Sexual Politics

This past Sunday the cover of the New York Times Magazine had the photographs of the twelve candidates running for the office of mayor of New York City.  And from amongst the unusual suspects, the unsmiling, unwelcome mug of Anthony Weiner jumped out at me.

You remember Anthony, don’t you?  AKA “Carlos Danger?” (His Twitterverse love handle.)  Compulsive “sexter,” sexual braggart, slimeball.  Ugh.  I thought we were done with the likes of him and his “zipper problem.”

If I sound a little hacked at the idea that this guy should even think of becoming a paid public servant leading a world-class city, let me make it clear that I have a (kosher hot) dog in the hunt.

For many years I, too, had a “Weiner” predicament.  My ex had a problem keeping his private parts to him (or my) self.  He was a serial philanderer who messed around with women from his office to Haiti.

I know because he told me so.  In a snit fit of jealousy or braggadocio, he couldn’t resist rubbing it in.  (Oh yeah, and I caught him at the Holiday Inn in Mt. Prospect once, too.)

But last year, ironically- and hilariously- he founded a sex clinic to help all those codgers less fortunate than he.  Those other old coots who are afflicted with performance problems in their nether regions.

If any of this sounds vaguely familiar, it might because, in the very early days of Letter From Elba, I ran a post called “Philanthropy.”  A protest went up in certain quarters and I bowed to the pressure and took it down.

But if the specter of Anthony Weiner has reared its head once more, (pun), surely the topic of my ex husband laying out hard cash (another pun. Sorry, I just can’t help it.) for a sexual health facility can rise again, too.  (Last pun.)

God (or Hef) only knows why he chose to put his imprimatur on a sex clinic.  He himself wears hearing aids, a pacemaker and has had two knee replacements.  His family medical history includes a sister and a father who both died of cancer.  You would think that he could find it in his heart to donate to ease the suffering of those afflicted with any of these troublemakers.

But no.  He decided to slap his name on a “broke junk” joint that brings much-needed aid and comfort to all those who suffer from the heartbreak of vaginal dryness and premature ejaculation.

I know this because YouTube is now flooded with videos (!) as the guy in charge helpfully shows all of us how to give penile injections in an attempt to shore up flagging spirits- and private parts.

Ouch Sidebar:  I didn’t know exactly what to expect when I clicked on the first video. Maybe a distinguished, gray-haired Dr. Marcus Welby pontificating solemnly on the dilemma of e.d.

But what I got was Corky St. Clair from Waiting for Guffman holding a big hypodermic and a lifelike rubber penis.

I vacillated between laughter and tears as he poked that poor thing with the syringe…and then I shut it off.  I couldn’t look any more.

I’m sorry but I just don’t get it.  Why advertise that you are so concerned with sexual dysfuction that you’re willing to lay out wads of cash AND put your name on it?

Paging Dr. Freud.  (Or Dr. Ruth.)

It’s too bad.

And it’s too bad that the sex clinic has already been formally opened.

I hereby retroactively nominate Anthony Weiner to do the honors.