Anita Froelich was born and raised in Bolivar, Ohio, a small rural community known for its Republicanism, its Methodism, and its patriotism - in other words a small town community typical of America, its heart and soul, and its reserve of solid traditional values.
Anita was a farm girl, up with the chickens to milk the cows, then tend to the flapjacks and honey-spiced sausages for her father and brothers before they headed out to the fields.
She was neither happy nor unhappy with her lot in life, given a preternatural stoicism that belied her humble beginnings. It is what it is, what comes around goes around, and let it be were popular memes that best described her outlook on life.
Almost, that is, for beneath the dutiful, respectful, obedient, and prayerful young woman beat the heart of a lusty, Falstaffian maid, a wanton woman, a slattern, a Belle de Nuit, a libertine, an emotionally naked women of the dunes, a sexual Rapunzel, a desired mistress.
Where she got these heady ideas was mystery. Her father was an optometrist and her mother a member of the Women's Auxiliary, and neither had uppity ideas and no desire to part the hedges of Bolivar and see the world. They were happy with their lot, contented, and secure.
When Anita had her first sexual encounter with Biff Olson, son of the dry cleaner only because of an irrepressible sexual desire, she felt she had begun a career - not a professional one of course, but a career of sexual ambition, conquest, and satisfaction.
It sometimes takes such a foul experience - rutting with Biff Olson was no more satisfying than if she had been mounted by Arthur Teacher's boar - to open the floodgates of desire; and more importantly to point to one's direction in life
Somehow, even with her limited experience, she knew that she had a particular sexual allure, an indefinable attraction that was as primal as bee pheromones, those slight, subtle traces of sexual availability that broadcast desire over hundreds of miles. This inimitable, unmistakable sexuality would be her calling card and her meal ticket for success.
She like most women knew the best places to meet men, but Anita was not just any woman, and she was not interested in just any man; so she gravitated to politics, and especially the fanfare of electoral campaigns, those Type A machismo mosh pits where men on their way up and to Washington were engaged. There she would find her johns, her benefactors, and her sugar daddies.
She volunteered for the political campaigns of a Democrat nominee for Congress, did whatever it took to gild the lily for the candidate, to show him in his best light, and garnish him with the most effulgent excesses of her imagination.
American electoral politics is like this -a barn-burning jamboree of excess, glitter, and showmanship - and Anita always felt at home. She had no real political commitment, and had not signed on to the progressive agenda - whether the black man stayed or left the abysmal slums of Cleveland or whether the cross-buggering transgenders of Toledo ever made it to acceptance was irrelevant. The journey was what mattered, the trip, the adventure.
Henry Kissinger, Jewish intellectual, Harvard professor, and Nixon's Secretary of State once said that power was the ultimate aphrodisiac. It stiffened the man and attracted the woman, a delightful consensual affair. Anita took this pearl of wisdom to heart. Her way forward was with her allure, her inimitable sexuality, and - crude as the term might be - her cunt.
And so it was that she lured the Right Honorable Isaiah P Dingle to bed. Dingle was running for Congress from Ohio's 51st District, her own, a black man who, thanks to his well-articulated, comprehensive endorsement of the progressive agenda, had been re-elected many times to the Ohio legislature. Now was his time to move to Washington.
Dingle, like all black men could not resist white pussy, and although Anita had to grit her teeth through it all (although discovering that the urban legend of supersized black cock was true) her 'thang' with the Assemblyman was promising especially because he was elected.
'I am not a racist', Anita claimed after leaving the new Congressman shortly after his installation in the Dirksen Building. 'I have nothing against them', she said, 'but my life plan doesn't include them'.
Besides, she was well aware that she appealed to far better, whiter, richer, and well-placed clientele than poor, deceived Isaiah, and off to the races she went.
Now, in contrast to the oo-la-la sexual French sophistication where powerful men make no attempts to hide their lovers (Nicolas Sarkozy housed his lover, Carla Bruni in the Elysees Presidential Palace, and Francois Mitterrand's lover and illegitimate daughter stood by his grave at his interment), American politicians are as quick on the trigger to engage in illicit affairs as anyone, but feel they must hide them.
All of which is cause for great comedy. One governor said he was hiking the Appalachian Trail while he was actually bedding his Argentine firecracker. in Buenos Aires, Another had a long term affair with a young Washington intern, got her pregnant, and paid a minion thousands to take the blame. The list is endless. Hypocrisy is the rule not the exception.
But Anita, by now known by her honorific, 'Annabelle La Tarte' was one of a kind - a woman with such sexual appeal, beauty, and allure that politicians were happy to be seen with her in public! Even those long-married and from conservative districts, thanks to her, reveled in their manhood Yes, I have a wife but I also have a lover, they said, so take that!
Never before had the Nation's Capital known such European sophistication. The uxorious traces were now off, men had become men again, feminism was in flight, sex anywhere, anytime and with whomever one pleased was back in vogue.
Washington has many statues, and no traffic circle is without one Those in the know thought that some honor to Anita Froelich should be paid and a statue put up in her name, a silly idea given the still-prevalent zeitgeist of sexual fidelity, but the spirit was as honest and as true as could be.
Anita was quite the lady - a woman, a lover, a paramour, and a tart - but she changed Washington simply because of her sexual indelibility. In a city where there seemed to be only gender tomfoolery and where sex was a matter for parsing and political purpose, the red-blooded, rutting sexual desire of Anita was revolutionary.
She, a marvelous woman of invention, desire, and amiability got tired of the Washington routine and went back to Bolivar where she married Herman Anders, proprietor and manager of a dry goods store on Main Street. A comedown after her high flying in the Nation's Capital thought by many, but for Anita the coda to a good life. She had made a difference.
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