The Balls of Bill Clinton

Because the only other title possible was "Bill Clinton's Balls".

One thing that's never made clear in any cinematic treatise about life in politics is how grand and theatrical of a pageant it is. With very real world consequences, but staged finery nonetheless. All of which sort of frames the people who choose that platform to express themselves. They're sometimes like rock stars with no musical ability. Which makes them very much like a lot of rock stars. Except they can kill you. Or tax you.

We who lived back when Bill Clinton was president got the first and most significant taste of this. Sure, Reagan had some '40's film star brio. And Carter and his hot (look at the old photos!) wife had some folksy charm. Add in his beer drinking brother Billy pissing on the White House Lawn, his Beverly Hillbillies-esque Mother Lillian and his Carrie-esque daughter Amy and you still don't have rock star.

Bill had the ability to make you calling him "Bill" feel like the most natural thing in the world. Like calling Mick Jagger, Mick.

And then he picked up the saxophone and joked about his underwear and it was over. We were in love. We let him do anything. Pass some crazy crime bill? Sure! "Not inhale"? Haha...what a card! Because he had that instinctively animal ability to harrow our souls and he did so with an intelligence that got to the heart of really what the fuck is wrong with America: our unspoken of and undeclared class war.

But the real Bill? Who knew?

"Hey...you want to meet Bill?"

To his back and moving toward Bill, tentatively, were two women. They could have been sisters. They could have been friends. No idea. But they wore matching black leather miniskirts…

I was in, of all places, a large conference room in a building owned by famed pornographer and 1st Amendment advocate Larry Flynt. I was in Larry Flynt's conference room because I was working for Larry Flynt. On one of his more notable attempts at publishing beyond porn, we had launched Code, a men's fashion mag. But speaking to me was Alexis Herman, the secretary of labor. 

She was in Los Angeles because of some impending strike. Why she was meeting with me I've never been sure of. But when we were introduced after having been Secret Service'd down it went like this...

"Eugene, this is Madame Secretary Alexis Herman...and Ms. Herman this is..."

"Euge! I know..." And she arched her eyebrows. You see I used to do a sex advice column called "Ask Euge" and not only was I suddenly aware of how close we were standing to each other but how we were still shaking hands a good 60 seconds after our introduction. And you see this is the pageantry of which I spoke. All of that power, and optimism, and cash, and possibility? Well, it was a heady stew. 

But Bill was in town too and he was going to give me an interview, so she was the first line of seeing if I was sane enough to have this happen, I guess. Having passed the order of go was golf the next day, then dinner and then finally the interview, which we couldn't publish until the end of his term. The so-called "first Black President" was paying it forward by sitting with me and I was geeked.

How geeked? Geeked enough that I took golf lessons in the intervening time so I didn't embarrass myself on the course. Which was all for naught since he had to cancel leaving me there with Andrew Cuomo, Donna Shalala, and curiously enough Kenny G. Who played. And played. And played. All while standing strangling distance away from me. Right next to Secret Service guys. Which is the only way he survives this scenario.

But dinner was supposed to be at the hotel that Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated in. Actually in the basement where he was assassinated. I have come to conclude that that couldn't have been the case but it gave the evening a weird kind of resonance. 

And unbeknownst to Bill he and I have trod parallel paths well before this. And not just in the saxophone department.

On business travel to Berlin I'd often stay in the same hotel he did. The Intercontinental. 

Now...keep in mind this after being impeached for telling lies about intern sex and impudent loads on unwashed dresses.

I couldn't figure out why until I made it into one of their better rooms on an upgrade and realized I could shoot someone...say, Kenny G...in the room and no one would ever hear. Leave it to the Germans.

Pulling into the hotel I shot the shit with Cuomo, and he kept up. Since as a New York native I was much more familiar with his father, this was a pleasant surprise. Then Michael Brown, the Secretary of Commerce Ron Brown's son and a powerhouse in his own right, started ushering me around. 

This was to be a light meal but first some gathered numbers of well-wishers. Michael introduced us and it was like being introduced to the Amazing Kreskin. The Amazing Kreskin taking a read, and I was suddenly aware of the fact that the Secret Service, as far as I knew, hadn't searched me. AND I had a knife on me. Now I liked Bill but I'd be telling a lie if I didn't say that for half a second I thought about MAKING SOME HEADLINES. But the thought passed, some doors opened behind us, the group advanced and then the weirdest thing.

Bill's game face. And it didn't seem to be a face he was particularly happy about having to wear just then. It was eerie and cool all at the same time. The well-wishers hadn't seen it, and probably couldn't feel it, while he gabbed and shook hands, but I had seen it and I was...impressed. Impressed because it spoke to the magician's awareness of the magic.

Later that night Michael had wanted to bring me over to Bill before I left and as we made a move toward Bill, who was now standing behind a row of Secret Service with one other person chatting, someone called my name and I turned. When I turned back in the Secret Service had already let Michael in and I assumed they had seen that he and I were together, but together or not, they braced me before Michael turned around and claimed me. We chatted about the interview, expressing what seemed to be a measure of genuine excitement about the prospect.

But after moving outside of the Secret Service circle as I gathered up my coat and said a few goodbyes I saw the most amazing scene play out.

To his back and moving toward Bill, tentatively, were two women. They could have been sisters. They could have been friends. No idea. But they wore matching black leather miniskirts and plunging halter tops, high heeled shoes. The outfits were comfortably ensconced in what passed for "sexy modern." They giggled and I watched the phalanx of Secret Service cats just sort of evaporate. Like Van Halen roadies. Leaving a clear shot to Bill the women edged closer.

Now...keep in mind this after being impeached for telling lies about intern sex and impudent loads on unwashed dresses. If it was me with my back turned, I believe I would have assumed it was a horror movie. I'm stuck in a room with a journalist and my well-publicized weakness is creeping up behind me? And G-d knows where Hillary is...well, I'm peering through my fingers at the screen at this point.

Closer they move, and the closer they get the hotter they look. Eventually their total level of heat gets to whoever Bill is talking to and they nod behind Bill and to this moment of truth I'd been waiting for since, in this situation, if I am this man, I stiffly stick out my hand, uncomfortably shake theirs, and bid them adieu...having deftly and secretly passed off my room key, but still...my "shame" public I'd try to keep my proclivities private.

But not Bill.

He spun and when he saw who was behind him, he went full Bill, buckling at the knees, throwing his head back and his arms wide and embracing them both with a massive bear hug, and a "HIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!"

DROP. THE. FUCKING. MIC.

It's clearly Bill's world, and we're just leasing it.

They chatted for a bit animatedly before taking their leave and I wandered off into the Los Angeles night. 

The next day I was told that Esquire violated their agreement with Bill and were running their piece on him before he left office. I was confused since I thought we had had the exclusive. But we hadn't and we didn't and now because he was angry, we now had nothing.

I closed my bullet-proof office door -- after Flynt got shot the rumor was lots of the executive staff had steel doors installed -- and spun my chair around in a corner office that looked out over all of Los Angeles, starting with Beverly Hills.

I still needed a cover story. It wouldn't be this but it sure as hell should have been.

Because that shit was rock star. I had no words. But these. These will have to do.