Jack’s Naughty Bits: Gennifer Flowers, Passion and Betrayal

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Jack's Naughty Bits
It’s a general principle with Naughty Bits — as with cathedrals, provolone and lovers — that older is better. And so with a not-insubstantial grudge must I occasionally admit that there is a present out there to complement the past, and a vast, teeming realm called the “timely.” Now the timely, being at odds with the universal and eternal, is the most pejorative adjective in a philosopher’s lexicon, while being the bread and butter of the magazine and newspaper’s worlds (and pretty much everybody else’s). So even if in my heart of hearts I would like to be running an athenaeum, Nerve is a magazine, and thus there is a time or place for everything to which I must attend.

They tell me we are in the midst of preparing to elect a new president. This saddens me, for I suspect the new guy, whomever he proves to be, will provide fewer naughty bits than the outgoing Arkansan billygoat with all his malfeasance. Yes, even if Bill Clinton wasn’t particularly good for America (and its daughters), he was good for the erotica lobby. Two years I wrote about the Starr Report in all its Dragnet-meets-Lady Chatterley glory; now I think enough time has passed that I can dip again into the oval well and see how dirty I can get my hand. And time is of the essence, for in a few short months, the come-stain presidency will be a thing of the past, the collective remembrance of it slowly eroding, like morals, with each passing year.

And so, for those of you with insufficiently inquiring minds to have bought the mass-market hardback Passion and Betrayal by Gennifer Flowers, I dutifully reproduce one of its many piquant descriptions of then-Guvna Bill. He wasn’t yet the most powerful man in the world, nor its most famous analinguist, but the seeds are there. Ready for blooms.



From Passion and Betrayal by Gennifer Flowers

I had barely closed the door behind him before he pulled me into his arms and began kissing me. All that sexual tension that had been relentlessly building for weeks in both of us suddenly erupted. A desire far beyond a physical attraction overwhelmed me. Everything about this man excited me: his brain, his charm and his incredible sexuality.

We stumbled toward the bedroom, ripping off our clothes as we went, reluctant to release each other long enough to step out of them. My apartment may have been small, but my bed was built for a king. It took up most of the room: an imposing four-poster canopy draped with luxurious fabrics and buried in soft, sensuous pillows. But it could have been an army cot for all we cared. We collapsed onto it and eventually covered every square inch of it.

As a lover, Bill was great! Though not particularly well endowed, his desire to please was astounding. He was determined to satisfy me, and boy did he! At times I thought my head would explode with the pleasure. This was more than great sex, it was great everything; I was falling in love with Bill Clinton, inside and out . . .

We spent two or three hours together, mostly making love. During our short breathers, he would hold me and stroke my hair. He was so sweet and tender. It was if I were the only one who existed for him at that moment . . .

His stamina amazed me. We made love over and over that night, and he never seemed to run out of energy. Had he stayed with me the entire night, I have no doubt he could have kept going ’til dawn. But spending the night was out of the question: Bill had a wife to go home to.