Earl Fox, M.D., Bill Clinton’s apointee to head the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration was introduced to me at a dinner at Chez Josephine, the four star restaurant in mid-town run by the gay, adopted son of Josephine Baker.
Earl was not a fox but for some strange reason, perhaps because of his powerful position, believed that I should be falling all over him because of who he was.
It wasn’t Earl’s birthday and he was far from being worthy of bedding with me, considering he had a lover and was a skinny psysician with really bad breath.
A former co-worker, Patrick J. McGovern, Executive Director of Harlem United Community AIDS Center, invited me to the dinner party at Chez Josephine. It was his birthday bash. I’m not one to pass up a free steak dinner and Patrick explained to me that he was trying to squeeze a few more federal dollars for HIV services out of Dr. Fox and that he wanted to ‘pimp’ me for the evening.
The staff at Chez Josephine seated me next to Earl. It was a set- up, an attempt to get the powerful physician laid while he was in town and I was the hot, hung bait.
The Democrats had just lost the White House and Earl was practically starving at dinner, wondering if he would still have all that power after Bill Clinton, the man who appointed, him left office.
“He’s an M.D., Charles,” my friend Patrick whispered in my ear as I reached across the table to shake his hand.
I wanted a new job, a government job, with good benefits and lots of perks. Ideally I wanted to move to D.C. and find a position as close to the Oral Office as possible, so I let Earl fondle me under the table at the chic midtown restaurant.
Oh to be that young and beautiful again with all those powerful men fussing over who was going to pass me the bread at Chez Josephine. Quite frankly, I wasn’t impressed and could tell that Earl was full of bologna, just like his boss Bill Clinton. I sensed he wanted nothing but to suck me off and head back to Washington to find a new position to hold him steady until the Democrats won back their rightful place at the top.
I tuned out all the useless chatter in that special little party room on the first floor at Chez Josephine, so I tried sneaking away to see what was happening at the bar while we all waited for our filet mignons to finish cooking.
Josephine Baker’s son, Jean Claude was sitting at the bar. He owned the place and asked the cute bar tender to pour me a free one.
Oh, to be young and beautiful again with all those sons of famous women fussing over who was going to pour me my first gin and tonic at Chez Jospehine.
Earl came out to the bar and looked at me as if I were Monica the intern standing in a forbidden zone at Hillary’s end of the White House. He rushed me back to the party room because the steaks were being served.
I never had the chance to thank Jean-Claude for that free cocktail. I thought for a moment I would get to hear a story about the ‘Toast of Paris’ that nobody else knew– a bite into the life of a true star.
I lost my appetite when the director of SAMSA handed me his home-made personal business card– the little paper rectagle contact form did not have a telephone telephone number– only a post office box where we could communicate with the man who offered to pay me $200 to suck me off at his hotel room.
He promised me a good job if I slept with him. So I did, wouldn’t you?
I wrote the man who headed the nation’s mental health service organization several months later, ready to cash in on my favor.
He sent me form letter that he used for reaching out to the masses to whom he still owed favors.
“I’m away in Europe,” the Xeroxed postcard from the edge informed me of my dear friend, Earl.
I didn’t care but he could have at least paid me the $200 for sucking my cock.
I remembered how Josephine Baker lived her life and decided that it wasn’t worth trying to call in all those favors from my friends who had lost the White House.
I put down my bananas, picked up my ballot and watched from my living room as the Fox jumped over the moon and the Democrats under Al Gore, lost the election.
Earl is still waiting for the Democrats to take back the White House, but as long as I’m around shaking my banana, he’ll never sing on stage again.
Read Full Post »