Back when I was in college in Shreveport, there was a very attractive man of about thirty who was catnip to almost all the gay boys who were out and about in those days. I say he was very attractive, but it was only in a very superficial way. Because he knew he was good-looking and well-built, he was rather smug about his appeal, which is about the most unattractive characteristic a man can have.
But he wasn’t particularly promiscuous, so a good many of the gay boys pursued him to no avail. They would buy his drinks and dance with him thinking they were moving closer to conquest, but he would slip free at the last call for alcohol.
One of my close friends, who was particularly promiscuous, was also a very attractive man in his early twenties and also catnip to the gay boys. But having made his way through all of those he found eligible, he set his sights on the older man with the smug attitude and succeeded where so many others had failed.
When I saw my friend the next day, he uncharacteristically gave me a blow-by-blow, shall we say, description of what had happened the previous night. Normally, my friend did not provide such details, but this was a special case.
It turned out that the event did not in any way live up to expectations. My friend had once proclaimed that there was no such thing as bad sex, only good sex and better sex, but his night with Shreveport’s hottest hunk had changed his mind. He declared the whole thing a disappointment, from the lack of his temporary partner’s (do people still call them tricks?) sexual prowess to the goods, shall we say, not matching the packaging.
My friend might have forgiven these shortcomings, shall we say, if enthusiasm for the occasion made up for it. But such was apparently not the case. Saying he was like a log in bed, my friend, who was justifiably used to a certain level of ardor in the boudoir, told me the story. Within a few days, he (and I) had repeated it around town enough that by the next Saturday night, what had been catnip had been derisively nicknamed “The Log.” Virtually everybody in that little gay community heard the story.
This week’s arraignment of Donald Trump made history for being the first time that a former president was indicted on criminal charges. Personally, my money had been on Fani Willis, the district attorney over in Fulton County, Georgia, who had promised “imminent” charging decisions back in January and on whom we are still waiting. But New York County won this horse race, allowing district attorney Alvin Bragg to get the bragging rights for making this historic indictment.
The few pictures of Trump in the courtroom show him looking stoic and contained, surrounded by his lawyers who are interacting with each other or busying themselves in other ways. With his shoulders hunched, he effectively looks like a log around which the activity is taking place.
The story of how we got here is well known. The sex, the hush money, and the scheme with a tabloid to “catch and kill” stories that would hurt Trump’s presidential campaign. If it had been about sex with an A-list movie star with a few million dollars changing hands with the participation of The Wall Street Journal, it would be one thing. But Stormy Daniels, a paltry $130,000, and the National Enquirer is quite another.
Those who looked forward for so long to a Trump indictment got no mug shot, the shortest perp walk in history, and little else in terms of optics. There may indeed be additional indictments coming down, but the proof will be in the pudding. But then there is this. Unless these charges are dropped or dismissed, or a jury finds him not guilty as charged, Donald Trump faces the possibility of going to jail. Many of his underlings have already been imprisoned, and Allen Weisselberg, Trump’s former CFO, is doing time at Rikers Island at this time. Weisselberg is younger than Trump.
My crazy brain made a connection to all of this Trump stuff and that long ago disappointing sexual encounter between my friend and The Log. After that story got out, I don’t believe anybody who had heard it ever bought him a drink again. Why would anyone when it was just a payment on the way to ultimate disappointment?
But unlike those gay boys, diehard Trump supporters continue to send him money, to the tune of millions in the days since his indictment, according to Forbes. They continue buying drinks for the man who, like The Log, is more interested in himself than in them and who will likely be unable to deliver the goods. Again.
So belly up to the bar, boys. This horse race is nowhere near over.