Don’t think I don’t see you, Barack. I see you, running along the beach in your swimsuit. I see you on that basketball court, sinking three-point shots. And I completely see you on CNN, talking about the future of the country. Oh, Barack Obama. You look good in a suit. You look good in swimsuits. You look good in everything.
But in spite of all that, I have absolutely no desire to sleep with you.Not that I’d be adverse to the possibility of sleeping with a president. I have my “seduced by a president” fantasies, most of which involve JFK. I can easily imagine succumbing to Bill Clinton’s rakish charm. I think sleeping with either one of them would have been a lot of fun — if you eliminated the national scandal or the possibility that the CIA would kill you. But Barack Obama? No. No, not really.
It’s not because I don’t agree with his policies. I wouldn’t sleep with, say, George Bush, because I feel like there would be a lot of awkwardness when I remembered some decisions he’d made that I really didn’t support. We would have a very quiet, non-talking affair, George and I.
But I love Barack Obama. I campaigned for him. I have a MoveOn.org sticker on my bulletin board. When I went to Art Basel and saw the myriad pictures of Barack Obama in religious scenes, it didn’t strike me as surprising. It didn’t strike me as surprising because Barack Obama is right up there with Abraham Lincoln and Bobby Kennedy in my pantheon of saintly American political figures.
The problem is this. I can imagine sleeping with JFK or Clinton because I viewed them as charming rascals who ended up in the White House through some combination of wit and wile. They did a good job, but I think of them as being as pure as freshly driven slush.
Barack Obama, though? Barack Obama is not a rascal. Barack Obama, I’ve been telling myself for the past four years, is going to save the country through sheer force of virtue. If Barack Obama suddenly came on to me, I don’t think I would be capable of recognizing it or understanding it. I would assume I’d misinterpreted, because good, virtuous people who are sometimes portrayed with halos around their heads don’t do things like that. In my fantasies, when I sidle up to Barack in the Oval Office and ask to file his briefs (wink-wink, nudge-nudge), he doesn’t stare at me in the way JFK no doubt would. He looks shocked. Shocked and disapproving. In the fantasy, I feel embarrassed. Then I leave.
This is distressing. I was relying on Barack to bring sexy back to the White House. It would help me out a lot if Barack would do something scandalous that wouldn’t affect the country at large. However, if he’s reluctant to do so, I suppose bringing back a feeling of admiration for political figures is OK, too.