File under: Another Modo “Beautiful Agony” column.
Reading Maureen Dowd's piece in the NYT, “Shake, Rattle and Roll”, shed absolutely no new light on the subjects it alleged itself to be about: Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton and Rudy Guiliani.
But that clearly wasn't the point. Because what it did accomplish, very effectively, was to let Ms. Dowd peel herself down to her taxi shoes and nipple clamps and walk giddily around the block in front of a whole bunch of people.
Stripped of what passed for its context, here is the just the vocabulary she used in her column; just the subtext, staked out spread-eagle for your prying eyes.
flick the whip
voice, gaze and body language
punishingbrought to heel
keep him in line
the art of (the) loving
refused to meet his eyes
she owned himtortured
letting her take control.
all the vulnerable places
Without ever uttering her name
Now it is a little hard to suss out whether or not Ms. Dowd is trolling for a new lover or telegraphing her erotic shopping list her to an existing one, but from her perch atop the NYT she is without doubt doing one or the other.
And while I have my very strong impression of which side of the stockade she wants to be on, whether she likes to be the one on her knees and trembling, or the one circling slowly and whispering is still a trifle ambiguous.
What is not difficult to figure out -- regardless of which end of the leash she yearns for -- is that Ms. Dowd very much likes the idea of being put through her paces in front of a crowd.
Very, very much likes the idea.
And while I respect all of consensual, adult Roads of Excess that lead to the Palace of Naughty, Bad Fun, I really do wish Ms. Dowd would quit twisting reality, bending the politics of people she clearly despises over a barrel, and then flogging it to a pulp just to suit her barely sublimated need for a particular brand of gratification.
Write mediocre erotica, Ms. Dowd, or write about politics.
Or write both.
But as thrilling as it may make you feel down in the ol' Dowd Fun Area, please quit using your column to badly trick out one and pretend it’s the other.