Sweet Jesus
It had been a bitch of a day. Between my early morning classes and my afternoon job as what had once been known as a “Girl Friday” at the local newspaper, I was beat. At school, I was struggling with calculus and fretting over an essay describing “My Most Memorable Evening” for a course in creative non-fiction. And at the paper, the crossword puzzle had accidentally been omitted, resulting in a torrent of calls from irate and confused shut-ins demanding to know how such a disaster could have happened.
To make matters worse, my boyfriend – well, at least the boy to whom I had recently surrendered my virginity at a frat house kegger – had stood me up for lunch and the little red train was due to make its monthly whistle-stop at any moment, making me feel bloated and irritable and causing my face to break out.
So the last thing I wanted to hear when I went to my parents’ house for a home-cooked meal and my weekly laundry marathon was that we were having company. I was in no mood for idle chit-chat, even with family members.
“Oh, Julie, guess who’s coming to dinner?” my mother chirped. She was rushing around the kitchen frantically checking the steaming contents of various rarely-used pots and pans, and peeking in the oven every few moments.
“Sidney Poitier?”
“No, Miss Smarty Pants. Jesus is coming to dinner!”
“Mom, it’s pronounced Hey-Seuss. And why did you invite the yard man over? You won’t even let him in to use our bathroom.”
“Julie, you know very well that the one time I made an exception, he didn’t flush! Anyway, I don’t mean the yard man, I mean Jesus! Jesus Christ!”
“Really? As in…” I held my arms out horizontally on either side and lolled my head back, feigning an expression of anguish. This had to be good.
“Yes, exactly!” she answered, exasperated. “He called earlier this afternoon, right out of the blue, and said He’d like to stop by if it wasn’t too much trouble. Apparently, He likes to drop in on average families from time to time and just chat.”
“Just chat? Mom, this person is some sort of a serial killer.You’ve invited a serial killer into your home and you’re fixing dinner for him so he’ll have a full stomach when he slaughters us all.”
“Well, I thought the same thing at first, but He knew about the time I stole a lipstick from Woolworth’s – that was when I was fifteen and I’m not proud of it, mind you – and that I imagine I’m with Michael E. Knight from One Life to Live when your father and I are, you know, intimate. After that, I was convinced.”
As Mom poked at a boiling pot of potatoes, I tried to block the traumatic mental images that her revelation had just spawned. The effort, however, was futile; I could never again watch One Life to Live.
“Mom, maybe you told somebody those things in confidence and they got passed along. Who knows? Anyway, I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. What does Dad have to say about all this?”
“Well, he’s out back right now, burning his old Playboys. I said, ‘Honey, Mr. Christ is omnipotent. He already knows about your awful magazines,’ but you know your dad. He said he’d rather be safe than sorry.”
Mom could be a little dingy sometimes, but my down-to-earth dad was parting with his prized Playboys? This was no joking matter. I wondered what secrets the mysterious caller had revealed to persuade my practical pop that such drastic measures were called for. But I decided that it would be best for my damaged psyche not to ask.
“Oh,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “Mr. Christ said I should encourage you to either start taking birth control pills or to stay away from fraternity parties. But don’t worry – I didn’t mention that part to your father.”
“So, what are we serving the Son of God?” I asked, pretending not to hear Mom’s remark but horrified that my one night of debauchery had apparently been witnessed by…by Jesus?
“Pork roast.”
***
Jesus arrived at seven on the dot.
“Mr. Christ! Welcome to Kirkwood!” My dad offered his meaty hand to the tall, bearded man standing on our front porch. I was surprised to see that Jesus pretty much looked like He was depicted in paintings – brown hair, blue eyes, decked out in a white robe and sandals. He was actually pretty hot, in a late-’60s kind of way. “I’m Chuck Patterson and this is my wife, Betty, and our daughter Julie.”
“Please, please just call me Jesus,” our visitor replied, pumping Dad’s mitt as my mother curtsied. Sure, she looked a little silly, but we were navigating unchartered waters, etiquette-wise. I just smiled and waved.
“Christ isn’t actually my name,” He explained. “That’s just a derivation of a Latin word meaning ’savior,’ or something to that effect. Frankly, I never much cared for it.”
“But what does the ‘H’ stand for?” Mom asked.
“Never mind that, honey,” Dad interrupted, and ushered Jesus into the family room where he gestured grandly to his La-Z-Boy. “Have a seat! Can we get You – I mean, can we get Thou a drink?”
“Just water, thanks,” Jesus replied. “And please don’t worry about the ‘thee’s’ and ‘thou’s.’ If I really spoke as formally as the Bible makes me sound, the Disciples would have given me holy hell – no pun intended.”
Mom quickly brought the water to Him in a tall St. Louis Cardinals souvenir glass. Then, as soon as He took it, the contents turned a dark reddish-purple. He shrugged sheepishly when He saw we were staring.
“I don’t usually perform miracles during these visits, but supermarket wine just doesn’t cut it for me. In fact, I’ll be happy to provide the beverages tonight in exchange for your hospitality. I’m drinking Bordeaux these days – is that all right with you folks?”
We nodded as Mom scurried back to the kitchen to get more glasses. I hoped she would have the good sense, under the circumstances, to break out the fine stemware.
“I’m sorry our son, Michael, isn’t here to meet you too,” Dad said. “But he’s off God-knows-where and won’t pick up his cell phone. I don’t know what’s going to become of that boy. Ever since he turned fifteen, he’s just been hell on wheels.”
“It’s quite all right,” Jesus said, pulling on the lever to recline the chair and release the footrest. “Mike is at Burger King right now. He should be home soon, but I’m afraid he’ll have spoiled his dinner. He just ordered a triple Whopper and a chocolate shake.”
No two ways about it, this was weird. I mean, if Jesus was going to visit anybody, why not a family like our neighbors, the McCulloughs? They went to church three times a week, didn’t drink any alcohol, and named all their kids after Biblical figures.
The fact that my brother was named for an archangel was certainly unintentional, and none of us had been inside a church in years. I vaguely recalled attending Methodist services a few times, back when I was elementary school, but I was pretty sure that didn’t count for much.
If Jesus knew Mike was at Burger King, then he certainly knew everything else about us – and yet here He was, listening to me complain about school and work. I didn’t intend to unload on Him, but He was just so easy to talk to and seemed to genuinely care about my problems.
“You think you had a bad day? At least your professor didn’t make you wear a crown of thorns,” He reminded me with a wink. “And as for that old Mr. Tate who threatened to cancel his subscription? Let me put it this way – if his subscription has more than six weeks to run, he needn’t waste his time.”
I giggled in delight at the prospect of Mr. Tate’s impending demise, then felt a little guilty. “Jesus, would you like me to put on some music?” I scanned my parents’ record collection for something appropriate, but the closest thing I could find was a Time-Life compilation of Christmas carols, including selections from Andy Williams, Jack Jones, and the New Christy Minstrels. He wrinkled his nose when I showed it to Him.
“Good grief, no. That’s as bad as the stuff my father listens to. He just loves Lawrence Welk. In fact, when the Maestro – that’s what Pop calls him – finally got to the Pearly Gates, the old deity got down off the throne and went out to meet him personally. Even bumped him to the front of the line. They’re old pals now. Say, have you got any Johnny Cash?”
“Never mind that, you two,” said Mom, poking her head in the room. “Dinner is served!”
I was wondering how we were going to handle the matter of the blessing – Dad’s traditional Thanksgiving grace was “Good bread, good meat, good Lord, let’s eat!” – and hoped mightily that he wouldn’t recite it now, just as Mike returned home.
“Mikey, honey, this is Jesus Christ,” Mom said sweetly. “He’s come down from Heaven to visit us.”
“Right. Nice sandals, dude. So, are you one of Julie’s liberal arts guys?”
“Michael!”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Patterson,” Jesus said. “Meeting Mike is one of the main reasons I came over.”
“It is?!”
“So, what, are you from Young Life, trying to save all the lost little lambs?” Mike scoffed. “Don’t worry – I’m not going to shoot up the school. Besides, if you’re really Jesus, what are you doing eating pork?”
Jesus rolled his eyes. “The Bible forbade eating pork for hygienic purposes. It’s not necessary anymore, but try telling that to some of my Jewish bretheren.” He dipped a tender forkful of meat into some A-1 sauce and smiled beatifically. “This is excellent, Betty.”
I’d been quiet for a while, thinking things over. Although we certainly weren’t church-going people, Mom and Dad had raised Mike and I to believe in God. But there were so many questions, so many awful things that God could fix, if only He tried. Evil like Hitler and Osama bin Ladin, tragedies like little children with leukemia and the last season of Gilmore Girls.
“Jesus,” I asked, “Why is the world so fucked up?” Really, I meant for the question to come out with a little more eloquence, but I was nervous.
Jesus smiled wistfully. “Julie, when your dad was a little boy, he sent away for an ant farm he saw advertised in the back of Popular Mechanics. Remember that, Chuck?”
Dad nodded, but seemed befuddled. However, I remembered from a long-ago Sunday School lesson that Jesus often spoke in parables instead of just getting to the point.
“Well, when that ant farm arrived, he set it up and spent all his time watching those industrious little creatures. He was fascinated by the way they set up their colonies and served their queen. But gradually he lost interest. I suppose you could say the novelty wore off and the ant farm wasn’t all he expected it to be. One time, just for shits, he fed the ants some of his dad’s beer instead of sugar-water syrup. But mostly he just forgot to feed them at all. His mom eventually threw the thing out and he didn’t notice it was gone for weeks. That’s kind of where Pop is right now with the whole human race.”
Dad looked horrified. Mom looked incredulous. “You gave your ants beer?”
“That’s just a bunch of excuses,” Mike argued. “I don’t know who you are, but Jesus and God and the Bible and Heaven and Hell are just a bunch of fairy tales made up in the olden days to keep everybody in line.”
“Mr. Christ, I know we don’t go to church as often as we should,” Mom said, a desperate edge in her voice. “But we’re good people and Chuck and I raised our kids to believe in You. You said that You’re here for Mikey. Can’t You tell him something that will help him believe, too?”
“I’m not worried about that,” Jesus said dismissively. “It’s natural for him to question and eventually, his faith will be stronger as a result. But Mike, I did want to rap with you about where your head is right now.”
Jesus’s slang missed the mark by several decades, but I guess if you’ve been around for a couple of thousand years, it’s hard to be totally current.
“You have a great deal of potential, but you’re spending far too much time on an activity that, while it isn’t dangerous, does nothing to expand your mind or make the world a better place. You should hang out more with your friends, join a sports team, learn to play the guitar. Don’t spend all your time locked in your bedroom. You and I both know what I’m talking about.”
For a split second, Mike seemed nervous, but he quickly regained his bravado. “You’re saying you made this Heavenly visit to tell me I should get out more? You don’t know shit about how I spend my time, and anyway, it’s none of your business.”
Dad flung his napkin to the table and faced Mike. “Now see here, young man! You apologize to Mr. Christ this instant! He’s only trying to help you, and if I were you, I’d be doing a lot less talking and a lot more listening!”
“Thank you, Chuck, but I can handle this,” Jesus said as He casually dabbed sauce from His beard. “Mike, technically, everything is my business. Granted, I generally chose not to get involved in your day-to-day activities, or those of anyone else for that matter. But every once in a while, a case comes to my attention that I feel calls for an intervention.”
“Yeah, well, intervene this!” Mike thrust a ketchup-stained hand in Jesus’ face, index finger crudely extended. My brother, as you may have surmised, was not especially adept at witty repartee. “I’m going to my room. I don’t have to sit here and listen to some dopehead criticize me!”
“Oh, Mikey!” my mom cried. “How could you embarrass us this way? And in front of Jesus Christ?!” She couldn’t have known it, but the embarrassment had only just begun.
Mike rose violently from the table, knocking his chair to the floor, and stormed down the hallway to his room. He shut the door with a bang that rattled the picture frames, then opened it and shut it again twice more just for good measure.
In the uncomfortable silence, I noticed a spider scuttling up the dining room wall. Mom had told me that they’d been creeping around since a late cold snap had frightened them indoors. Jesus saw the spider, too, and grimaced. He rose from the table, took one of His sandals in hand, and with a sharp whack, sent the unfortunate arachnid to wherever repulsive creatures go when they die. We looked up at Him in fear and He chuckled nervously. “I know what Pop said about loving all His creatures – but spiders just give me the willies.”
***
“It’s been a pleasure to have You with us, Mr. Christ,” Mom said an hour later, as Jesus slowly stood, patting His belly as if to indicate His satisfaction with the meal. “I hope You’ll come back again soon.”
“Oh, I’ll come again,” Jesus said. “And when I do, it’ll be quite an occasion, I can assure you!”
Dad shook Jesus’ hand and gave Him a manly backslap. “You’re just a regular plugger just like us,” he said. “Frankly, I expected someone in Your position to be all holier-than-thou.”
Jesus chuckled and shook His head. “Hey, I’m not one to judge,” He told Dad, then gave him a playful punch in the gut. “Wait a minute – I guess I am!”
Everyone had a hearty laugh. Then I realized that Mike was still sulking in his room. After behaving so poorly at dinner, I thought he should at least bid our visitor a gracious good-bye – and hopefully apologize for his rudeness.
“Mr. Christ, I’ll go tell Mike you’re about to leave,” I offered. “He can seem like such a jerk sometimes, but he’s not really all that bad.”
“Yes, I think that’s a fine idea, Julie,” Jesus replied. “I’d like to have a word with Mike before I go. We have some unfinished business, he and I. But you’ll have to hurry! I’m afraid I’m running later for a clemency hearing regarding…let’s see…oh, yes, a Mr. Falwell. Jerry Falwell. Seems the deceased was sent to the Netherworld and filed an appeal.”
As Dad gleefully explained to Jesus who Jerry Falwell was – I overheard the words “fat-ass hypocrite” and “inbred swindler” – I jogged down the hallway and threw open Mike’s door.
Yes, I should have knocked. The lock was broken and, because we respected Mike’s privacy, we were always careful not to barge in unannounced. But, for God’s sake, this time Jesus was waiting.
“Julie! What the fuck?!”
Back in high school, I had to read Oedipus Rex for English class. Well, at least I read the Cliff’s Notes version. The part I remember most vividly is how Oedipus plucked out his own eyes when he realized that he had sex with his own mother.
Okay, that’s disgusting, no doubt about it. But until I opened Mike’s door, I didn’t realize that anything could really be so awful that it would drive an otherwise sane person to mutilate himself. Yet, not ten feet away, seated before his computer, was Mike, his pants bunched around his ankles and his fist pistoning frantically over the biggest boner I had ever seen. On the monitor was a grainy image of two intertwined, undulating bodies.
I knew, of course, that Mike had a penis. I had seen it when he was a baby and Mom let me bathe him in the sink. It was delicate, like a rosebud, and not the least bit scary or sexual. After this, however, would I ever be able to look at a man’s organ without comparing it to my brother’s? No girl who isn’t from Arkansas should ever have to ask herself that question.
“Mike! What are you doing?” I asked, although clearly I knew the answer. “Oh, God, that’s so gross!”
I didn’t think the situation could possibly get any more embarrassing or awkward or disturbing – but I was wrong. Jesus, who had apparently followed me to Mike’s room, placed His hand on my shoulder and sighed.
“This is what I was discussing earlier, Julie,” Jesus said as Mike screamed and tumbled from his chair while trying desperately and clumsily to pull up his pants. “Onanism in moderation isn’t a mortal sin, but Mike’s obsessive abuse will lead to no good end.”
Behind us I heard Mom say, “What’s all the commotion?” But before I could warn her to look away, she saw her son, naked from the waist down, writhing on the floor and whimpering that the impact of the fall had ruptured his privates. Actually, he used the word “dick,” but I’m trying to describe the situation as tastefully as possible.
“Oh, Mikey, no!” Within the space of a few seconds, the expression on Mom’s face transformed from concern to horror. Then, as the unspeakable nature of what she had witnessed began to register, she grew weak and wobbly, teetering on the brink of collapse. Just as she swooned, Dad arrived to catch her and ease her gently to the hallway floor.
“Betty! Are you – ” Dad didn’t finish his sentence before he, too, glanced in Mike’s room and began to sputter incoherently. “Son! For Christ’s sake, can’t you go in the bathroom and lock the door when you…I mean…of all the times to…what the hell were you…?”
Jesus raised his hand as if to request silence. Frankly, none of us knew what to do or say. For the Son of God, He seemed relatively laid back, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if He had turned Mike into a pillar of salt or something. The Bible says something about making a joyful noise unto the Lord, but I didn’t think masturbatory grunts, joyful or not, counted.
“Mike, I forgive you,” Jesus said as my brother finally managed to pull his pants up and over his deflated member. “I forgive you for being rude, because you’re a teenage boy. I forgive you for abusing yourself because, well, you’re a teenage boy. But this is what I warned you about.”
Mike was having none of it. “You’re not Jesus!” he spat, his voiced a mixture of rage and humiliation. “You’re just some hippie pervert who gets his jollies spying on people!”
Dad started to utter some sort of admonishment, but Jesus instructed him to calm himself and fetch a glass of water for my mom, who was now babbling in a strange language. “I’ll deal with you later, young man,” Dad hissed as he rushed to the kitchen.
“My work here is done,” Jesus said. “Mike, you can take your dad’s advice about using the bathroom when spilling your seed upon the ground. But remember, even there, I’ll be watching.”
He then held his arms upward and the room was flooded with a light so brilliant that I had to shield my eyes. The Vienna Boys’ Choir – at least, it sounded like the Vienna Boy’s Choir – sang the Hallelujah Chorus as all around me, ethereal winged creatures giggled and frolicked.
Overwhelmed, I fell to my knees and wept as Jesus touched my cheek and began a slow ascent. As the music reached a crescendo, the light intensified for a moment and then just as quickly flickered out.
Jesus was gone. Now the room was illuminated only by the electronic glare of the computer monitor, on which an image of a bleeding crucifix had replaced the fornicators. Mike, face-down on the floor, sobbed uncontrollably. Mom, after taking a sip of water, stopped speaking in tongues and, assisted by Dad, slowly sat upright.
“Well,” she said, brushing an errant strand of frosted hair from her face. “I’ll put on a pot of fresh coffee.”
***
As I drove back to my apartment, I thought about what Jesus had told us about loving our neighbors as ourselves – even assholes like Mr. Tate – helping the less fortunate, and trying to live a virtuous life. It seemed like sound advice, and I vowed to do my best to follow it.
And, although He had insisted that we would experience no miracles as a result of His visit, in the coming weeks Dad’s toenail fungus vanished and his bald spot filled in, Mom lost twenty pounds and gained a cup size, Mike stopped masturbating (or so he claimed) and joined the Bleeding Jesus Holiness Tabernacle, and I began to understand calculus and higher math with crystal clarity.
But I still managed to flunk creative non-fiction
The Presidential Penis: Why Size May Matter
“It’s a chilly night, Abe,” said Joshua Speed as he climbed into the bed he had shared for three years with his friend, a tall, gangly Kentucky-born lawyer whose disposition combined mirth and melancholy.
Lincoln stood at the opposite side of the small room, splashing water on his weathered face and running a huge hand through an unruly thatch of wiry black hair. As he turned, Speed could see the outline of the rail-splitter’s engorged manhood through the rough cotton of his longjohns. Like the man to whom it was attached, Lincoln’s organ was impressive in its length — particularly when he playfully placed a tiny stovepipe hat atop its swollen summit — and magnificent in its ugliness.
“Perhaps we can keep one other warm,” Lincoln said as he approached, making no effort to conceal his need. Then, as was his custom, he eased Speed’s apprehension with a memorable jest: “As you can see, Little Abe is begging for attention.”
***
This was my first attempt at writing presidential pornography — a niche that has yet to be fully explored. I choose Abraham Lincoln as my subject because it has been alleged that he and Speed, a shopkeeper, were lovers during Lincoln’s days in Springfield, Illinois. In fact, Author C.A. Tripp insists that the 16th president was gay (or at least bisexual) in a controversial 2003 book, “The Intimate World of Abraham Lincoln.”
Tripp, however, was not the first to suggest that Honest Abe worked both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. Carl Sandberg, for example, wrote that the relationship between Lincoln and Speed “had a streak of lavender and spots as soft as May violets.” Sandberg, of course, was homosexual, and may well have been indulging in wishful thinking.
Although my Lincoln story was never completed, my research did prompt me to further contemplate the sexual anatomy of our commanders-in-chief, and whether or not size matters when it comes to presidential competence.
Does it follow that better-hung presidents — assuming, of course, that men continue to dominate the office — are simply better presidents overall? The ramifications of discovering a correlation could have a profound impact on the electoral process, particularly in a year when the Democratic nominee is an African-American.
Yet, the evidence is decidely mixed, and open to debate and interpretation.
***
Let us first consider the “great” and “near great” presidents. In addition to Lincoln, historians generally agree that this august group consists of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Jackson, James Polk, Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt, Harry Truman and Dwight Eisenhower. What do we know of their penises? While information is scarce, certain inferences may be drawn.
For example, Washington, a physical giant in his time, was nicknamed “The Stallion of the Potomac.” And no one who has seen the Washington Monument can have any question regarding what this structure truly celebrates.
Jefferson, of course, fathered numerous children by his slaves, which indicates potency, if not size. However, although the dimensions of the Squire of Monticello’s industrious organ are unknown, perhaps it is no coincidence that Thomas Jefferson University Hospital in Philadelphia has become renowned for its sexuality studies, including it groundbreaking research of priapism, a disorder that causes a permanent erection.
My guess: the Father of the Constitution knew full well that all men were not created equal.
Likewise, it is common knowledge that Eisenhower and Franklin Roosevelt (despite his paralysis) enjoyed the ministrations of mistresses. Again, it must be pointed out that mere functionality is not necessarily an indicator of size. Yet, is it possible that a pair of poorly-endowed men could have possessed the confidence required to save the Free World from fascism? The proposition is dubious, at best.
Lincoln almost certainly sported a lanky member, but not necessarily because he was a tall man. Indeed, studies have repeatedly failed to demonstrate a particular correlation between height and penile length. But Marfan’s Syndrome, a connective tissue disease from which Lincoln is thought to have suffered, could potentially have enhanced the depth of his dangle when flaccid. So, while Abe may have been a “show-er” rather than a “grow-er,” he would still have turned heads in the Springfield YMCA shower room.
Jackson, too, appears to have been well-endowed; his nickname, “Old Hickory,” likely did not refer to his skills as an arborist. The hickory tree, in fact, is known for its hardness (it is used to make paddles, tool handles, golf clubs, and baseball bats) as well as for its unusually large nuts. These characteristics, it is safe to assume, were also attributable to the pugnacious old general’s nether region.
Teddy Roosevelt, on the other hand, claimed to “speak softly and carry a big stick,” but did he? Despite the Rough Rider’s legendary alpha-manliness, he was a sickly, asthmatic child. As a young man and as an adult, he was obsessed with building his body and erasing all vestiges of his youthful wimpiness through reckless adventuring. Would a man with an adequate package have felt it necessary to reinvent himself in such a manner? Would he have described his foreign policy philosophy using penile imagery?
The diminutive Truman and Polk, likewise, appear to have been cursed with less-than-impressive penises. Though both are rated as outstanding presidents, Truman’s use of the atomic bomb and Polk’s obsession with expanding the nation by annexing Mexico are both classic examples of overcompensation. Would a man confident in his sexual prowess have annihilated two Japanese cities with a nuclear phallus? Would a man pleased with his penis have embraced the bigger-is-better notion of Manifest Destiny, which held that the United States must, at all costs, stretch from coast to coast?
Perhaps there are times in our history, particularly when outrageous and indefensible action is called for, when a poorly endowed president anxious to prove his adequacy is actually preferable. After all, despite their apparent genital shortcomings, Roosevelt built the Panama Canal, Truman ended World War II and Polk snared Texas and California, albeit temporarily, from the Mexicans.
But what of the “failure” presidents: Martin Van Buren, Franklin Pierce, James Buchanan, Andrew Johnson, Warren G. Harding, Calvin Coolidge, Herbert Hoover and Richard Nixon? Were they poorly hung, thus doomed to historical impotence?
Nixon, Coolidge and Andrew Johnson were almost certainly microphallic, according to presidential scholars and forensic urologists. Harding, however, who is widely thought to be the worst of the worst, was quite the Lothario, going so far as to routinely violate twenty-year-old Nan Britton in an Oval Office closet.
Britton, who claimed that she bore the hapless Ohioan’s illegitimate child, wrote about their affair in a 1927 tell-all entitled “The President’s Daughter.” One memorable passage insists that, “in the history of lovers, there is surely none greater than Warren Harding.” Another Harding conquest, an Ohio family friend named Carrie Phillips, is said to have lauded Harding’s hard-on in a series of steamy letters. Unfortunately, this correspondence is sealed by court order and will not be available for scholarly study until 2023, the centennial of Harding’s passing.
Although as an engineer Hoover was certainly familiar with large erections, it is not known whether or not he possessed one. As a devout Quaker and a devoted husband, it is doubtful that anyone other than Hoover’s wife, Lou Henry, was ever in a position to judge. However, his failure to act when confronted with a collapsing economy, and his brazen order for the Army to descend upon starving protestors camped in a Washington “Hooverville,” certainly indicates that he had large testicles, if not a large penis.
Buchanan was one of the nation’s 3.6 gay presidents (assuming the presidents reflect the general population, which has been estimated to be ten percent homosexual or bisexual), and therefore was probably large. Doubters of this assertion may wish to study a scholarly 1999 article in “Archives of Sexual Behavior,” which demonstrates that gay men do, for the most part, boast more impressive endowments than their heterosexual counterparts. There is no reason to assume that Buchanan, a bachelor dubbed “Aunt Fancy” by his detractors, would be an exception to this finding.
As for the other 2.6? Undoubtedly, Chester A. Arthur, generally regarded as a “below-average” president, was among them. “Elegant Arthur,” as he was widely known, had a penchant for wearing fur stoles and is said to have owned eighty pairs of trousers.
The New Yorker, who was vice president under James A. Garfield, ascended to the presidency after Garfield’s assassination. Then, no sooner had the martyred president been laid to rest than his flamboyant successor ordered a massive White House redecoration project, which he gleefully supervised. Within months, the People’s House was filled with wagonloads of colorful Tiffany lamps, dainty fainting sofas and frilly rugs.
Also likely to have been bisexual, if not homosexual, was Woodrow Wilson, an Ivy League professor who allowed his wife, Edith, to wrest control of the nation away from him as he sulked in bed, complaining of a stroke. Also suspect was Van Buren, a perfumed aristocrat who spent hours daily grooming his elaborate facial hair. Supporters of Van Buren’s re-election opponent, William Henry Harrison, delighted in chanting that their homespun candidate “wears no ruffled shirt-wirt-wirt, but Matt he has the golden plate, and he’s a little squirt-wirt-wirt.”
Our current president, George W. Bush, most likely fills the remaining fractionally gay slot. It is said that young George engaged in sodomy as part of his initiation into Yale’s Skull & Bones Society. Still, any frat boy worth his pin knows there is a difference between ongoing anal sex with a “boyfriend” and an isolated, good-natured “ass-ramming” mandated by upperclassmen during pledge week. That Bush sports an impressive weapon of mass destruction is apparent from the flight-suit bulge he displayed during his now infamous “Mission Accomplished” speech aboard an aircraft carrier.
As for Lincoln, despite his apperance in my abortive attempt at historically based gay pornography, I do not accept the assertion that he was gay. First, many straight-as-an-arrow men shared beds in the 19th century with no stigma attached to the practice. Second, Lincoln dressed in a disheveled manner and was far too heedless of his appearance to have been homosexual.
So, of the gay and near-gay presidents, history has been kind only to Wilson. Bush, of course, is still in office, but short of a miracle occurring prior to his exit from the interantional stage, it appears unlikely that he will improve the success rate of the other in-the-closet commanders in chief.
James Madison, a mediocre president, was also most likely poorly equipped. The smallest chief executive, Madison stood five-foot-four and weighed barely one-hundred pounds. That in itself is not necessarily damning, but the paltry president’s spouse, the busty and lusty Dolly Madison, often referred to “my little husband” — a term of endearment that few men wish to hear. Picking up on this humiliating theme, Madison’s political opponents taunted him as being “a shriveled little apple-john.” Were they referring to the man, or to his penis? Dolly, who allegedly sought satisfaction in the arms of other men, certainly knew the truth.
As for Pierce, his penis, like his presidency, is largely forgotten. However, we can assume with some degree of certainty that Handsome Frank’s manhood was shriveled and atrophied from lack of use. His wife, Jane, was an invalid as a result of chronic melancholy and an array of real or imagined physical ailments. And Pierce, a prodigious drinker, likely was impotent as a result of alcohol abuse.
Although vice-presidents are at risk for falling into even darker obscurity, our two most recent have ensured their legacies with a pair of memorable photographs. During the 2000 presidential race, Al Gore appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone in the guise of a rugged outdoorsman. The informal pose was clearly intended to make the man who invented the Internet and inspired “Love Story” appear more relaxed, but instead showcased a noticeable stiffness in his khaki britches. Ironically, it appeared that Gore dressed to the right.
And a casual candid captured a surprising side of current V.P. “Dick” Cheney. Grinning in typical clench-jawed fashion, the former Halliburton CEO sported an impressive, knee-grazing erection, shown in startling bass relief against his polyester dress pants. No wonder Cheney has circulatory problems; it appears that his penis requires a separate blood supply.
The only presidential penises about which we have firsthand accounts belong to three middle-of-the-roaders: Lyndon Johnson, Bill Clinton and John F. Kennedy.
Johnson, who was notoriously huge, affectionaltely called his johnson “Jumbo.” He enjoyed revealing Jumbo to started onlookers, and once, when asked by a reporter to explain why he was escalating the war in Vietnam, unfurled his donkeyesque member from his pants, shook it violently,and declared, “This is the reason!”
Clinton’s manhood was described in the Paula Jones affidavit as “about five inches long and curved to the left.” Of course, Jones may have been shortchanging Bill’s willy out of spite; Monica Lewinsky later referred to Clinton’s member as “about average,” much like his tenure in office.
In a letter to a friend, Kennedy wrote about his organ after being circumcised while in college. And while the future president doesn’t refer to his newly-clipped penis’s size, he did later use it to good effect with Marilyn Monroe. If Monroe had complaints, she took them to her grave.
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Clearly, the 2008 race between Barack Obama and John McCain offers many striking contrasts, not the least of which is penis size. While McCain, who managed to attract a beautiful and wealthy younger woman as his spouse, is obviously no slouch genitally, it is Obama, with his African ancestry, who dominates this particular debate.
But is that reason enough to cast a ballot for him? Admitedly, the evidence is murky and further research — hard evidence, if you will — is required. Yet I believe that enough circumstantial evidence exists that checking for tell-tale bulges would be prudent before making a final determination.
