Whenever I see men in power who are seemingly beyond reproach I can’t help but suspect that something must be wrong. Like there’s some disgusting secret lurking in there, beneath the well-pressed clothes and the expensive perfume and the well-combed thinning gray hair. I’m sure its just my own nagging cynicism, but still. Like they must have been utterly carefree in their youth in the 70s, participating in wild meth sessions. Or they must have killed a stripper in a bachelor party by accidentally knocking her off the stairs and she hit her head and cerebrospinal fluid leaked down her nose! Or they must have conspired with aliens in 1947 and willingly gave them their own family members in exchange for an alien fetus from which they could create the perfect human-alien hybrid DNA who will survive the alien holocaust!
I’ve recently re-read parts of the The Inner Circle by the usually reliable TC Boyle, a reimagining of what must life must have been like for the sex-researcher Alfred Kinsey. For a book that is heavily about sex, it ended up being a total drag. In it Alfred Kinsey is a very reputable man with an inner circle of male researchers. He has a wife and kids, and he is very well-mannered. He doesn’t drink, and he reprimands smokers. At night he demands sex from his researchers, who willingly give it to him. And according to the narrator (one of the male researchers), Kinsey is into urethrals. What is urethrals, you dare ask? That’s the sort of fetish/paraphilia wherein you enjoy inserting all sorts of rigid objects into your urethra. I don’t know why, but it reminds me of intubation.