When Good Men Go Bad - The Sorry Sexual Adventures Of An American President

 As far as the press and American public know, Joe Biden has been a model of sexual probity.  However, a slave to God's irony - a lifelong sexual obsession with but a few decades to realize it - the President thinks about sex all the time. 

Despite his MeToo training, his feminist advisers, and his wife's dogged morality, he cannot help himself.  Take his chief DEI advisor - a beautiful black woman, full bosomed, throaty, red-lipped, breathy, and dark.  Although she has a law degree from Harvard, and time on the bench, he simply cannot get beyond thinking - dreaming - about what she would be like in bed.  Hot, wet, steamy, and tireless. 

In fact, love with a black woman would be the final step in his long journey to blackness.  Although he had come to inclusivity relatively recently - only during his tenure in the Obama White House had race become a reality (growing up Irish, his only contact with blacks were street fights on Sidwell Avenue) - he had become an ardent supporter of the black cause.   His goal as President was to return the black man to his rightful place at the top of the human pyramid, legatee of jungle wisdom, spiritual authority, and natural poetry become all-American man. 

So making love to LaShonda Phipps would be immersive - he would not only not have to speculate on what life was on the other side, he would live it.  LaShonda would not only share her body with him, but her black soul.  Every languorous moan, every drop of sweetness from her thighs, every kiss would bring him back to the jungles of Angola  It was in the middle of this reverie that LaShonda, Special Assistant to the President for Racial Equality, was ushered in to the Oval Office.  'Anytime, any place' was the ordre du jour for Dr Phipps, immediate unrestricted access to the President, and there she was. 

"I want to talk to you about Baltimore", she said, peering over the Lincoln desk and looking into the President's eyes. "Something must be done!"

The President had no idea whatsoever what she was talking about and wished that she would leave.  The real LaShonda was an irritant, a bloody necessity foisted upon him by his Vice President, part of a  Cabinet of insurrectionist hectors he did his best to avoid.  The dream LaShonda was another story entirely. 

Jimmy Carter once admitted that he had lust in his heart, a Biblical reference that had always resonated throughout the poor man's life because it stayed in his heart during his long, faithful marriage to Roslyn; but such is the fate of the proper American male. But why me, too? wondered the President. 

Not so the French, Biden mused. Sarkozy kept his mistress at the Elysees and was loved all the more for it; or Mitterrand whose mistress and illegitimate daughter attended his funeral alongside his wife.  Or Putin and every single President in American history, especially that racial miscreant Jefferson who bedded Sally Hemmings and actually had a black woman not just in his dreams. 

"You are extraordinarily fit for a man your age", the official physician to the President told him. "Fit and virile." Biden was sure the doctor had winked at him. A man almost his age, surely beset by the same persistent, niggling, constant dreams of sex, suggesting something more than reverie. 

Might it be possible, thought the President? Here I am, the most powerful man in the world unable to do the simplest thing, stuck with a crochety old woman for a wife, dried up and shriveled, tormented by the likes of LaShonda Phipps. 

LBJ had the Secret Service pimp for him, nightcrawler that he was.  Eliot Spitzer said he was too busy to chase women, so had his dalliances with high-class call girls in the bridal suite of the Mayflower.  Truman, Roosevelt, Lincoln, all the greats had theirs, and here he was shut up in the White House surrounded by women. 

Not only was God's irony painful enough, but even the most ambitious women paid him no mind.  He was doddering, unattractive, and unavailable.  Why should Robert DeNiro and Al Pacino have children at eighty when he was a balding celibate? Shouldn't a man with his finger on the nuclear trigger have women?

"You seem distracted more than ever, Joe", Jill said to him one night.  "What's on your mind?"

Of course the President could not tell her to move her wrinkled, dry self, so he, like all men, replied only, "Work, dear.  Nothing important"; but his resolve was hardening, and it was time to hint his intentions to the Secret Service detail. Trapped, a man's man, President of the United States, a eunuch, a sexual cipher. 

Of course he had too much of the Catholic in him to commit mortal sin, although he had long ago given up on his altar boy past; so he was consigned to reverie, the most shameful, unconscionable state of impotence. 

And so it was, a minor historical tragedy. A man who, when all was said and done, could really care less about transgenderism, the black man, the bloody climate, and bath houses, only a man living unhappily. 

The only good news was that his aggressive dementia loosened the wires enough so that his oppressive fantasies disappeared in the sweet dreams of his childhood. He read from A Child's Garden of Verses every night before bed, and his memories of his lovely summers at Rehoboth came back to him in a light, sweet breeze. 

Soon he couldn't quite figure out who all these people were who kept barging into his office unannounced, nor what he was doing there, let alone sex with anyone.  Just the sounds of the waves, the light blue sky, and the lilacs in back yard were real; and so it was that this poor, disabled, man served out his term, barely avoiding that Harris woman. 

A sad tale of a good man who wanted more than anything to turn bad, to tomcat and pimp - a modern boulevardier, a macho man - but here he was, a lace-curtain Irish, conned and trimmed by priests and women, looking out the window over the Rose Garden with the portrait of that Lothario, MLK, looking over his shoulder.