suggestions to help bring balance to The Great Cougar Debate: 

  1. Ladies, sleep with whoever you want so long as it’s legal.
  2. Avoid assuaging your morning-after guilt by attending a please-validate-me Cougar convention in Vegas.
  3. If you want to cut loose and go all Roman Orgy once in a while, there are discreet places for that (not that I know first hand, of course, but I read a lot…) and no one will write an article about you in the local paper like the one I just read by a young reporter attending a Cougar convention at a dive bar in Santa Cruz.
  4. Try not to make total asses of yourselves by getting drunk and grinding your faces into the crotches of visiting Irish footballers in front of God and everybody at a dive bar in Santa Cruz because it makes you look like an idiots(see above).
  5. Do not Google the word Cougar……

…..unless of course, you’re looking for good blog material.

Next up:   MILF and the Oedipus Complex: A Modern Day Comparison

Danger: Water In Pool

I get really, really sick of women’s magazines. 

I resent the notion that  women need to be instructed on what men want in bed or how to lose 10 pounds  of belly fat in one weekend.  I’m quite certain I’ve ranted about this before so I won’t be redundant.

Instead, I’ll espouse the benefits of Esquire Magazine.   It’s sort of a kinder, gentler version of Maxim which is all about hot chicks and the men who love them, fast cars and other stuff that men dig.   Most of the articles about women and sex center around women TELLING men what they love to do rather than some sort of instructional bullshit designed to make women feel they don’t know shit from shinola in the sack which is common practice in the pages of women’s magazines.  I prefer the Maxim philosophy but that’s just me.

Esquire is where I was turned on to a funny but simple web-site:  www.failblog.org

It’s not deep or profound or philosophical. Just funny. It’s kind of like that Jay Leno segment where they read misguided newspaper headlines, advertisements and comical misprints.  It’s worth a visit if you want a chuckle.  This is where I found the picture of a sign on a chain link fence warning  about water in pool along with a newspaper headline that reads:  Homicide Victims Rarely Talk To Police.  

The closest thing I found to male angst in Esquire was by a British guy (got the UK version) who couldn’t decide whether to shave off his beard because he had a double chin.  I read it.  I laughed.  It was supposed to be funny.  Because angst is often funny and men seem to have a much better way of handling angst then women and aren’t afraid to exploit it in print.  I find this refreshing.

Where women’s magazines direct their readers to sites about colon cleansing for weight loss and lame blogs about sex and the single guy, Esquire directs its readers here:  www.todgertalk.blogspot.com

It’s much more entertaining.