White Bread, Cinammon Toast
Josh Marshall asks: What’s Bob Corker’s deal with Harold Ford’s sex life?”
I believe I can answer that, having seen a few Douglas Sirk movies in my time.
Bob Corker is gay. He may not know it yet, he may never know it, he may go to his sarcophagus wrapped in denial, but his fascination with Ford’s prowess and good looks gives him away, as does his political affiliation. All Republican political figures are gay, especially the men. When President Bush insists on kissing one bald head after another, the psychosexual symbolism speaks for itself. He’s planting his lips on big uncircumcised Kojak peckers. When Rush Limbaugh packs his Viagra and jets off on a tropical jaunt with the guys, it’s assumed there are saucy wenches awaiting him under the sultry palms, but I wonder — I wonder if it’s cabana boys making the hammock sway under the moonlight. Republican women — those masochistic saints — are more like Joan Allen playing Pat Nixon under layers of frosting, their rigid smiles forged by years of living a lie with a man infatuated with other men and too timid to take out a subscription to Details magazine, lest he be exposed. The closet in which he dwells doubles as a panic room with a convenient minibar, so that if he ever stumbles or strays, he can blame it on the creme de menthe, not the burning yearning of his heart. Perhaps Corker has a special thing for black men, and can’t get enough of that smooth and creamy Blair Underwood. There’s no shame in that. Many a significant look has been exchanged in the locker room at half-time.
The only shame is that Harold Ford can’t run for office without his Republican opponent, Karl Rove, and Ken Mehlman leching on him and taking turns at the keyhole. The South has made such progress, yet in affairs of the groin, it still has so far to go.
Read more of James Wolcott’s sacrilege here.