“It’s what I call ‘sober virginity,’ he explained. “I didn’t lose mine until I was on Ken Starr’s team in ’95, trying to link Hillary to murders the wingnuts still think she did. We were staying at a hotel that Vince Foster once stayed at, looking in the trash bins for discarded napkins on which he might have written, “Hey, I think the Clintons are trying to kill me,” when Ken—he could be such a card, we called him “the Joker” behind his back—sent a professional entertainer named Sugar Melons to my room before I had even started drinking the mini-bar dry.
“Ken thought I would freeze up at confronting my personal demon—sex with a woman when I wasn’t drunk myself—but I was ready to lose my sober cherry. I made some pleasant small talk—I remember asking her ‘Sugar Melons—is that your real name?’ but she wasn’t much of a talker. She was already squeezing me through my tighty-whities and muttering, ‘Honey I hope the tip you leave me is bigger than this one.’
“After that, of course, I had sex with my wife sober many times. Not on our honeymoon, of course—that was such an epic binge I was still hung over when our oldest was born. Or our first Halloween together, when I was so wasted I thought it would be funny to cut a little hole in the back of our jack-o-lantern and have sex with it on the front porch. Which my wife forgave me for, even though she pointed out that a normal-sized man would have burnt his tip on the candle. I just have to remember never to address her as ‘Pumpkin’ again.
“So, I hope that clears everything up and you’re ready to put me on the Supreme Court, because I’m ready to go. Ruth Bader Ginsburg told me they have super crunk Happy Hours.”