My body is obsessed with sex scandals: I love to read them and I love to experience them. No one needs mention that the human appetite for sexual scandal is extreme. Especially in the political sphere, where delicious pathos is derived in someone’s fall from righteous leader to prostitute-addicted cable TV pundit, there are few who can resist knowing the salacious details. But these details forever disappoint us with a singular impression: the sex is so stale, so banal, so sad. Don’t get me wrong, sex is great — just not the way these idiots are having it.
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Really think about it: could sex ever be more boring than with a congressional representative? A city comptroller? A state assemblyman? I doubt it. You know what a real sex scandal would be? Finding out that Prince William has been banging Rhianna for years and framed Chris Brown for the beating after Queen Elizabeth found out and had the royal guards rough her up. A real sex scandal would be: Michael Bloomberg dressing up in a giant latex vagina costume and telling hedge funders on Wall Street to rub his head for good luck. A real sex scandal is if Julianne Moore had sex with Meryl Streep, and afterward one of them ate the other alive.
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Besides, we only have access to the worst pool of sex stories — the stories that, for whatever unfathomably stupid reason, became a matter of public record. яндекс. Think of all the sex we never found out about! Did Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin find forbidden love inside the moon lander? Where did Audrey Hepburn have sweaty trysts with her favorite boa constrictor? And how often did Jim Henson incorporate Muppets into his hippie orgies?
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I am so sick of dick pics, so sick of casual sexism in the workplace, sick of date rape and gay homophobes and intern seduction and creepy massages and Internet stalking and airport bathroom pickups and the million other manifestations of the hopelessly bourgeois libido. Hell, even I’m having more interesting sex than that, and I’m doing missionary most of the time. Seriously, don’t bother telling me about the next furor in D.C. over a sexual indiscretion unless it involves Elizabeth Warren hiring a fleet of Thai rentboys on the taxpayers’ dime. I do not care.
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In fact, if you ask me, these Washington-type sex stories are always leaked on purpose in order to change the popular narrative. Look at Anthony Weiner: a very loud congressman who had some YouTube hits but couldn’t translate his indignation into policy or accomplish much else in office—put some of his boner selfies out there and bam, instant New York mayoral candidate. Or consider that woman who … ha, just kidding, powerful ladies never get caught having affairs, because Hillary Clinton runs a black ops team that assassinates any jilted lover who might go to the press.
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Until I’m downstairs in Joe Biden’s nipple-clamp dungeon, I’ll just never be impressed with the scope and scale of the sex scandal du jour. Where are the pistol duels over competing affections? When will a politician get caught straight-up fucking his cousin in a park fountain? Why isn’t anything bisexual anymore (was bisexuality ever real)? I’m haunted, I tell you—haunted by the life’s inability to equal my own inner depravity. I’ll be watching 3D anime werewolf porn if you need me.
