by Dr. Susan Block
An Insider Talks Candidly About Family Ties
To the Clinton Scandal
Dr. Laura's Diaries
by David Steinberg
For Our Times
On the Immediate Aftermath of the Starr Report
& EntertainmentNeed To Talk?
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T H E A W A R D
T H E V I D E O
T H E A U D I O
THE FUTURE IS SEX !
by Dr. Susan Block
As we begin the Party that is 1999, I gaze into my crystal ben-wa balls, and I see the future, and the future is sex.
I pick up the phone and I hear the voices of America, your voices, your fantasies, your feelings, and I see the future, and the future is sex.
I turn on the TV and I see the President waving and smiling and hugging his constituents, and I know he's gotten a blowjob, and he hasn't lost his day job-not yet!--and I see the future, and the future is sex.
I change the channel and I see a convocation of elephants, honking and braying and making semen-stained fools of themselves, winning the impeachment battle, but losing the war for the hearts and votes of the American people, and I see the future, and the future is sex.
I browse the Internet, and I find the President's and my nemesis, Dr. Laura, naked-the Queen of Moralizing Mean, NAKED, preening and posing for all to ogle!--and I see the future, and the future is sex.
I go back to the boob tube, and whom do I see but Kenneth W Starr, that leering, leaking Bully Pornographer, famous for putting oral sex and cigar dildos on the front pages of family newspapers and in prime time TV, Big Tobacco Lackey, Richard Mellon Scaife Butt Boy, recepient of the BlockFilms 1998 Boobie Award, clutching his coffee cup or his garbage bag, trying to pull down our Sex President by his zipper. And look who got stuck in the zipper: Kenneth W. Starr, Independent Voyeur, a Peeping Tom in the creepiest sense of the term, who doesn't just watch you, but records you, and uses your sexuality against you. That's why Ken Starr scares us. Not because we thought he had fangs or horns (and I wish Republicans would stop crowing that there are no pointy tusks growing out of his skull; what do they take us for?), but because we can easily imagine him looking through our keyholes and grinning that smarmy grin as he watches us engage in our most private moments, maybe even tapes us and then uses that tape to entrap us. Most voyeurism is pretty harmless. But some voyeurs aren't just satisfied with watching and letting things happen. Voyeurs like Inspector Starr instigate or even coerce the action. Is this the future? Then, the future is sex, and the investigation of sex.
I turn on the radio and I hear Monica and Linda gabbing on the phone through the hallowed halls of Congress, giggling about the meaning of sex, the meaning of truth, the meaning of subpoenas, and I see the future. Cheap sex that you never stop paying for.
I see Henry Hyde…committing audacious acts of nonconsensual
I'm back with the TV now, and there's Newt being neutered, quitting the Speakership in abject electoral defeat, slinking off to the sidelines to lick his wounds and bide his time. Seemingly moments later, there's Speaker-designate Bob Livingston also quitting, having confessed his extramarital affairs to a thunderous standing ovation, yet giving up, cut down in his prime by his own party's breathless zealotry, demolishing the GOP's contention that it's not about sex, it's about the "rule of law" (Livingston didn't break any laws); it is about sex. The future is sex.
I see an assemblage of opportunist elephants vainly trying to hide what's up their trunks, big bulbous sissies terrified by the likes of Larry Flynt, self-appointed GOP Sex Cop. I see the Capitol branded with a scarlet A on its stately portico, and I see the future:, and it's sex, sex, sex.
I see House Judiciary Chairman and "Cotton Mather wannabe1" Henry Hyde, his flabby cheeks flapping with fury that our Sex President might slip through his slimy old fingers, and I can't help but think of that photograph in Salon of Big Horny Ol' Henry with that cute little married mother of three nestled into his lap. Now he has prostate problems, so all he does is guzzle nonalcoholic beer, courteously bulldoze Democrats and commit audacious acts of nonconsensual impeachment against an unwilling American public. I see his past, I see his future, I see how he will go down in history, presiding over a petty partisan circus of sex.
I see the whole prostate-troubled Puritan Tribunal
I see David "the Turncoat" Schippers slobbering self-righteously over the grave high crimes of kissing, phone sex and exchanging stuffed bears, I see decrepit old Carolina Congressman Howard Coble spluttering about "intimate touching," I see the Georgia Pit Bull, snarling, barking Bob Barr, fighting for the Confederacy, desperate to finally take a big juicy bite out of the ass of this goddamn Elvis Presley of a President who's getting laid-Bob Barr isn't getting laid--and I see the future, and the future is sex. Even Bob Barr will get laid---by Tom DeLay!
I see the whole pasty-faced, prostate-troubled Puritan Tribunal, a pack of angry old men that couldn't get it up with a case of Viagra, setting itself up in judgment of our President's sexuality, of our sexuality, trying to extract revenge for Tricky Dick from Clinton's dick. I see them committing their brutal, lust-driven act of nonconsensual impeachment, forcing their coup d'twat2 upon a resistant public, meaning not only have we been fucked, we've been raped. It's a nasty future, this kind of sex...
I turn on MSNBC and hear the talking heads saying the President ought to be taken out to the woodshed and paddled, and I look at my own hand-carved African paddle, it's dark wooden face smooth from having warmed the buns of many a bad boy, and I know that most Americans don't want impeachment, and would actually rather see Clinton paddled, or censured, or spanked, perhaps by Congresswoman Mary Bono in leather dominatrix garb (or dressed as a Soccer Mom), while all our eminent representatives get 30 seconds each to call him nasty names, after which he could go back to work (though he might have trouble sitting down for a few days), having suffered a sexual punishment to fit a sexual "sin," and I see the future, and the future is sex.
I see the whole Beltway unable to get above its own belt, deep in the throes of its sex addiction, enabled by its lover, the Media, trussed up and stripped down to its thong underwear, nakedly partisan and barely holding on to its rules of decorum, outing each other's foibles and fetishes like a bunch of mean-spirited, hormone-infested school kids, and I see the future and the future is sex.
I love sex. The American people love sex.
I see the American people rising up in outrage against this true perversion of our democracy, that places one man's sexual sin above the people's concerns, above foreign policy, the economy, poverty, health care and social security, and I see the future. It's sex, sex, sex.
And don't get me wrong, I love sex. The American people love sex. We just don't elect our representatives to spend months and millions yakking about it. We can call phone sex lines for this kind of hot talk, thank you very much. Does this mean that politicians are the sex stars of the future? Are they all wearing garter belts under their Brooks Brothers suits? I windowshop through the streets and malls and websites of America. I see the garter belts! I see the push-up bras! I see the Bill and Monica and Ken dolls! I see the future! The future is sex.
I see my name in the venerable New York Times, as well as the flaming conservative Weekly Standard, both articles describing in loving, lurid detail how I spanked Lavonne's lovely butt with a dildo in the Sheraton bathroom just before present ing the world-famous 1998 Boobie Award for Best National Pornography Production to a Ken Starr lookalike, and I see my future and-no surprise here, of course-it's in the wonderful, burgeoning world of sex.
I attend the opening of Hustler of Hollywood smack in the center of the Sunset Strip-where Larry's Dirty World meets The Gap, whose proprieter, Larry Flynt, has just switched jobs with Ken Starr. I step out onto Sunset and San Vicente into the teeming throngs, cheering and laughing and celebrating sex with a capital X. Sex is the future! The future is sex.
They want to impeach our culture…using sexual sleaze (the blowjob-by-blowjob Starr Report) to defeat sexual freedom (abortion rights, women's and gay causes, sex education, ethical hedonism and other sexual liberties)
I look out on the street, on the TV, on the Internet, in the papers, on my show, in my therapy practice-and I see that the counterculture has become the culture. That's why the Christian Right is fomenting this new Civil War. They want to impeach our culture. They're trying to use sexual sleaze (the blowjob-by-blowjob Starr Report) to defeat sexual freedom (abortion rights, women's and gay causes, sex education, ethical hedonism and other sexual liberties that Clinton represents). They don't want to accept the future.
The future is sex.
I turn on the news-any medium-and I see nonconsensual impeachment over a consensual blowjob by an inflamed House divided against itself, a House driven mad by sex, a House that will ultimately be transformed by sex. And I see the transformation, as we vote the Puritan scoundrels out and replace them with representatives who have learned what the American people seem to already know: That sex can be complex, that to demand publicly displayed sexual perfection from our leaders will leave us with a very poor selection of leaders. That sex is the future. The future is sex.
The future is female. The future is multicolored.
I see almost all of the ladies the House, as well as almost all the gentlemen of color, defending the President against a gang of largely lily white Southern males determined to fight the old Civil War all over again, raging impotently against Clinton because he loves women and minorities, and I see the future. The future is female. The future is multicolored.
The future is sex.
I look around me and I see the name "liberal" being worn proudly, not shamefully; I hear presidential historian Doris Kearns Goodwin forecasting greater "permissiveness" as the outcome of a nonconsensual impeachment; I see guerrilla politico James Carville calling for revolution against GOP puritanism, flanked by his adorable daughters and grimacing GOP wife (while we all wonder "How do those two have sex?"); I see Dr. Joycelyn Elders bravely reiterating her belief that our public school sex education classes should teach that masturbation is an alternative form of safe sex, and I wish the President hadn't fired her. I wish he'd seen the future back then, his future, our future. The future is sex.
He didn't chop down some cherry tree; he stood up and stopped his abusive stepfather from beating his mother. And he's still standing up to the bullying stepfathers of the rabid right-wing, and he's still standing up for the various women in his life
And now I look at this Bubba Baby Boomer Blowjob-Lovin' Bonobo President of ours, and I see him just trying to do his job and enjoy his life, making some stupid mistakes (too much junk food, too much junk sex?), but doing pretty well, by and large, by our country, balancing the budget, keeping unemployment low and abortion legal, putting the brakes on that nasty Gingrich Revolution, hugging as many people as possible, looking adoringly at his amazing wife, sweating like a POW under the Inquisitor's questions, talking about the mysteries of sex, confessing his transgressions, taking inspiration from Nelson Mandela, pushing peace in Northern Ireland and the Middle East, bombing Iraq too much for my taste (but then almost every President we've had has bombed or invaded too much for my taste). And I for one, take heart that as a young man, he was a war protester, not a warmonger.
In fact, when William Jefferson Clinton was just 16, he didn't chop down some cherry tree; he stood up and stopped his abusive stepfather from beating his mother. And he's still standing up to the bullying stepfathers of the rabid right-wing, and he's still standing up for the various women in his life, as well as for his right-and our right--to be sexually human. He stands up, and thank God for those of us who believe in liberty, he doesn't give up.
Please, Billy Jeff, don't give up! If you stand your ground, even if they do kick you out, history will not excoriate you. The history of the future will honor you as one of the greatest, sexiest, most competent, productive, popular, interesting presidents that ever managed to govern these unruly yet United States. Look toward the future: the future is sex.
Sex is good, sex is bad. Sex is creative, sex is destructive. Sex is vital, sex is trivial. Sex is meaningful, sex is silly. Sex is pure, sex is sleazy. Sex is naughty, sex is nice. Sex is private, sex is political. Sex is history, sex is the future. Step into the future. Open your heart, your mind, your legs, and your mouth. And call me if you'd like to talk about America's sexual future, or your own. My new number is 213.749.1330. And don't worry, I promise not to tell Ken Starr or Larry Flynt.