Not what you’d call a Sex Bomb — but he was. And as hard as it may be for The Republican Party (aka. FOX “news”) to believe, he was more hated that President Obama. (Cue shrieks from Karl Rove.)
Warren Harding is not the most beloved of American presidents. Two of the earliest polls to assess presidential popularity, conducted in 1948 and 1962, ranked him last and last among chief executives. Harding served only briefly, from 1921 to 1923, before he died in office, but his administration has been widely regarded as visionless, ineffectual and corrupt. He slashed immigration quotas, appointed his cronies — one of whom, his secretary of the interior, accepted bribes from oil companies in what became known as the Teapot Dome scandal — and brought an end to the famously reform-minded eras of Teddy Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson. Perhaps the best that can be said about Harding is that he seems to have been conscious of his defects. “I am not fit for this office and should never have been here,” he once conceded.
IOW Boilerplate Mittens. But the “I am not fit” is something you’d never hear the likes of Dubbya say.
It is no wonder, then, that in 1964, after the historian Francis Russell gained access to letters from Harding to his longtime mistress, Carrie Fulton Phillips, the Harding family sued to halt their publication. Rumors of the affair were not new, but the letters — written between 1910 and 1920, before Harding assumed the presidency — confirmed the infidelity in startling detail.
Not exactly –
But apparently much more sexually exciting.
The correspondence is intimate and frank — and perhaps the most sexually explicit ever by an American president. Even in the age of Anthony Weiner sexts and John Edwards revelations, it still has the power to astonish. In 106 letters, many written on official Senate stationery, Harding alternates between Victorian declarations of love and unabashedly carnal descriptions. (While Phillips’s notes and some drafts of her letters have been preserved, her actual replies were not.) The president often wrote in code, in case the letters were discovered, referring to his penis as Jerry and devising nicknames, like Mrs. Pouterson, for Phillips
Historians say that to keep her quiet, the Republican National Committee paid for Phillips and her husband to go on a lengthy trip to Japan and provided her with a gift somewhere between $20,000 and $25,000 (more than $297,000 today). Harding himself offered her a stipend of $5,000 a year as long as he was in public service.
The R.N.C. may have gone to such lengths because of something even more troubling than Harding’s adultery: Phillips’s support of Germany in World War I and her efforts to bring Harding around to her point of view. She hounded Harding throughout his senatorial career about his votes and positions, sending newspaper clippings that demonstrated her strong opposition to America’s anti-German stance. Phillips had lived in Berlin just before the war and had social ties to Germans in the United States who were said to be spies.
So for the RNC does SEX = SPIES? I’m sure they were disappointed that Monica wasn’t a secret agent of some sort.
By the time Harding was elected president in 1920, anxieties about Phillips’s German sympathies seem to have largely evaporated. A ticket to the inauguration ceremony exists in her name. Though the affair had ended, Harding continued to see Phillips socially and even in private. As late as January 1922, Harding asked Carrie’s brother to tell her that “he would be here all this month and would be able to see [her] anytime.”
In August 1923, Harding died of a heart attack.
That’s what the coroner said. But in the wake of Harding’s passing questions of Vincent Foster proportions remained
Well, as Edward Albee would say That’s Just Blood Under the Bridge.
And now to the GOOD STUFF!
Jan. 28, 1912
I love your poise. Of perfect thighs. When they hold me in paradise . . .
I love the rose. Your garden grows. Love seashell pink. That over it glows
I love to suck. Your breath away. I love to cling —There long to stay . . .
I love you garb’d. But naked more. Love your beauty. To thus adore . . .
I love you when. You open eyes. And mouth and arms. And cradling thighs . . .
If I had you today, I’d kiss and fondle you into my arms and hold you there until you said,‘Warren, oh, Warren,’ in abenediction of blissful joy. . . . I rather like that encore discovered in Montreal. Did you?
Oh Warren you slut!
Let’s end on a more genteel note, shall we?
Take it away Debbie!