EXPOSING THE SHAMEFUL PARTS OF MY PAST..HAS ALLOWED ME TO LEARN FROM MY MISTAKES.
Sometimes after making-love, we snuggled and indulged in pillow-talk. Bill and I seemed to cover every topic imaginable, from—childhood, past loves, and sex—to people, fantasies, and
funnies. I found it intriguing when Bill talked about his mother and the impact she had on his sexual fantasies. He talked about his mother coming home from work or a date, still wearing her high-heeled, ankle-strap shoes. He described his mother unhooking
her garter belt, then sitting down and putting her feet on the bed.
That’s when she’d motion Bill to remove her shoes, her nylon stockings, and start rubbing her feet. Bill laughed
about getting an erection each time he rubbed his mother’s feet, ankles, and legs. Bill confessed that sometimes, when he was younger and his mother wasn’t around, he’d put his feet in her shoes, dab on some of his mother’s lipstick,
and practice walking, swinging his hips, like her.
I thought I’d heard everything until Bill said “You might enjoy hearing this one. A few times, I slipped my mother’s bra
off the hook behind the bathroom door and pulled it over my bare chest. After fastening it in the back, I stuffed nylon hose in each breast cup. It was fun, looking in the mirror at my big breasts and stiff penis. I even played with myself a couple of times....now,
is that kinky or what?!?!”
I listened and learned that—growing up—Bill Clinton had very little experience with women and sex, until his late teens—early twenties. From
his earliest days, his mother dominated and controlled him and Bill never had a real father-figure. Acting amused, Bill described himself as a chubby, late-blooming virgin.
Yes, without a
doubt, the center of Bill’s sexuality is his mouth. He uses his lips and tongue, his mouth, for everything, including instruction. One evening, after smoking several joints, he persuaded me to play the role of a dominatrix. He begged me to control him,
dominate him, and force him to obey me. If Bill disobeyed, he wanted me to whip his butt with my dog leash and shame him; he wanted me to call him “my bad boy” and demand he perform oral sex. It was another of Bill’s fantasies—to be
controlled and dominated by an older woman.
Looking back on that particular encounter, I’m convinced Bill never out-grew his fantasy of having sex with his mother. There was another
fun time when Big-Bad-Bill (the name he used when he phoned me) dressed in my long and frilly-black nightgown and strutted around my bedroom playing his saxophone. Like a young narcissist, he admired himself in my full-length mirror while he tooted his sax.
Sex, Sax, Silliness— it was all fun but every visit called for a time-out so Bill could smoke a joint or two.
From my book: THE
BEAUTY QUEEN, Let No Deed Go Unpublished.