By: John Hennesey
Look, I’m not faulting anybody here. I know how rumors spread. You start with a truth, something innocent, innocuous. Somewhere along the line, a gossipy individual adds an exaggeration, or a fabrication, a single grain of falsity. Then somebody else follows suit and the grains start building one atop the other and before you know it, you’ve got a full-blown salacious rumor sandcastle on your hands. Condoleezza Rice and I are both very attractive, very magnetic human beings—there’s your truth. But as far as us pressing our warm, nude, tingling bodies together and feeling our hearts beat as one in a passionate moment that practically stops time? Just a rumor, folks.
I’m an understanding man. I understand that the Stanford rumor mill likes to churn out juicy pieces of gossip to satiate the masses, and that as suave, glamorous A-listers, Condi and I make for easy targets. People want to imagine us in the bedroom, thrashing together in a churning heap of flesh and sweat. People want to imagine our offspring—bright-eyed, inquisitive cappuccino babies that are cute as a button and have Mommy’s smile. People have no doubt noticed that despite the fact that Condi and I are getting on in years, we’ve managed to maintain our athletic physiques and smooth, taut skin. Damn shame, people think, that those two bodies aren’t grinding together, man on woman, white on black, producing something that is both carnal and beautiful at once.
So like I said, I understand. But the truth is, rumors hurt. We’re people too, Condi and I. Godly—the embodiments of unadulterated sexuality and power—but people nonetheless. And like other people, we don’t like being the subjects of baseless rumors and conjectures, even if we understand why they start. So next time you have the urge to start one about us, do as Condi and I would do if we were lost in the blistering energy of orgasm, warm waves of feeling lapping at our erotic machinery: stare straight ahead, and keep absolutely silent.