Just keeps it all up here (author taps his left temple). Sex, for the most part, is not something that a physical act for Weiner, it’s a fantasy, very private, to be enjoyed by him alone in his own mind. Hey, as a man, no one knows how better to reach climax than when you’re tugging your own turgid rod. I imagine the same goes for women. What do I know? This is how Weiner wants it. The guy doesn’t even have flesh intercourse with Sydney Leathers--his iMistress--in person, the way a regular powerful male, who has his pick of attractive available women would.
Imagine you’re the prospective mayor of the largest and most powerful city in America and you don’t even reach out to physically touch one of your mistresses. A relationship over the course of months is maintained yet there is no face time. Never. You only want to have the mistress talk dirty to you while you yank on your prick. Hell, it only takes a few minutes to pop off and then you just want to get back to pressing mayoral business. Some men only want to have a relationship that is mediated by the distance of technology. It’s a fantastical voyage, where everything is safely on the outside and out of reach. Personal connections are right where you want them to be: at arm’s length.
Weiner never consummates his lust, even though that’s all the guy does is talk about having sex when he’s speaking or texting to Miss Leathers, how he wants to cum deep insider her, or on her feet, or on her tits, and not to mention the constant ‘dictures’ he sends her.
Not many can sculpt a genitalia shot like Weiner. He’s the Orson Welles of dick pics. He takes the picture from below the penis, so when one opens the file to view it for the first time, you feel subservient, looking up at this looming beast.
Weiner needs constant reassurance and ego-stroking. A powerful man in control--that’s Anthony Weiner. And don’t you forget it! There’s also an element of head-scratching absurdity when one considers the nom de plume Weiner employs to disguise his alter ego: Carlos Danger. To me, the vaguely Quixotic/Zorro undertones hint at some long lost childhood love from a far away place; a hero of his youth, perhaps. Come on-- where did he come up with that one? What a fucking goof.
According to Sydney Leathers, who was delightfully eloquent compared to most other high profile mistresses, in the absolutely enthralling Howard Stern interview on Tuesday, July 30th, she claimed that Weiner never even mentioned or commented to her about the name. She assumed it was implicit and only reasonable that this powerful New York politician would use a pseudonym when compulsively engaging in teenage boy level emails and texts. Weiner just screams immaturity in the personal realm. He calls this supposedly young alluring sexpot, who, let’s be honest is kind of a beast--in mayoral terms--and frantically tugs his cut Jew cock in three to five minutes tops and splurts his ectoplasmic seed into his bellybutton, filling it like a kiddie jism pool, then awkwardly ends the conversation and gets back to the business of politicking. Does that sound like a forty eight year old man vying to run New York City?
I, baby, am Carlos Danger.
|The iMistress herself.|
Ultimately, his juvenile sexual behaviour is the symptom of an addiction, a compulsion, an it’s-just-never-fucking-enough type of non-stop feeling. It manifests itself in a myriad of ways. For example, me, I like to get high and drink and think about it all the time even when I’m not doing anything, when I’m reading a book or eating lunch, I can’t stop thinking about how good it will be when that bong hits my lips and that sweet smoke shoots deep into my lungs, so deep I think where does it all even go in there? And how great that pint of Molson M will be. Well, how great that fourth one will be, once I’m already juiced up and stoned. Then try not to repeat for as long as possible. So I can laugh at Weiner’s problems, but I feel for the guy on some level. Aren’t we all prisoners to our unruly desires? I can also identify with Weiner, as can many men I suspect, in that who fucking cares anymore about working for a relationship? Can’t I just pull up YouPorn.com and jerk off, be done in five minutes, and not have to deal with all the jabbering and rotten smelling vaginas and in-laws, and comprimised ME time, and human contact? I know, it’s all so narcissistic and misogynistic. I am a broken man, what can I say? I dream of the perfect woman, where we cuddle up at night and our days are filled with love. At some point in the fantasy, reality's gaping maw of doom always creeps in through the cracks, and doubtless we’ll end up being snippy with each other and we'll long for the days when we weren’t so responsible for each others’ happiness and well being. And to think my parents have been married for thirty nine years!
Real love is scary and when it happens we aren’t in control of our emotions the way we’d prefer. It’s like waterskiing and the boat is being driven by a maniac; can be potentially thrilling, the ride of a life, but can also cause you to drown, or at the very least get a nasty rope burn.
Why Mr. Weiner clearly cannot and will not be mayor of NYC isn’t so much about his sexual preferences, it’s about his colossal lack of judgement. This is NYC politics; a goddamn boiler room! People are watching watching watching! The minute you fuck up, someone’s right there to ask you about it.
Personally, as simply another John Q. Citizen, I want my politicians to be automatons for the people, monk-like in their devotion to giving over their lives to public service. I don’t want a mayor who smokes crack or compulsively sext’s women because that is time he should be spending to make life better for the billions of dumbfounded dip shits. And everyone knows--not that this is nowhere--but that when you hear of some dubious politician smoking crack or sending out cock pictures, it’s not like they’re doing that here and there, only sprinkling it in after a hard days
I should know. If you snap a photo of me taking a bong rip, you can be damn sure it wasn’t the exception to the rule; certainly not a special occasion. So what is the solution once the cat is out of the bag? Witness the recent multiple sexual harassment allegations against San Diego Mayor Bob Filner: Press conference apologies and the humble accepting of wrongdoings, and a guarantee to process the shame and guilt in the manner deemed appropriate by professionals. Then whisked away to a two week behavioural therapy course (two weeks!?) to correct the sexually inappropriate conduct that is unbecoming of a public figure. Next stop: Curesville!
It's like giving an Advil to an AIDS patient.
"There's no need to step down as mayor, no no no, why do that?" He essentially says. "Those two weeks really did me good. I feel right as rain. I'm ready to NOT grab underling titties, and NOT lick the cheeks of buxom interns with my septuagenarian tongue, no siree!"
Many of Filner's accusers claim that he is a cheek licker. Gawd, imagine having to endure that slimy slug moving across your cheek, smelling like Polident and Psylium fiber. The cheek is a very private and sensitive area of a person's body. Even in jest, to lick a friend or lover's cheek, causes one to immediately pull away and wipe off with any available cloth, or the back of one's hand, the sheen of saliva streaming across the cheek. I find Filner much more despicable. These gals are saying he also hugs way too tight and for too long. This guy is a fucking nightmare. I can only imagine how many inside jokes there are between Bob's most trusted staff: "Hey guys, last night I was Filnering this broad's asshole with my hot yogurt." Or, when he's at a gas station: "Filner up!"
|"How'd you like some cheek-licking and tight-hugging?"|
Some senior citizens emit a tender glow of warmth and friendliness; the years have bestowed wisdom and humility upon them. This Filner character, with his hangdog jowls and cold dead eyes, has about as much warmth to him as a serial rapist from Nunavut.
Weiner? Are you listening? Maybe New York isn’t the place for you. How can you say no to palm trees and agreeable weather all year round? Just think, you could be topless jogging along the pacific coast in the middle of January.
Following the lack of judgement theme: How could Weiner possibly think that Sydney would keep her yap shut? What child-like trust in a woman he has never even seen in the flesh. He probably has an encyclopaedic brain, can quote obscure law by rote, but his Amygdala just takes over at every twist down the road of life. Those damn fingers have a mind of their own!
Cynicism sinks in a little deeper the more I gnaw on it, I get to thinking that maybe Weiner is addicted to the attention, not feeling even an ounce of shame. And Huma, she’s known about his behaviour for years but she doesn’t care . . . this isn’t love, it’s success, it’s a New York power couple. That’s the deal. Fight enemies together? Well, sure. But only make love and be emotionally faithful to each other? Are you nuts!
Weiner’s so famous now, has so much juice, he doesn’t care that it’s because of his unruly internet sexcapades. Weiner loves the power. Even scandalous power can be parlayed into legitimate power. A couple years ago, Anythony Weiner running for mayor of NYC would be a total joke. He somehow, in between sexting the fuck out of various women, clawed his way back into the ring. I wonder, were his claws just that sharp or was the public just that soft.
Weiner doesn’t think like you and me--he’s on another level entirely. Yes-men and yes-women carry out his every whim. Common civilians on the street shake his hand enthusiastically--or not--and tell him they love what he’s doing for the city. He is some kind of god. He’ll subject his beautiful and smart Indian/Pakistani wife (a spicy combo indeed!) Huma, to a soul destroying, humiliating, career-defining press conference. Boy, her ‘I’m standing by my man during this difficult time’ speech didn’t have much gusto. I always think how odd it must be for those on the other side of the camera. We see them in high definition yet all they see in their moment of anguish are obscured humans, their shoulders propping up all manner of video equipment, some large syndicated networks cameras looking like they could fucking lobotimize you on the spot. Bright lights, flashing lights, square boxes, round boxes, just focused on you. Beaming you out to the world. All these prepared words you're saying, that sound nothing really like you, and it's like a play, or a movie, because that's where you say rehearsed lines as a character, but here we are and there are lines to to say yet there isn't supposed to be a character.
Weiner stood beside Huma and leered as stoically as he could while she said her peace, the pieces of her intimate life gutted and splayed for the world to see. How a heart wrenches! As a young girl, could she ever imagine that her future husband would be sexting as Carlos Danger? That this is what the sum of her carefully groomed and affluent life, her education, her political career as a successful aide to Hilary Clinton, who thinks of Huma as an “adopted daughter,” amounted to? She was this close to having it all, except that her hubby is a compulsive sexual dreamer.
Who knows, maybe Weiner, as he was gazing silently at his radiant wife and mother of his two children standing at the lectern, while she proclaimed her acceptance of her husband’s indiscretions and forgave him, was absent-mindedly greasing the gears and pre-texting with Sydney. Thinking about how he can’t wait until he finishes up with this shame inducing hoo-ha charade, and can steal a few moments away from aides and family to unlock his phone with the deft, second nature swipe of his thumb to write a quick horned-up message to Sydney Leathers, iMistress extraordinaire.
I’m getting all worked up just thinking about it!
Like a moth before there were light bulbs, what did Anthony Weiner do before cellphones?