Sex
Jesse Jackson? That’s just my baby daddy
The reverend can be forgiven for his affair because the flesh is weak. But so is his game -- why did he get caught?
The Rev. Jesse Jackson on Thursday confirmed reports that he is the father of a 20-month-old child born out of wedlock. That’s right, the Rev. Jesse Jackson: activist, minister, pundit, baby daddy.
Jackson, who spent time counseling President Clinton after the Monica Lewinsky debacle, has a little girl by one of his Rainbow Coalition staffers. Right about now, Bill is calling Jesse with marital advice of his own: “Run, Jesse. Run!”
I’m not surprised Jackson had an affair. Martin Luther King Jr. was reputed to have been a philanderer of mythic proportions, and why is that surprising? I mean, on the small screen, they are both men, and men have dicks. And every man with a dick knows that dicks have a mind of their own. That dick is an evil muthafucka — he can always get you into some shit with no mind as to how you’ll get out of it. No matter how much trouble could be on the back end of a careless tryst, that dick is always in your pants, saying, “Lookit dat ass!”
Chris Rock said it best: Men are only as faithful as their options, and men like Jackson must have hella options. Jackson said it himself: “When the doors of opportunity swing open, we must make sure that we are not too drunk to walk through.” Uh-huh. Hell, rappers have groupies — I’m sure there are plenty of women who want a little civil rights dick broke off donkey style, with Jesse screamin’, “Less legislatin’ and mo’ ejaculatin’!” I got no problem with Jesse Jackson getting a little ass from a staff person. The flesh is weak, and the smell of pussy is strong like a muthafucka. Better men than Jackson have fallen victim to the allure of easy pussy. Who am I to judge?
My problem is that my man ain’t no player — his game ain’t tight. Not only is discretion the better part of valor, it’s the true player’s creed. Do your dirt, but freak the booty like Kwai Chang Kane and leave nary a trace, dun. No towel, no kiss, just cum and run, baby. Get quick on the draw or wrap Li’l Man, but don’t ride it raw and then let off shots — that’s just stupid. I can’t respect a careless, stupid man. I’ll forgive him, but I may never respect him again.
And I did respect him on some level, although I’m not sure why. Maybe because Mike Wallace told me to. I mean, I guess he’s a symbol of something, but who the fuck knows what anymore? He might as well be Aunt Jemima, for all his political relevance. I never seriously saw him as a leader; being the man next to The Man never gave me much confidence in his power.
What’s sad is that to so many people he represented an ideal, a dream referred. He was the reminder of a movement that helped America become the cracked melting pot it is today. And now those people are crushed. Jesse’s picture is being taken down in rec rooms all across black America. In my local barbershop they will no doubt rehang his picture on the Wall of Stains, right next to Leon Isaac-Kennedy, Jimmie Walker and Master P, and that’s probably good company for him — with all the other losers.
For me, he’s a civil rights rapper at best, spittin’ vicious licks and, apparently, slingin’ vicious dick. Ain’t no tellin’ how this baby-mama drama is gonna shake out. As if black leadership needed more discrediting. Here’s a leader who can’t lead and a player who can’t play: He gets no dapp from me, Jack.
But, benevolent people that we are, we will most certainly give him another shot at a leadership role. We forgave Marion “Pookie” Barry, and he was a dope fiend. Certainly Jackson is due a pardon for being slow on the draw. But Mrs. Jackson and his five children — that’s another matter. He better call his local request line, ask for Outkast and send the mother of all shout-outs to get on her good side. Maybe have them play the “I’m sorry, Ms. Jackson” part over and over. The whole thing is largely a private matter, but he better call Tyrone before Mama get her gun. Word.
But you know what? Even amid the humiliation and the fall from grace, he’ll be back, rejuvenated, with even better rhetorical rap: “Don’t playa-hate,” I can hear him sayin’, “legislate!”
Jimi Izrael is a journalist living in Cleveland Heights, Ohio. More Jimi Izrael.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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