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The history of sexual dalliances by America's generals has been a short one until now. Dwight Eisenhower had an affair with his female driver during World War II. When Sherman marched through Georgia, he was certainly not accompanied by Mrs. Sherman. Ulysses S. Grant was probably too drunk to have sex most of the time, though apparently not too drunk to fight battles. That's about it, as far as I can remember.
We are apparently entering a new era of general sex. General David Petraeus lost his job at the CIA for having an affair with his biographer Paula Broadwell. They apparently were in the habit of going for five-mile runs together and then having sex afterwards, all the while supposedly discussing the publishable details of Petraeus' life.
I need to make two personal observations here. First, when I go for a five mile run, I need a podiatrist afterwards, not a mistress. Second, while I would like to have a biographer, I don't. My Significant Other, who is a professional academic and hence well-qualified to be mine, wouldn't do as my biographer because of the many, many things I don't want her finding out about my past.
What attracted Broadwell to Petraeus? It couldn't have been his looks, because he resembles Pee Wee Herman. Maybe it was his winning the war in Iraq. Maybe it was his not losing the war in Afghanistan. Maybe it was that he had a surname that utterly defeated spell-check. In any case they did the horizontal bop, assiduously but discreetly, for many moons.
Their adulterous bliss was shattered when the jealous Broadwell found out that Petraeus was communicating with Jill Kelley, who is a self described "social liaison with the military." This is apparently a secret code for "a woman who likes to have sex with generals." Broadwell knew what kind of woman Kelley was; she started firing off threatening emails to Kelley, to the effect of "You have your own general. Keep your hands off my general. Slut."
And Kelley did have her own general, General John Allen. Whether she was attracted to him because he is the general currently not losing the war in Afghanistan, or because his name is seamlessly easy to spell, I can't say. Theirs was a long-distance relationship. He was bivouacked on the lonely Afghan moors, under a hostile moon, surrounded by untrustworthy natives. Nearly all the local women observed the Afghan custom of wearing clothing that closely resembles a termite tent. Can you blame General Allen for longing for the comfort of a wife, even if she was not his wife?
Blame him or not, he longed. Perhaps there has not been such longing in the history of longing. FBI investigators estimate the lovers exchanged twenty to thirty THOUSAND pages of emails, mostly consisting of cybersex.
We humans invented cybersex, although I have always maintained it could be enjoyed immensely more by a horny species gifted with three hands. Allen and Kelley enjoyed it, or attempted to enjoy it, more than any two four-star-crossed lovers in the short but turgid history of the sport. A mighty forest fell when the FBI printed out those thirty thousand pages of titillation, and highly-trained agents are poring deep into the night into the details of the pleasures Allen and Kelley planned to inflict on each others genitals when they would finally be united. Or reunited.
That is a boatload, to say the least, of erotic literature. It's hard to imagine a man successfully fighting insurgents while keeping up such a voluminous slutty correspondence. Perhaps Allen employed acronyms; the military is very fond of them. "Can't wait TFU," he might tap out on his iPad, meanwhile keeping a sharp eye out for sheep-bombs attempting to graze in his camp.
Meanwhile, Kelley was doing some reconnoitering herself, in the fields of Petraeus. But none of this escaped the sharp eye of Broadwell, who decided that a woman who was cheating on her husband with a married man needed to be warned off the married man Broadwell was cheating on her husband with, and burned the whole network, as an intelligence officer might say.
Maybe she ought to be head of the CIA.
We are apparently entering a new era of general sex. General David Petraeus lost his job at the CIA for having an affair with his biographer Paula Broadwell. They apparently were in the habit of going for five-mile runs together and then having sex afterwards, all the while supposedly discussing the publishable details of Petraeus' life.
I need to make two personal observations here. First, when I go for a five mile run, I need a podiatrist afterwards, not a mistress. Second, while I would like to have a biographer, I don't. My Significant Other, who is a professional academic and hence well-qualified to be mine, wouldn't do as my biographer because of the many, many things I don't want her finding out about my past.
What attracted Broadwell to Petraeus? It couldn't have been his looks, because he resembles Pee Wee Herman. Maybe it was his winning the war in Iraq. Maybe it was his not losing the war in Afghanistan. Maybe it was that he had a surname that utterly defeated spell-check. In any case they did the horizontal bop, assiduously but discreetly, for many moons.
Their adulterous bliss was shattered when the jealous Broadwell found out that Petraeus was communicating with Jill Kelley, who is a self described "social liaison with the military." This is apparently a secret code for "a woman who likes to have sex with generals." Broadwell knew what kind of woman Kelley was; she started firing off threatening emails to Kelley, to the effect of "You have your own general. Keep your hands off my general. Slut."
And Kelley did have her own general, General John Allen. Whether she was attracted to him because he is the general currently not losing the war in Afghanistan, or because his name is seamlessly easy to spell, I can't say. Theirs was a long-distance relationship. He was bivouacked on the lonely Afghan moors, under a hostile moon, surrounded by untrustworthy natives. Nearly all the local women observed the Afghan custom of wearing clothing that closely resembles a termite tent. Can you blame General Allen for longing for the comfort of a wife, even if she was not his wife?
Blame him or not, he longed. Perhaps there has not been such longing in the history of longing. FBI investigators estimate the lovers exchanged twenty to thirty THOUSAND pages of emails, mostly consisting of cybersex.
We humans invented cybersex, although I have always maintained it could be enjoyed immensely more by a horny species gifted with three hands. Allen and Kelley enjoyed it, or attempted to enjoy it, more than any two four-star-crossed lovers in the short but turgid history of the sport. A mighty forest fell when the FBI printed out those thirty thousand pages of titillation, and highly-trained agents are poring deep into the night into the details of the pleasures Allen and Kelley planned to inflict on each others genitals when they would finally be united. Or reunited.
That is a boatload, to say the least, of erotic literature. It's hard to imagine a man successfully fighting insurgents while keeping up such a voluminous slutty correspondence. Perhaps Allen employed acronyms; the military is very fond of them. "Can't wait TFU," he might tap out on his iPad, meanwhile keeping a sharp eye out for sheep-bombs attempting to graze in his camp.
Meanwhile, Kelley was doing some reconnoitering herself, in the fields of Petraeus. But none of this escaped the sharp eye of Broadwell, who decided that a woman who was cheating on her husband with a married man needed to be warned off the married man Broadwell was cheating on her husband with, and burned the whole network, as an intelligence officer might say.
Maybe she ought to be head of the CIA.
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