IJMC - Great Clinton Smut

I wasn't planning on sending this one out. I saw the title and just said 
no. Then I read it...a little risque but I think worth it. And hey, it 
makes a great night to mention the fortune cookie messages I got 
yesterday. You all know the thing about reading fortune cookie messages: 
add "...in bed" to the end of each message. Well, I got the following, in 
this order:

	You will be unusually successful in business...in bed.
	You should be able to make money and hold on to it...in bed.

Hmm...perhaps computers *isn't* the right field for me?             -dave





Here's a little something I pulled off a newsgroup I frequent elsewhere...
Y'all might appreciate this one.  It was pulled from the New York Times.

Alexis Zingale *** http://suso.eigenmann.indiana.edu/~azingale ***
NOSPAMazingale@kiva.net  NOSPAMazingale@suso.eigenmann.indiana.edu

----------------------------
September 23, 1998

LIBERTIES / By MAUREEN DOWD

Legacy of Lust

WASHINGTON -- He couldn't stop thinking about the thong underwear. He
couldn't believe Monica had pulled up her jacket to show it off. It so
inflamed his imagination. At meetings, at briefings, at the most unli
kely times, his mind suddenly reverted to the image of those straps,
quickening his pulse, making him catch his breath.

But it was the cigar that undid him. He was driven by the thought of
what had been done with it. Suddenly the capital became a city of
cigars. He saw them wherever he went. They ignited his desire. When he
was alone or talking to other people, he took secret pleasure in letting
smoke rings drift through his mind.

There were times when he worried that he might be a sex addict. He
couldn't stop thinking of Monica: what she wore, when she wore it, where
she wore it, or didn't wear it. Her little letters were so brazen,
promising such wild pleasure. Everything she scribbled, every gift she
gave, mesmerized him.

And then there was the power of her voice over him. He knew that he was
entering the dangerous territory of obsession. No matter how much he
heard Monica talk about sex, it was never enough.

He was a busy man. A powerful man. A serious man. But there were times
when all he could remember were the sizzling phone conversations. They
filled his head like a drug. People warned him that he was endangering
his legacy. Friends and strangers tried to pull him back from the brink
of his single-mindedness. But it was too late.

He had become the helpless victim of his cravings for ecstasy.

The big picture was lost. He hungered only for the details, all the
stirring and seamy particulars.. Nothing was too small or insignificant
for him to consider, to turn over and over in his unappeasable mind.

He wanted to think about her eating cherry chocolates. He imagined her
wrapped up like Cleopatra in the Rockettes blanket or panting in that
Black Dog T-shirt. He kept seeing her in that blue Gap dress. It was too
tight, and he was glad. Again and again he was visited by images of a
man's roving lips. He knew it was wrong. But he liked to dip into sin.
He needed a release from all the pressure, from the extraordinary
responsibilities of a very public man.

When he went to church on Sundays, he wrestled with his conscience. He
even wondered if he needed professional help.

Sometimes he worried that he was abusing his power and hurting the
country. He even fretted that the Constitution itself might be damaged
by his obsession.

And sometimes it wasn't easy to behold all the human damage that he
already had caused: ruining a young woman's life, dragging all sorts of
people through the muck, wounding reputations and bankrupting those who
came near him. Would the Presidency survive his lust? It didn't matter.

Every time he heard those words -- inappropriate intimate contact, sex
of any kind in any manner, shape or form, arousing or gratifying as
defined in definition 1 -- he felt a fire burn.

He had his own definition of sex. Still, he was drawn to the endless
discussion of the existential meaning of sex -- its forms, its uses. He
was a lawyer, but this was not just tortured legalism. This was tortured
eroticism. He liked to parse the lurid definition over and over and over
again, gaining pleasure from repetition: "breasts," "genitalia,"
"inserted," "stain."

His acolytes and subordinates became agents of shamelessness. It seemed
that everyone around him, everyone in the city, everyone in the country,
was talking about what he wanted to hear. All of them had become his
collaborators in perversity. He was spending millions and millions of
dollars to drag an entire nation down to his twisted level.

He knew how strong he was. He was the most powerful man in the
land. He could reach into every recess of the Government to satisfy
himself. And the prospect of impeachment didn't frighten him.

In fact, the more he fixated on the strap of that thong, the more
certain he was that he could hang Bill Clinton with it. And, of all
those naughty words he loved to hear, none filled him with more
pleasure than "impeachment."

After all, nobody could impeach him. He was Ken Starr.