What This Country Needs

"Just as she was about to leave, Monica Lewinsky told President Clinton that there was 'something serious' she needed to talk to him about, something she had learned from a friend. A reporter for Newsweek, Michael Isikoff, was working on a story alleging that the president had sexually harassed a woman named Kathleen Willey outside the Oval Office in 1993 ... Clinton told her not to worry. The harassment claim was ludicrous, he told her: he would never be interested in a small-breasted woman like Kathleen Willey."

Uncovering Clinton: A Reporter's Story, by Michael Isikoff

The screen flickered with the image of a fresh-faced young woman dancing on an outdoor stage. She wore just a bright yellow bikini bottom, a pair of flip-flop sandals ... and a soaking wet T-shirt. She shook to the beat of the generic rock'n'roll on the videotape's soundtrack.

The camera focused on her ample bosom as it bounced. The crowd roared its approval as the bouncing rate increased, and registered its enthusiasm by clapping in rhythm to the jumping titties.

The camera panned the crowd as a chant rose up. "Show! Your! Tits! Show! Your! Tits! Show! Your! Tits!"

"Stop the tape!" said a woman's voice. The screen froze on the face of a young man in his early twenties clapping and chanting. His face was in the process of pronouncing the "tits" part of the chant.

"Right there! Senator, isn't that you?" a woman in the studio audience asked as she pointed to the studio monitor.

The candidate smiled and blushed. "Yes ... yes, it is," he said haltingly.

The crowd reacted. Some giggled, others gasped. The woman spoke again. "Well, Senator, as someone who wants to run this country, and be a leader for all people, including women," she said, "what do you have to say about that thing you were chanting?"

"What? Show your tits?" said the senator. "I think it seems like a reasonable request ... don't you?" he said, grinning.

Theme music played as the picture faded to black for a commercial break.

The stage manager called, "We're back on in two minutes!" The candidate's campaign manager walked to the stage.

"Johnny, I don't know if I would have said that if I were you," said the older of the two men.

"Oh, Chet, who cares?" said the senator. "It's 2008. The party learned something from Clinton. People don't want to hold presidents to a higher standard. They want to think they're no better than the rest of us!"

"And that's why we nominated you, Johnny," said Chet. "Even your name! You're not John Joseph Winslow ... it's just Johnny! People like that. Plus the fact that you're young, you don't have too much insider experience ... and you're kind of a ladies' man."

"Thanks, Chet," cracked Jeff. "You're cute, too."

"Cut it out," chided the manager. "Even knowing all that, I don't think saying that 'Show your tits' is a reasonable request is going to play with most of America."

"Aw, Chet, it's not like I'm on 60 Minutes," said Johnny. "This is what the kids watch. It's where Clinton said he wears briefs and didn't inhale! It'll be fine."

"Maybe you're right," said Chet, getting ready to go back to his seat.

"Hey, did you get a look at the chick who asked the question?" said Johnny. "Not bad, huh?"

"No, not bad at all," agreed Chet, as he eyed the young woman's shape in her clingy minidress.

"I swear, there oughta be a law," said Johnny, mopping his brow. "If a girl gives a guy a hard-on, she ought to be made to do something about it for him! Don't you think? Maybe I can introduce it as a constitutional amendment," he laughed. "Hey, pal," said the senator to the stage manager. "When does this thing air?"

"On our channel, next week," said the stage manager. "But since the movie studio who owns us now owns a bunch of big-city TV stations, we're feeding this live right now to them — to use excerpts on tonight's news."

Johnny gave Chet a worried look. "Live?" he gulped.

"Yeah ... oh, it's not being aired live," explained the stage manager. "They're just rolling tape on the entire feed in their newsrooms. They'll make it a VOSOT."

"VOSOT?" asked Johnny.

"Voice Over/Sound On Tape," said the stage manager. "It'll be like four seconds long. No big deal."

Johnny looked down at his clip-on microphone. "And ... and these mikes are always on, aren't they?"

The stage manager nodded. "Places, people! We're back in five! Four! Three! Two ...!"

In a production tape room at a Washington, D.C., television station, a tape operator hastily dialed the extension of the news director.

"Bob? Come down here right away. Tape room," he said feverishly. "You'll never believe what we've got Senator Winslow saying on tape."

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Chet and Johnny walked into the New York hotel suite occupied by the campaigning senator and his wife.

"Guess what's on TV?" said Mrs Winslow with a cynical twist to her voice, as she poured herself another drink.

"Let me guess," snorted Chet.

"First two guesses don't count," said the senator's wife. "A breaking news report about your boneheaded remarks, Johnny," she said, settling into an easy chair.

"What? That stuff?" said Johnny, genuinely surprised. "Are they making a big deal of it?"

"Of course they are," moaned Chet, lowering his lumbering body into a couch. "Sure, you said the party learned something from Clinton. But shit like that still makes news."

"Aw, go on," said the senator, positioning himself on the arm of the chair occupied by his wife. "Whenever Buffy here gives me a hard-on, she's required to do something about it!" he chuckled, slipping his hand into his wife's blouse.

"Johnny, not in front of Chet," chided Buffy. But when she looked over at the balding campaign adviser, he'd fallen asleep on the couch.

"See, there's nothing to worry about," whispered Johnny, now jamming both hands into Buffy's 36D bra.

"Well, in that case, let's see if the matter comes up for a vote," she said, putting down her drink and reaching for his crotch.

"If the voters could get a look at these," slobbered Johnny, pulling his wife's blouse off over her head, "they'd see my ideas are just good public policy!" He reached around to unfasten her bra.

"You think?" asked Buffy, proud of her man's enthusiasm about her figure.

"I vote yes," said Johnny, wrapping his lips around his wife's lovely nipple. Buffy reached around and pulled his head closer. She lowered one hand to Johnny's fly and rubbed. "Ohhh! This is not some kind of obligatory vote to please your constituents!" she teased. "This is a subject you feel strongly about!"

Johnny mauled Buffy's tits with both hands. "Don't you like it when I feel ... strongly?" he asked.

Buffy closed her eyes and enjoyed her man's mammary ministrations. "Yes, I do," she answered, "and these two constituents are very pleased," she said, lifting her breasts to her man's hungry lips. Buffy reached down and tore his pants off with one hand. Johnny looked up. He was pretty lucky to be married to this strawberry-blonde beauty with good-sized knockers. And such a healthy enthusiasm for sex! But he wondered ... those things he said on the music-channel show ... they were pretty graphic about how much he'd like to be slipping his dick to other women. Johnny wasn't sure if Buffy would be quite so liberal-minded about that.

Right now, though, it didn't matter. She'd successfully removed his pants and flung them aside. They landed near the sleeping figure of the campaign manager.

"Hey, careful," cautioned Johnny. "You'll wake up Chet."

Buffy snickered. "He'd probably have a heart attack. That'd be a hell of a scandal, wouldn't it?"

"Get on your hands and knees and let me slip it in from behind," said Johnny, scampering into place. "No! Not there"

"Why?" wondered Buffy.

"Because I want to see those Dolly-Partons swing to and fro in the mirror as we do it doggy," smiled Johnny as he continued to knead and pinch her swelling breasts.

"Mmmmmmm," purred Buffy as she got into place. They did their best to be quiet. But the rhythmic bang-bang-bang of Johnny's pubic bone against Buffy's smooth ass cheeks was sure to wake Chet.

Chet blinked. "Hey!" he shouted, shocked and turned on. He'd wanted to see Buffy naked since he joined the campaign. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Oh, Chet," said Buffy as her nipples scraped the shag carpeting. "We're just testing Johnny's theory about women who give men a hard-on being legally compelled to do something about it!" she joked, speaking between bangs.

"Yeah, but what about me?" demanded Chet, as he removed his gray flannel trousers.

"Go on, Chet," laughed Johnny. "You haven't had a hard-on in fifteen years!"

"Oh? Then what's this?" he asked, getting on his knees so that his member was at Buffy's mouth level.

Johnny was speechless, and Buffy ... well, she was unable to speak. She'd been taught not to talk with her mouth full.

Later, all three lay about the hotel room — naked, drained, and content.

"Jesus, Johnny," sighed Buffy. "You're right. There'd be a lot less stress in the world if we all could do this all the time."

"Yeah, no sexual hangups," agreed Chet.

"Sex in the open, anytime, anywhere — and with anyone," added Johnny.

"You know," said Buffy, thinking out loud. "Maybe you shouldn't back away from those statements you made today. Maybe you should embrace them!" Buffy sprang from the couch and headed toward a phone.

"What's going on?" Johnny wanted to know.

"New strategy," said Buffy, dialing furiously. "I don't think you should wait until the convention to announce your running mate."

"What are you thinking?" asked Chet, fingering his cock as he searched for scrambled porn on the hotel room TV.

"You'll be announcing a running mate tomorrow," said the voluptuous Buffy. "At a press conference in Las Vegas."

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The ladies and gentlemen of the press were buzzing. They all wondered why Senator Winslow had called this press conference, and especially why he'd called it in Las Vegas. It wasn't as though it was part of his campaign itinerary. And why in a lounge? They looked around at the strobe lights, the day-glo silhouettes of well-endowed female forms on the walls, and the stage with a pole in its center. It hardly seemed the place for a presidential candidate.

Seated near the podium were the senator, his attractive wife, and his campaign manager. The campaign manager stepped up to the mike.

"Looks like you're all here!" said Chet, sounding pleased. "Ladies and gentlemen, the next President of the United States — Johnny Winslow!"

There was a smattering of applause as the senator stepped forward.

"Pencils ready? Tape rolling?" he began. "I'm going to spell something for you. Listen carefully. S-A-L-L-I DOT COM."

There was some nervous male laughter.

"I can see some of the men here pretending they don't know who I'm talking about," continued Senator Winslow. "Forget it. It's no use. Everyone knows who Salli Webb is. That entertainment news show on TV puts a story about her on every rating period — showing lots and lots of cleavage. She's even been on that late-night discussion show, discussing Internet freedom — showing lots and lots of cleavage. And, as both the business mind and the main attraction behind the web site known as Salli's Silicone Valley, she's the only woman ever to have her picture on the covers of both the Business Journal ... and What Knockers magazine — showing lots and lots of cleavage. Ladies and gentlemen, one of the most downloaded women on the planet, and the next Vice President of the United States ...!"

Johnny paused to let the impact of that statement hit.

"Miss Salli Webb!"

A late 1990s funk anthem began playing over the club's P.A. system as the lights dimmed. Strobes and mirrored disco balls were activated. A follow-spot shot past the ladies and gentlemen of the press and shone on a voluptuous figure entering from the back of the house.

Salli Web, clad in white high heels, a garter belt, a teeny-tiny G-string, and a brilliant rhinestone bikini top that showed lots and lots of cleavage, traipsed down the aisle. She paused to lean over and shimmy her famous breasts in the faces of every reporter gathered, male and female. She spotted a local news photographer and motioned for him to lie on the floor for a low angle shot. Then she gyrated above his head, tossing her shoulder-length blonde hair from side to side, the size of her breasts made even more monumental by the way they blocked out her cute pixie — like face from below. She shoved the boobs to one side in order to give the photog a wink. Then she swung her shapely leg over his head and strode toward the stage, the funky music following her sensual and suggestive movements.

Salli climbed onto the stage and swung her busty, shapely body around the pole at the center of the stage. Johnny's campaign manager, Chet, walked to the side of the platform carrying a one-dollar bill folded in half. Salli Webb cocked her hip in his direction to invite him to tuck the tip into her skimpy g-string. The house lights came up and the model/entrepreneur hoisted her exquisite form off the stage and over to the podium. Salli Webb held up the dollar bill. "We're considering these campaign contributions!" she announced, to laughter and applause. Senator Winslow spoke.

"Miss Webb would like to read a short prepared statement, and then she'll be ready for questions." Salli stood next to him and grinned, making it clear that she was staring directly at his crotch. Johnny blushed.

"My fellow Americans," began the blonde web goddess, who'd be called petite if it weren't for the marvelous feats of modern cosmetic surgery that required her to wear a size 32J brassiere. "Yesterday, Johnny Winslow made two statements. One, that 'show your tits' is a reasonable request. Secondly, that any woman who gives a man a hard-on should be required to do something about it. Speaking on behalf of the ticket, we stand behind these statements! Because I like it from behind," she added, suggestively licking her lips. Audience reaction ran from gasps to laughter to the very quiet sound of hands reaching into pockets to rearrange things suddenly.

"Like Lysistrata and the women of ancient Greece, we feel that sex is power," continued Salli. "And the most sexually satisfied nation will be the most powerful nation. We're here to demonstrate that in every way, and we think our message will resonate with the American people. Thank you."

"Miss Webb!" shouted a male network TV reporter. "Will this policy help international relations?"

"Sam, I have international relations all the time," she answered. "Yes. I will be traveling to visit many of our world leaders ... dressed more or less like this. And unlike previous vice-presidents, I won't be visiting them after they're dead, attending state funerals. These," she said, hoisting her overflowing jugs chin-high, "fifty-inchers will do more good when the guys are still alive! Well, nearly fifty inches, anyway. Part of our foreign policy will include tracking which leaders — male or female — like titties like mine."

"Thank you, Miss Webb," said the reporter, sitting down.

"I'll renew your membership at Salli's Silicone Valley for free, Sam," smiled Salli. "Professional courtesy. Anyone else?"

"Yes," said a female magazine reporter. "My question is for Mrs Winslow. Do you approve of this?"

"Approve?" said Buffy. "It was my idea! Ladies, they're going to tom-cat around. Why not let them? And if Johnny's ideas become law," she continued, "it follows that they should apply to everyone. Women who are turned on by men would be allowed to demand certain things of them, too! Don't you see?"

"I do," said the reporter. "Senator? In the spirit of your wife's remarks, could I buy you a drink?"

Johnny laughed. "Sorry, you're not my type."

"That brings up another question," said a newspaperman. "Would this ... mandatory sexual freedom be ... well, equitable? What I mean is, will gorgeous people have more than they can handle, while the more ordinary-looking among us are still left with typing smutty URLs into our web browsers with one hand?"

"We've been discussing that," said Salli, who had begun bouncing her ass against Chet's rising member. She reached behind and grabbed the campaign manager's hands while she spoke.

"That's right," broke in Johnny. "Salli, in your career — what percentage of all men do you think are tit-men?"

"Oh! Ninety. Easily," said Salli, curling Chet's fingers around her yummy boobs.

"Precisely," said the senator. "We'll introduce a bill that makes breast augmentation part of every woman's basic health care coverage. That's all for now, ladies and gentlemen. Salli and I have to begin our campaign. Tomorrow, we're in New York City."

"That's right," added Salli, "you can see Senator Winslow at Madison Square Garden. And me?" She grinned. "I'll be at Scores. 'Bye now!" Salli, Johnny, and Chet beat a hasty retreat as the ladies and gentlemen of the press compared notes, not believing what they knew they saw and heard.

A newspaperman from the senator's home state approached the podium and spoke to Mrs Winslow.

"Buffy?" said the young man. "You've been giving me a hard-on ever since I covered your husband's first campaign for state senator."

"Really?" blushed the voluptuous wife. "These casinos are usually connected to hotels — aren't they?"

The young reporter smiled and blushed back.

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"My fellow Americans!" said the President. "I vowed that I would not eschew my duties as President to engage in re-election politicking. But Senator Winslow's latest statements, and especially his absurd choice for the second-highest office in this land, demand that I be silent no longer!"

The incumbent Republican slammed his hand on his desk for emphasis.

"I submit that my opponent is trying to appeal to the American male through his crotch rather than his head!" said the President. "This isn't public policy, this isn't a plan for social reform — it's a peep show! You pay with the quarter of your vote — and when that quarter runs out, a partition drops down and doesn't let you see anything until you ante up again!"

"Mr President, don't say that," said the young lady who was running the President's campaign. "The religious right will want to know how you know all that."

"Oh. Dana, you're right!" said the President, getting out a pencil. "I'll have to think of something else for that, and fast! I think I have to make a speech against this Winslow-Webb ticket tonight! Can I get on network TV tonight?"

"Of course," answered Dana. "You're the President."

"I'd better do it at eight. At nine, Jenna Jameson is going to be chatting live on the Internet."

"I beg your pardon, Mr President?" said Dana.

"Ummm, and I don't want to mis — that is to say, many of the very people who should hear this speech won't be watching TV!" said the President, scribbling some new lines.

"I see," sighed the publicist. "Boy, the Democrats have done it this time, haven't they? Salli's Silicone Valley! salli.com," muttered Dana, who had been working for the Republican party in public relations since that year they had to convince everyone that winning the popular vote doesn't matter. "How could they think anybody would vote for someone connected with such a disreputable business?"

"Especially since they took off all the free video clips," muttered the President.

"What's that, sir?" asked Dana.

"Oh! Nothing," said the Republican, hurriedly. "Let me rewrite that part about the partition, then I'll ask you to listen again. Good day, Dana."

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Chet addressed a room full of volunteers. "This is going to be an interesting experiment in American politics," he began. "There can be no waiting for the polls before we take a position. We've got to go with this message of Sexual Freedom for a Stress-Free America 100%!"