Newsflash:  Women have desire.
They even have orgasms.
They are subjects in their own right, and not mere objects for the pleasure of men.  
Men do not own women's wombs and have no right to force them into childbirth.
The inside DC pundit class is all atwitter with speculation about whether or not Hillary Clinton has sex, and when, and what kind.  Meh.  Do we really need psychosexually distorted ex-altar boys like Chris Matthews and Tim Russert speculating on what might be going on, you know, down there all through the presidential nomination season?  Ick.  Oh, and let's not forget perpetual Clinton trash diving stalker Jeff Gerth in our Pocket Pool Hall of Shame.
Look, I definitely have my differences with Senator Clinton politically.  Here, for example, is a legitimate criticism of her candidacy.  But successful women are more than accustomed to a very familiar refrain, getting tagged by terrified men with words like controlling, ambitious, victimized and methodical:  all familiar code words for bitch.
As I was drafting this piece, I saw that Matt Stoller had just published his own set of rules for talking about the Clinton candidacy, and good for him.  But generally, what the hell is it about women's sexuality that scares the bejeebus out of so many men, especially right wingers? 
Ever heard this old joke? 
QUESTION:  What is the definition of a "slut?"
ANSWER:  Someone who's having more sex than you are.  And liking it! 
I'd say someone should just do the country a patriotic service and get these blow dried C1*L1S keystone commandos laid, but really, there are some things no one should ever be asked to do for their country.  In other words, Pantysniffing Pervert, you're on your own.
Anyway, PJ Harvey, in the clip above, is prettty damn cool, if you ask me. 
So, here's where I'd like to take the discussion tonight.  Ladies, now's your chance:  tell us tonight about your  Worst.  Lay.  Evah. 
Let's expose the failures of the preternaturally pathetic Priapus wannabes littering the country, our televisions and the right wingnuttosphere. 
You have the floor. 


Pachacutec did not, as is commonly believed, die in 1471. To escape the tragic sight of his successors screwing up the Inca Empire he’d built, he fled east into the Amazon rain forest, where he began chewing lots of funky roots to get higher than Hunter Thompson ever dared. Oddly, these roots gave him not only a killer buzz, but also prolonged his life beyond what any other mortal has known, excluding Novakula. Whatever his doubts of the utility of living long enough to see old friends pop up in museums as mummies, or witness the bizarrely compelling spectacle of Katherine Harris, he’s learned a thing or two along the way. For one thing, he’s learned the importance of not letting morons run a country, having watched the Inca Empire suffer many civil wars requiring the eventual ruler to gain support from the priests and the national military. He now works during fleeting sober moments to build a vibrant progressive movement sufficiently strong and sustainable to drive a pointed stake through the heart of American “conservatism” forever. He enjoys a gay marriage, classic jazz and roots for the New York Mets.