Harry Morton Asks Lindsay Lohan To Shave Her Crotch

Harry Morton watched Lindsay Morgan Lohan slide out of bed. It was late morning, almost noon, and Lindsay and Harry had been out most of the night dancing and drinking and popping a few pills that kept everything going. Lindsay did not make eye contact with Harry as she stood and put on her white panties and then her white bra. Her hair was jet black , the newest incarnation of Lindsay's public persona. Harry was essentially a nobody and he could not believe he was now the boyfriend of Lindsay Lohan. All Harry ever did was have a father who happened to own the Hard Rock Café. Big fucking deal, Harry told himself, though he did not reveal these insecurities to anyone.
But here he was lying in the bed where he had made love to Lindsay Morgan Lohan, what, three times last night, the last time when Lindsay was in a near sleep state.
"I would like to see you shave it off. All off," said Harry.
"What?" said Lindsay without looking up, struggling to get her blue jeans on.
"I would like for you to shave your crotch hair all off," said Harry. There, he said it. He was being bold and taking a risk. But he found that the more he got women to do outlandish things to please him, the more compliant they became over time. He asked a girl once to shave her crotch, but her response was "fuck you." Harry could not believe it. She was more of a nobody than he was. But now he felt like Lindsay had an investment. A time investment. A bed investment. A media investment. Harry thought he could ask. Plus he was pissed that Lindsay told the media that she was only dating Harry because Johnny Depp and Ashton Kutchner were taken. That wasn’t nice. It was time to take action.
"Could you like say that again. I am not sure I heard you," said Lindsay.
"I would like you to shave your crotch," said Harry.
Lindsay zipped up the zipper of her blue jean, but the very top remained unbuttoned. She was standing there with messy black hair, a white bra, barefoot in blue jeans. Lindsay made her first eye contact with Harry, who was covered by white sheets and had his back up somewhat on the headboard.
"My crotch?" asked Lindsay.
"Yeah," said Harry.


Lindsay Lohan's disheveled black hair covered much of her face. She pushed the copious black hair back to get a better look at Harry Morton lying on the bed.
"Why do you want me to shave my crotch hair?" asked Lindsay.
So here was the big moment. Should he tell Lindsay that he has this very little fetish of wanting to see a clean crotch, that somehow the hair makes the whole thing dirty for Harry. Would Lindsay buy that? In point of fact, though it made oral sex more interesting, it was not a big deal for Harry Morton one way or another. His real reason was control. Get control, keep control. And this was a hard woman to control. Of course he could not tell her that. Unless of course she thought it so absurd Lindsay would merely laugh it off.
"Well, Lindsay, you are so beautiful, and though all of you is luscious, I thought that shaving your crotch hair might permit your perfect femininity and sweet aromas to shine through in a way that may enhance our sexual experimentation," said Harry.
That sounded good. Harry always amazed himself at how poetically articulate he could be on the fly. Just make it up on the spot. The women loved it. Harry oozed charm, and felt like he could turn it on at anytime, day or night, sober or drunk.
"Are you like some sick fucko. Shave my crotch hair so my sweet aromas come through? Where'd you come up with that Hallmark bullshit?" said Lindsay Lohan without a hint of a smile.
Whoops. OK. That didn't work. But Lindsay sometimes did this. Get tough, then go soft. She was playing tough, or she was not feeling well because of the long night of drinking. Lindsay gets impatient in the morning, hungering to recover a feeling of health and fitness, a feeling that over time becomes false. As every alcoholic knows, the mornings are the worst, but it gets better throughout the day. Nondrinkers never know how the day will go. But alcoholics always knew things got better. A benefit of heavy evening drinking. Harry knew how it was. He was not feeling his best either.
"Hey, Lindsay, I am serious. You have such fair skin, its almost pink and freckled. There is something absolutely angel-like about it. I just wanted to explore everything about you. I am sorry if I spoke thoughts I should have kept to myself," said Harry.
"What am I doing today?" asked Lindsay. "Oh, yeah. I got to go to the lawyers. Sign papers or something. I got to get dressed," said Lindsay.
"OK. Sounds good. Later than. Dinner or something?" asked Harry.
"Yeah. And I'll shave my crotch hair. Sounds like a plan, as long as it grows back," said Lindsay as she walked into the bathroom and shut the door.
Knew it. She folded. Harry had Lindsay in the palm of his hand. Lindsay Lohan plays tough. But she's an actor. She plays tough, soft, weepy, steely. She can do it all. All for Harry.

Bush Likens Himself To V For Vendetta

"Who is the man who hides his scarred face behind a mask? Hero or madman? Liberator or oppressor? Who is V ? and who will join him in his daring plot to destroy the totalitarian regime that dominates his nation?"
President George Bush had his briefs down at his ankles with black socks on as he sat on the toilet in the bathroom of the White House bedroom. It was morning and he was reading the back of the DVD case for the feature film V For Vendetta. Bush was given the DVD by Karl Rove to watch who said that the movie was inspiring. Frankly, Bush did not have time to watch the movie. When would he watch it? Laura certainly would not want to watch this movie. But Bush did like reading the description of the movie on the back of the DVD cover.
Hero or madman? Liberator or oppressor? Who is George W. Bush? This is what Bush thought as he re-read the words. The front of the cover had the following printed under the title: "Freedom! Forever!" Yeah, Bush thought. That is what he has been saying. Freedom for everyone. Bush was on a mission just like this fellow they call "V." So V wears a mask to hide his identity. Maybe there is something to that.
Should Bush have worn a mask? Or maybe he has worn a mask. Maybe people do not know the real George W. Bush. The media talk, the prevailing media depiction of him which he has garnered more from osmosis than any actual overt examination has been to paint Bush as some kind of idiot warrior, the buffoon in the playground. But Bush did not wish to believe this depiction. He had to fight the inclination to let the media cause him self doubt. Will it be B For Buffoon or B For Brave?
"Whose side are you on? In V's world, there is no middle ground."
Bush read these words off the end of the movie's description. Whose side are Americans on? In Bush's world there is no middle ground. It makes for a great movie. All this drama. That is what people want. Drama. There is no middle ground. The middle ground is boring. Freedom forever.
Bush finished his dump. It was time to start the day. Another day. Another day of moving from minute to minute, watching the movie the President has started, thought Bush. He started this great and grand drama that is playing out. Freedom forever.
B For Brave. That will be the title, thought Bush as he pulled up his briefs.

George W. Bush Inadvertently Contributes To The Death Of Judy Garland

June 21, 1969 - 10:32 PM (London Time): George W. Bush had graduated from Yale University the previous year in 1968, and was on a twelve-month drinking bender which took him and some of his buddies around the world. On the evening of Saturday, June 21, 1969, George W. Bush was in London, and had just departed from his fifth pub of the evening. At the last pub, he asked the bartender to fill his sterling silver flask with Pusser's Rum, and the bartender obliged. George was already very drunk, but rum always went down easy. Although George was not of a right mind on this evening, he believed that Pusser's Rum cleansed the liver. Afterall, the British Navy drank it during wartime. Livers had to work in battle, so Pusser’s Rum must be good stuff. George laughed to himself as he stumbled down a cobblestone London street, the name of which he did not know. Nor care, quite frankly. He was just having the time of his life. George loved the way the English girls talked. They sounded so intelligent, and the fact that they would talk to him and carry on a conversation made George feel smart. He felt the silver flask in his leather inner breast pocket, just to make certain it was there. He also rummaged through his blue jean pockets for his wallet and hotel room key. Good. Everything was still there. George thought to himself that he was in full control of himself notwithstanding the heavy drinking, the uncertain sway to his walk, and the difficulty he was having focusing on the urban sidewalk that extended in front of him.
That is when he saw a woman in what looked like a black night gown or bathrobe. She was sitting on a bench. She was wearing sandals, and her legs seemed like toothpicks sticking out from under the black robe. The legs were crossed, and she was swaying forward and backward ever so slightly, with her head down, showing short black hair. The woman had her hands in the pockets of her robe, and George could swear that he heard the sound of a very faint cry. George looked up and down the street and there was no one in sight but for this woman in a black robe. He checked his watch. It was almost 11 PM. This woman and George were all alone on this lonely London cobblestone street. George decided to approach.
"Hi," said George W. Bush to the woman in the black robe who was sitting on a bench in front of a very small park that was no more than a leafy lot between two townhouses. The woman did not look up.
"Hi," said the woman.
George thought he recognized the voice. No British accent. It was American. It was a fragile voice, as if made of the type of glass that if gently touched, it would shatter.
"You OK?" asked George.
"Yeah. No. Not really," said the woman. The woman glanced up at George and made brief eye contact.
"Can I help?" asked George. George was a bit astonished. Could it be? He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again, trying to focus. He felt a rush of adrenaline being pumped into his bloodstream, which helped him get a better grip of his body. He looked down at the woman who had just removed her hands from the robe pockets and was struggling with a small plastic bottle. She looked up at George.
"Can you help me with this?" asked the woman, who held in her hand what looked like a prescription bottle to George.
The woman handed the bottle to George, who took it from her. Their hands touched. George saw the thin fingers and very white skin.
"I can't get it open," said the woman.
George looked at the label, which had the following printed on it: Quinalbarbitone. George did not know what that was, but the woman, well, not just any woman, but the very very famous woman sitting in front of him, was quite interested in taking her pills. George was a helpful fellow, and so he decided to help. He opened the bottle cap. The bottle was filled with pills, obviously a new prescription.
"There. I got it open," said George.
The woman looked up at George'S outstretched hand holding the open prescription bottle. The woman then looked up at George.
"I need a drink. To swallow the pills," said the woman.
This is when George was absolutely certain who he was talking with. This famous woman sat there in her black robe connecting eyes with George. George took this as one more additional sign that his life was blessed. Born right and live right and good luck happens. And here he was on an empty London street talking with Judy Garland. But George did not wish to betray to her that he knew who she was.
"I have a flask of rum. You want to use that?" asked George.
"I don't know. I don't know if that is a good idea," said Judy Garland as she looked down at the cobble stones under her sandaled feet. She had uncrossed her legs and her sandals were flat on the stones, her knees apart and her elbows on her knees. Judy leaned forward without taking the prescription bottle from George's hand.
"Maybe I should not take the pills. Maybe I do not need to sleep. All I want to do is sleep. But maybe tonight it is better to stay awake,� said Judy in a cracked and fragile monotone, seemingly without any emotion.
"It's not that late. Hey, last night I was up till four in the morning," said George.
George wondered what Judy Garland was doing in London. Why isn't she in Hollywood? Or New York?
"You want me to walk you back to your hotel?" asked George.
"But I do want to sleep. What would I stay awake for," said Judy. It was not a question.
"I'm actually feeling like I need to sleep myself. I've been partying too much the past few days," said George.
"Oh, yeah. You're a big partier, huh" said Judy.
'Well, I'm celebrating graduating from Yale," said George, trying not to seem like he was boasting, but it was a line he used frequently. It seemed to get people's attention. And it seemed to change the body chemistry of Judy Garland.
"Yale. Yale. Yale. College. Education. Doing it right. Doing it right. Just having a family. Just a family. One family. One family. Not a thousand families. A thousand families mean nothing. A thousand little screaming families. All distant. Turning into nothing at night. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. One family. One family. One home. I want just one family. One family. Normal. Normal."
George did not know what Judy Garland was babbling about, but he did know one thing. She was babbling.
"I'll take those pills now. Please," said Judy as she looked up at George. George handed the bottle to her.
"And that rum. I just need it to wash it down my throat. Really. Just to wash it down my throat," said Judy as if she were apologizing. Judy Garland jostled several pills from the bottle into the palm of her left hand.
"Yeah. OK. No problem," said George as he removed the sterling silver flask from the left breast pocket of his leather jacket. He twisted of the flask cap and handed the flask to Judy.
Judy popped the pills into her mouth and she drank from the flask, swallowing the pills. She took a second swig.
"Yuck," said Judy.
"Hey, that's good stuff. Pusser's Rum. British Navy rum. The best stuff," said George, trying to make small talk.
"Here," said Judy handing the flask back to George. "Can I have the cap to my bottle, please, if you will," said Judy.
"Yes," said George W. Bush as he handed the cap to Judy. Judy struggled with putting the cap on the bottle. George placed his flask back in his breast pocket and kneeled down next to Judy Garland.
"Let me help you with that," said George.
George took the prescription bottle and the cap and twisted the cap back onto the bottle. He handed it to Judy as he was kneeling before her.
"Thanks. You don't need to kneel down in front of me. I am just a person, you know," said Judy. George stood.
"I'm going to go home now. But thank you. It is nice to meet a helpful stranger," said Judy, who then laughed to herself because the line sounded familiar, like from a movie she saw. What movie? Was it a play?
"You want me to walk with you? Help you?" asked George.
"No. I am going to try to do things myself. I just turned 47, you know. My birthday was a couple of weeks ago. My life is only half over. The first half was good and bad. But the second half, dammit, I am going to make it all good," said Judy Garland.
"Yes. Of course," said George.
Judy Garland stood slowly and started to walk off down the street. George heard her say "bye" faintly as she walked away. She walked very slowly, taking each step with care. But she had almost a dancer's gait; a light touch to her walk. Gentle steps, as if she floated above the stones rather than actually touch them. George was surprised to learn that Judy Garland was 47. She looked more like 77. But she seemed to have spirit. Some sparkle in her eyes. George W. Bush was glad to help her. Glad to give her a smile. She did smile. He saw it. She laughed. George W. Bush made Judy Garland laugh. Or so he thought.

The Presidents Of Venezuala And Iran Agree That President Bush Is Stupid

Hugo Chavez felt like he was on vacation. Since he had arrived in Tehran, he was greeted personally by several ministers, whisked away in a black Russian limo, and staying at the Hotel Azadi Grand at the corner of Chamran Road and Evin Road. The Government of Iran and reserved the top three floors of the fancy hotel for Hugo which had commanding views of the Tehran. This was a leafy part of the city, see Hugo saw lots of trees and white buildings. It was morning, and he was drinking a cup of hot and very black Venezuelan coffee while he stood in a white thick cotton bathrobe. The President of Iran, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, personally promised a little surprise from Venezuela, and when room service arrived, it contained a large pot of Hugo's personally favorite home-grown coffee. As far as Hugo Chavez was concerned, Mahmoud was a gentlemen, a man who said what he believed, did not mince words, but nevertheless never forgot to be a good host.
Hugo had overslept. It was nearly 11 in the morning, Tehran time, and he was already two hours late for Mahmoud's personal meeting. Hugo was not about to be rushed on his vacation, and had found it amusing that Mahmoud's people called and said that the President of Iran would come to the Hotel Azadi Grand to meet with Hugo. It was suggested to meet in one of the hotel conference rooms, but Hugo would have none of it. Hugo wanted to meet in his hotel room and in his bathrobe with nothing underneath, drinking Venezuelan black coffee. To conduct important meetings in his bathrobe had become a personal tradition for Hugo. It made him feel powerful to be wielding power in the buff, or nearly in the buff.
There was a knock at the door, and then it opened, which was a bit of a surprise to Hugo. The door was opened by an Iranian security official and in walked Mahmoud, who spoke Spanish fluently. Hugo was about to protest the minor invasion of privacy, but Mahmoud had a big smile and an out-stretched hand, followed by two young men who closed the door and stood like sentries. Hugo was the only one in a bathrobe, he felt the thick puffy cotton of the bathrobe tickle his naked body as he took Mahmoud's hand and they both gave each other a strong solid handshake.
"Mr. President, my good friend from the West, I see you are quite casual. Do you wish to get dressed?" asked Mahmoud.
"No. No. I am going to go for a swim in your lovely hotel pool. May I have the pool to myself for laps?" asked Hugo.
"Of course. You are a swimmer?" asked Mahmoud.
"I do the breast stroke. Slow. It is very calming. Have a seat," said Hugo.
Mahmoud sat in one of two large thickly upholstered white chairs facing the floor to ceiling window facing the city below. Hugo joined him in the other chair as he took a sip of his black coffee.
"Thanks for the Venezuelan coffee. You are a good man," said Hugo.
"Ah, yes. The coffee. Your country makes two kinds of black gold. Oil and coffee," said Mahmoud.
Jeez, what a nice guy. This Mahmoud had charm. Hugo never thought of it that way before. Of course, Venezuelan coffee was not necessarily known as a place where great coffee was grown. But Hugo was trying to change that with all the government assistance he had been giving to his coffee growers.
"Unlike Bush, you have a lot of charm and know how to be a gentleman," said Hugo.
"Thank you, Mr. President. We try here in Iran to be good hosts and to speak with affection and good graces for everyone," said Mahmoud.
"Bush is an idiot," said Hugo.
"Well, I must tell you, Mr. President, that I did not have the same opinion. I thought Bush was a very shrewd and smart man. There was time that he used his power wisely. But I am no longer of that opinion. I have come to agree with you," said Mahmoud.
"Oh, god, I knew Bush was an idiot the first time I saw him on CNN," said Hugo.
"Think about it, Mr. President, Bush has the most powerful nation in the world and he cannot use any of his power. He has squandered his good will, his moral authority, he is tied up in knots in Iraq, and he has unleashed the voices of millions of Muslims and other oppressed peoples, making America and Israel the new axis of evil. It is astounding that this one man has single-handedly destroyed a great nation," said Mahmoud.
"Yeah, and look how much power he has given to both of us," said Hugo.
"Well, Mr. President, I would rather not characterize any power I may have as having been given to me by Bush. Iran has power because we assert what is right and ethical, not because a stupid man has given us power," said Mahmoud.
"Yes. Yes. Of course. But it is so much fun to poke fun at Bush. It plays so well, and you can do it all day long and the public lets you get away with it. In fact, the public loves it," said Hugo Chavez as he finished his third cup of black coffee.
"And ever since Iraq, Bush has lost Europe and the rest of the Western world. He only has Israel. America is alone, lost and going bankrupt," said Mahmoud.
"Yeah, because the Americans are paying three dollars for gasoline and giving the money to us. Boy, this is a very good time," said Hugo.
"And the truth of the matter is that America and Israel are diminishing in stature because they are afraid to really use all their power. CNN has seen to that," said Mahmoud.
"How's that?" asked Hugo.
"Oh, come on, Mr. President. If Bush wanted to, he could flatten Iran and Venezuela into thermonuclear wastelands. It would of course disrupt the world's economy and everyone's lives would change. But America could do this and take back the world with victory, a messy victory, but victory nonetheless. You see, what Bush has forgotten, or is too stupid to understand, is that the world wants victors, not losers. If America had success in Iraq, everything would be different. If Israel had destroyed Hezbollah, everything would be different. It is victory that gives a nation power, not bluster and big talk. If you combine bluster and big talk and then not achieve victory, then you are a big loser. And that is what Bush is," said Mahmoud.
Hugo Chavez had not remembered the President of Iran to be such a big talker. It was almost like Mahmoud ilked to hear himself speak, as if he were a university professor. Hugo had never much cared for the university elite of Caracas, and the slight lecturing mode of Mahmoud's delivery was a bit irritating to Hugo. But he would let it pass.
"Yeah, well, whatever. I want that swim now. You think I can do my swim and we can continue this conversation over lunch?" asked Hugo.
Mahmoud stood. "Of course. I wish to let you know that the money Iran is investing in Venezuela we have decided will be a loan and not an equity investment. I trust this is OK with you," said the President of Iran.
'Yeah. I guess. The terms, though. We need to discuss the terms" said Hugo as he remained sitting.
"But of course. But not us. We shall talk about bigger things. We let the discussion of terms be for people who work for us," said Mahmoud as he walked to the door. "Enjoy your swim," said Mahmoud as he left the hotel suite and the two Iranian security officials closed the door from behind leaving Hugo alone in his room in his white bathrobe holding an empty coffee cup.
This was a bad start to the day, thought Hugo. But his swim would make him feel better. He had lied to Mahmoud about the breast stroke. He really only did the puppy-dog stroke in the pool, much like a child. But after a swim and a shower, he would be ready to start enjoying this little trip to Tehran.

Doing the Right Thing to An Iraqi Insurgent

The United Nations Human Rights Advocate General, the UNHRAG for short, stood next to CIA Operative #1 in a dimly-lit room. They were looking through a one-way mirror at a man sitting on a metal chair. The man was an Iraqi caught with a beige Lands End canvas satchel containing six C4 plastic explosive rectangular bars as he was driving alone in a beat-up blue Toyota pickup truck on the outskirts of Baghdad. CIA Operative #2 was circling the Iraqi, round and round, walking methodically, staring down at the Iraqi, who was looking down at the concrete floor, his hands jittery on his knees.

“The lights are too bright,” said the UNHRAG.

“The ceiling fluorescents are too bright?” asked CIA Operative #1.

“Fluorescents cause headaches. Can you dim them?” asked the UNHRAG.

“There’s just an on-off switch,” said CIA Operative #1.

“Do you have a pair of sunglasses? Or maybe a hat with a brim. Also, he may be thirsty. When was the last time he had something to drink?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. We gave him a Coke.”

The UNHRAG glanced down at a case of Coca-Cola bottles lying on the floor behind him. “You mean one of those?” asked the UNHRAG.

“Yes.”

“Un-chilled, room-temperature Coke? Yuck,” said the UNHRAG. “No wonder he looks miserable. I think you should ask your associate to stop circling our subject. He may be causing him stress.”

“He knows where they store the explosives. And the insurgents do not know we have this guy in custody. This is an opportunity. We must move quickly.”

“The subject is docile and poses no threat. All he has is information, if that. You will have to get it without techniques that we consider unethical. Now where are those sunglasses?”

Maureen Dowd Has A Latin Dream

Maureen Dowd sat in a plush leather booth in the back of the dimly lit bar at the Trump International Hotel on Columbus Circle. She was wearing a tight low-cut black blouse and a pearl necklace with small pearl studs in her ear lobes.

“Can I get you anything?” said the young and very buff white waiter dressed in a black suit and tie, a requirement of the hotel.

“Irish coffee, but put it in a regular mug, nothing fancy, and no whipped cream,” said Maureen.

The waiter nodded and left. At this moment, Hugo appeared at the table, wearing an open white shirt, and dark blue blazer with matching pants. He sported clean work boots and a gold Rolex.

“Maureen, you are here. May I sit?”

Maureen motions to the booth opposite her. Hugo sits down. The waiter arrives with Maureen’s drink. “Anything for you, sir?” asks the waiter.

“I see my beautiful friend is having coffee. I shall remain sober as well. Please, a single espresso.”

Hugo says all of this without taking his eyes off of Maureen. Maureen takes a sip of her spiked hot black coffee.

Hugo appeared younger than all those photos Maureen had seen of him pounding his fists on podiums speaking to enormous government-organized crowds standing in the Plaza Bolivar. Hugo Chavez had survived on a continent where few survive long, and somehow he remained youthful. Maureen noticed his clean hands, manicured fingers, and his very white teeth. Amazing, thought Maureen, as she slurped another gulp of Irish coffee, and then drew her finger across her lips to keep them clean.

“May I suggest that we meet in the rest room. I shall go first. I shall slip into the Ladies Room and enter the back stall,” Hugo says without arrogance or presumption. Hugo touches Maureen’s hand, rises and leaves. Maureen sits there for a moment. She finishes her coffee. The waiter arrives with the espresso.

“We’ll be right back,” Maureen says to the waiter. Maureen rises.

The next thing Maureen felt was Hugo’s soft lips on hers. He stroked her face as they stood quietly in the back stall of the Ladies Room in the bar of the Trump International Hotel on Columbus Circle. As Hugo’s tongue entered Maureen’s mouth.

Maureen sat up with a deep quick breath. She was in her bed, alone, in her apartment. She took the back of her hand and wiped her mouth, as if clear the decks of this weirdo dream. Where the hell did her subconscious dredge up this ridiculous fantasy? Could it be that both Chavez and her hate Bush? Could it be that Chavez probably read Bush World, Maureen’s book? There was common ground. Yikes. Better off to forget this one. It means nothing. That is what Maureen kept repeating to herself. It means nothing, it means nothing, as Maureen struggled to go back to sleep and uncover a more normal dream, like possibly being in the back stall with Warren Beatty, perhaps.

The Next President Without Clothes

He took a deep breath and stretched his back to get the juices flowing. He was lying on his side, but he twisted his back to further the task of getting up in the morning, a task increasingly made difficult by age. He maneuvered in the California king bed until he was propped up on the pillow, giving him a view of the open door to the master bathroom where his wife just emerged from the shower.

She toweled herself down, standing before the mirror that stretched from wall to wall above the two "his and her" marble sinks. He examined her nakedness. She had grown heavy. Not fat, but just wider and sloppier with age. Not much different from himself, he thought, but he remained convinced he still looked better without clothes than his wife. She had no makeup on, her hair was wet, and as she moved the towel across her body, it bunched up handfuls of lose body mass that did not happen to a younger woman.

His wife placed the pink towel down on the bathroom counter and picked up her glasses, an accessory rarely seen in public today because of her daily, if not nightly, use of contact lenses. She brushed her hair, standing before the mirror, and after she finished, she pulled hair out of the brush and fingered the strands into the flowered waste bucket on the floor. Shedding, is what he thought. This happens as you get older.

He took another deep breath and felt very, very lucky. He had this 'lucky moment' feeling often in his life, when he was elected governor, when he got to speak at the Democratic National Convention, and when he was elected each time to the Presidency. But when Presidencies end, so does the power, generally. Not with him. Because with him, he was lying on a bed watching the next President of the United States of America standing in the bathroom, pulling hair out of her head in the nude. No one else will witness this moment. Historians will write about them, as husband and wife, as the only co-president couple in American history; they will attempt to surmise their relationship, and attribute weight to it, give it gravity. There will be scholarship devoted to them. Books will be written, university courses taught, movies made, plays performed.

His wife walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom, still naked.

"Good morning," she said as she walked over to her dresser to retrieve a bra, which she always put on first before anything else. She was bosomy, which he liked, but they had lost their firmness. Age. It sucks. Thank god for his wife's remarkable ability to remain in denial.

"Good morning," he said.

And that was it. No further words were spoken that morning. She was dressed, packed, and on her cell phone before he even thought about getting out of bed. Oh, the beauty of it all, to be an ex-President and to be living with the next President. Why had God so graced him with luck?