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The Blow Job that Changed America by John Bredin (12/13/06) They ought to have a conference on it. America eight years after "that" blow job, given to president Clinton by "that" woman: the one he theatrically denied having sex with in one of the greatest TV moments of all time (finger crooked) -- in my opinion right up there with Elvis shaking his booty on the Ed Sullivan Show. They should invite philosophers, sexologists, historians, and psychologists -- and Bill Clinton too, if he wants to come -- for a panel discussion to plumb fresh meaning and insights, now that sufficient time has passed to allow for reflection, on this most profoundly earthshaking (and American) of all blow jobs. Ah, the miracle that it even happened! Contrary to right wing scolds, those dour descendents of the Puritans whose idea of fun was to grab some marshmallows and roast a frisky woman alive at the stake, desire is -- like duh -- a positive thing. Because we only live once, we're limited to a fixed, finite number of truly memorable sexual experiences before we start pushing up daisies. Do the math, but start doing it while you're still young enough. And no I don't mean boring sex, of the dull marriage or long-term relationship variety. That doesn't count. When you're a dried up old geezer sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, only the sublime, mind-blowing sexual encounters you've been blessed to partake in will continue to resonate as a memory elixir to keep your blood flowing hot and your heart pumping strong: warding off the death-inducing soul-sickness that is pleasure's lost opportunity. To register as long-lasting data on your erotic hard-drive, a sufficient element of kinkiness or taboo ought to infuse the sexual act. Kinky: the word refuses to stale into cliché. Kinky opens a space through the thickets and brambles of humdrum, forgettable sex. By definition a blow job -- a quarter century after Deep Throat and still going strong -- remains a key grammatical building block in the literacy of kinky sex: where heightened desire, not procreation, is the main goal. Blow jobs critique the cloyingly sentimental, gauzily-de-eroticized Hallmark & Hollywood sexuality spoon fed to Americans by corporate media; that bland, Reader's Digest-ized version of the dutiful, lights out, lie-back-and-think-of-England sex of a previous era. Fuck you, Nora Ephron! Your treacley 1990 palaver Sleepless In Seattle might have gifted the world with an orgasmic-phallic moment for the ages had Tom Hanks gotten blown -- quick, in an empty stairwell! -- on top of the Empire State Building. Instead, how many Americans fell off the ledge and into the abyss of stale marriages in the 90s because of your saccharine flicks? Film is power, and America's corporate chieftain's have plotted to ensure that anyone not in the top 1% immerse themselves in the syrupy romantic sentimentalism that leads to stale, dry, leftover-wedding-cake relationships. From a purely economic standpoint, this improves the bottom-line. (Somewhere buried under a stack of age-yellowed papers in a dusty back room at the University of Chicago, perhaps in Leo Strauss's old office, they have exact numbers on this.) Not only do folks in bad relationships spend more money on useless consumer products to salve the misery of their empty lives, they actually view their boring jobs as an escape: thank god it's Monday! Rather than enjoy the kind of radical sexual fun that leads to alive relationships and the desire to fuck more and work less and take long erotic lunch breaks: thank god it's Friday! Meanwhile, rich CEO pricks are sneaking off to their apartment-kept mistresses who dress up for them like French maids or nurses or Catholic schoolgirls; occasionally jetting off for a weekend "sex vacation" in Thailand or Costa Rica to get fucked and sucked by a bevy of juicy, brown-skinned teenagers. But what about we the masses? Can't we get our kink on too? Lucky for us the blow job -- the very delicious concept of it, a woman willing to put a raw dick in her mouth and suck on it till it squirts: yummy, yah! -- has remained thrilling by preserving its vaguely dirty and nasty narrative aspect. For this we should thank our right wing friends: thank you Henry Hyde. "All this fuss over a blow job," liberals mused during the impeachment hearings. "Precisely," responded conservative fuddy duddys. A blow job is also constructed out of the nuts-and-bolts of a uniquely American practicality: a mechanical whip-it-out portability perfect for cars, office cubicles after hours, bathrooms at parties, or behind backyard hedges in the sexy suburbs. Blow jobs R Us. In a world increasingly pre-programmed and bureaucratized, our personalities numbed and crippled to the point of invisibility by dull routine, that a man can still ask a woman: could you please get on your knees and suck my dick? and that she, as if by magic, actually does the thing -- driven forward by her own heady need to confirm her agency as a pleasure-producing being in the world; or, better still, that a woman initiates the nasty dramatic tableau -- choosing a moment to bam, drop to the floor (surprise!) and unzip her man in a wondrous affirmation of female lustiness: blowing out the cobwebs of mundane everydayness, and restoring the possibility of spontaneous joy in the universe. Believe me if this shit can happen, anything can. Which brings us back to the man from Hope. In the sparkling crisp sunshine of Inaugural Day 1993, our collective expectations soared for the revival of a sixties-era zeitgeist that combined a rejection of selfish eighties corporatism with a humane valuing of all that nourishes the mind, body, and spirit. Such nourishment includes, most notably -- as both Marvin Gaye and Dr. Ruth pointed out -- sex. While acknowledging the excesses of the age of Aquarius: the volcanic eruption of centuries worth of pent up frustration, combined with the luxury of not having to worry about AIDS, the sexual revolution of the 60s and 70s was still an overall plus for humanity. Free at last, thank god almighty we were free at last to live more desire-rich and orgasmically healthy lives. Sprung from the prison cells of stale, passion-starved, Leave out the Beaver marriages and relationships, human consciousness itself began to evolve. Not coincidentally, around this time we witnessed the historical 1968 consciousness-raising first photograph of our blue-green earth spinning in deep black space: snapped by an Apollo rocket dashing off to the moon. At last we had a way to conceptualize all of us, our huddled humanity stranded on this radiant, sun-sparkled ball, we were all having a ball, especially the balls -- which were quaintly still covered with hair, before we started shaving them to imitate porn. (Though Burt Reynolds kept his balls, and dick, discreetly covered by his hand in his Playgirl centerfold shot.) A tacit connection began to emerge between powerful orgasms, healthy "organic" eating and living habits, the arts, social justice, and world peace. Even a Coke ad got into the act: "I'd like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony." Though just a little boy at the time, I took note of the hot babes in that commercial. But the erotic component of peace and justice was perhaps best embodied by John Lennon and Yoko Ono. At the height of the "do your own thing" early 70s, they chose to spend most of their time naked in bed in their West Village apartment. Still, they happily received visits from a number of friends and acquaintances -- including a few Black Panthers -- while frolicking in a prone, Rousseauesque state of nature. Was this another reason Nixon wanted to deport them? The right wing had to crush the sexual revolution since too many people having that much fun hanging out and having sex gave them the opportunity to exchange radical political ideas in between the fucking and sucking -- when they were in a good mood. Ideas like how badly they were all getting screwed by the government: without the least bit of foreplay. Reagan, all face and makeup atop a cardboard body with dried up gonads, killed free love. So did AIDS. Talk about a lethal one-two punch. Only the booming video porn industry kept our erotic hopes alive in the eighties. I was mired in a stale Reagan marriage from 1988 to 1997. As soon as the desire waned (around 1989) my busty blond wife's vague resemblance to porn star Nina Hartley: quick, pop in the tape; okay let's fuck! was the only thing that got me through. Then along came Bill. But after a brief, shining moment of possibility in early '93 (that lasted as long as it takes to say "corporate campaign donors") slick Willie dropped the legislation ball on reviving the pleasure-loving 60s left. He wound up listening to the wrong Dick (at least temporarily), an NYU professor named Morris who advised him to tack right in 94. In the process he destroyed not just his soul, but the Democratic Party itself. And now, with the benefit of hindsight, when you think about all that frantic overreaction to save his presidency from...whom? A moron like Newt Gingrich? Give the guy a little rope. Did it really take a genius to predict that jerk's eventual self-destruction? Yet we kept our hopes alive throughout the mid-90s, riveted even by Bill's obfuscating corporate speak/techno babble. Because we loved to look at him: with his boyishly handsome face and his thick shock of salt-and-pepper hair and his Kennedyesque charisma. And we secretly longed to believe that the sex scandals bubbling up periodically were true. Paula Jones was hot in a nasty, Southern, white trashy way; even the long nose had an erotic raunchiness if you pictured it tickling Bill's balls while she deep-throated him. Forget about it's the economy stupid: what really powered the emotional zeitgeist of the last decade of the 20th century was our collective Hail Mary Pass hopes that if Bill Clinton was having this much sexual fun, there was an outside shot that we too, us little peons, might secure our fair share of life-saving erotic bliss. Anything to pierce through the gloom of the depressingly faux, corporate-cubicled, brought-to-you-by-Martha-Stewart, Mc Mansioned-out, exhausted-by-overwork, end-of-history, philosophy-neutered yuppie sitcom nineties. And then, flashing biblically like a comet across the midnight sky, the miraculous blowjob that changed America. At last, perhaps for the first time in human history, the public space was infused with talk about a truly interesting topic. Not like the knee-jerk, mostly feigned interest in sports, or boring talk about the economy. Finally a shared topic that sizzled for both men and women. All healthy, red-blooded American males thinking the same thought in unison: "Bill's the man!" Female mouths watering, their inner blow job child affirmed, granted permission to start sucking it up. Aura of celebrity, news cameras flashing, popping, Monica ducking into the limo, linking fellatio to getting your 15 minutes of fame. As news of the bawdy West Wing romps (that would've made Shakespeare smile) reconfigured the possibilities between the erotic and the civic, we were saved from our collective boredom by the very construction of this narrative of pleasure's future. Desire jumpstarted. Sex vaguely commingled with public policy. In the sacred oval office no less, under the desk, on the phone with world leaders. The sexualization of the public sphere. Tom Brokaw smirking. More regular guys enjoying juicy blow jobs, now that women had seen the first draft of a script to achieve their own private Bill Clinton fantasy. Ordinary secretaries and college students suddenly becoming Monica: angling for the raise or the A. "Sex and Democracy": the name of a political science course 50 years from now at the New School, when an historical timeline begins to emerge of the paradigm-breaking collaboration between sexuality and the commons: a primeval reptile surfacing its beady head from the soup of an ancient bog, peering around, paddling toward the mist-shrouded shore to test out its newly-sprouted fin toes. President Elvis. Most of us not noticing, watching Seinfeld instead, laughing at Kramer. The first artistic evidence of this new erotic world order was a Louise Bourgeois sculpture (she's still a tiger at 92) titled "Lollipops and the Public Space," of a tongue in mid-lick on a big veiny marble dick, capturing the spurt too, the whole thing mounted on an oval platform, on which also lies a stained blue dress. Bought by NYC's Museum of Sex for its permanent collection, part of a campaign to enhance its artistic credibility, for a cool 3 million from Sotheby's in December of 2006. Dried come on a blue dress. What could it signify? One possible meaning: the more peace-loving Clinton choosing to fire sperm missiles instead of real ones. Another: the president modeling a safe sex plan for humanity. Remember Jocelyn Elders? She was the surgeon general who got canned for the sensible idea of bringing masturbation into the conversation about AIDS. Had that conversation been allowed to develop, an educational campaign to promote safe sex through mutual masturbation might've saved thousands of lives. So in reality, Clinton made up for the mistake of dumping Elders by offering the world a personal example of non-penetrative joy. Cigars, thongs, props, erotic theatrics. See, the scandal said, you don't always have to put it in. Make your selection from an economic pie chart of sexual options. Lick beneath the mushroom head and stay clear of the spurt. Cerebral Bill, ever the Rhodes Scholar, choosing. Once I had this hot, big-titted black chick in my apartment on our second date. It was the summer of 2003: five years post Clinton-Lewinsky. I was 40, horny, and desperate to enjoy what remained of my fizzling-out youth after losing a decade of it buried in a stale marriage. Still, it was only our second date. I figured if she's enough of a floozy to come to my apartment, who knows how many dicks have been inside her. Solution: after watching porno, the minx agreed to my lecherous request that she remove her shirt and bra and play with her own astonishing double Ds -- offering me a fabulous visual to jerk off to. Bless her heart, she was even sweet enough to "lend a hand" by stroking my chest and balls while I yanked my crank. Subconsciously, the patriotic guy that I am, I was following Clinton's lead: erotic games, scientifically poll-tested for maximum desire and minimum risk, the personal as political. A presidential pedagogy of desire. When I came, it was one of my most powerful squirts ever: splattering the black chick's huge tits with a shower of white goo. Had the window been open, and I pointed my dick in the right direction, my sperm could've rocketed outside and -- ever so gallantly streaming -- started a public conversation.
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