Should I ... What... The Deer?!?

Painting Chef sent us a link from the New Yorker which permanently changed us all.

Cynikell realized she needed to shower immediately and curl into a fetal position.

Mark realized for the first time in his adult life, he had no comment.

I realized I think I dated Scooter Libby.

Now, dear reader, if you are offended by graphic sexual descriptions, I have two things to say to you. First, you are probably here by mistake anyway. Second, you probably should move on, because I'm about to bring down the Falafel Sex house.


So how did I find out I think I dated Scooter Libby?

I read about his 1996 book The Apprentice.

Excerpts from the New Yorker essay set the stage for my most recent traumatic dating memory:

“The Apprentice”—Libby’s 1996 entry in the long and distinguished annals of the right-wing dirty novel—tells the tale of Setsuo, a courageous virgin innkeeper who finds himself on the brink of love and war.

Libby does not shy from the scatological. The narrative makes generous mention of lice, snot, drunkenness, bad breath, torture, urine, “turds,” armpits, arm hair, neck hair, pubic hair, pus, boils, and blood (regular and menstrual). One passage goes, “At length he walked around to the deer’s head and, reaching into his pants, struggled for a moment and then pulled out his penis. He began to piss in the snow just in front of the deer’s nostrils.”

Homoeroticism and incest also figure as themes. The main female character, Yukiko, draws hair on the “mound” of a little girl. The brothers of a dead samurai have sex with his daughter. Many things glisten (mouths, hair, evergreens), quiver (a “pink underlip,” arm muscles, legs), and are sniffed (floorboards, sheets, fingers).

At age ten the madam put the child in a cage with a bear trained to couple with young girls so the girls would be frigid and not fall in love with their patrons. They fed her through the bars and aroused the bear with a stick when it seemed to lose interest.

And, finally:

He asked if they should fuck the deer.

The answer, reader, is yes.

Pick your jaw up off the floor, and let's continue our journey, shall we?

I met My Scooter Libby on eHarmony, an online matchmaking company which should have as a logo a large red flag with Neil Clark Warren's face in the center of it.

My Scooter Libby and I emailed and talked quite a bit prior to meeting, and we got along fairly well during our first dates. Sometime later My Scooter Libby confided to me that he had a secret hobby: writing erotica.

Now let's get real.

What men say: "I write erotica."
What women hear: "I write stupid porn."

A few days later I received an email from My Scooter Libby.

Subject line: For You.

Allow me to paraphrase the basic story line in his email.

A professional woman rushes to take a phone call in a meeting just before lunch. After the phone call she can't concentrate on the meeting.

She rushes out of the meeting early.

She rushes by the bathroom to remove her panty hose.

She rushes out to her car.

She rushes to meet a man in the woods.

She rushes over to his car.

He pulls out his presumably rock hard 10 inch pee-pee, slams it one time into her, causing her immediately to have a series of orgasms, the likes of which she has never before experienced.

At a point like this, a woman can realize how this man has just shared one of his innermost fantasies to her, making him feel both excited and vulnerable at the prospect of her having read his writings, all the while understanding that a man's sense of his sexual appeal is central to his self-esteem and sense of well-being.

Unfortunately for this man, I wasn't that woman.

Instead I emailed back, "You've gotta be kidding me."

I never heard from him again.

I guess he wasn't kidding me.

Now, years later, sometimes I sit and think about my brief, yet intense, time with My Scooter Libby. And as I think about the ten inch penis story, I understand more clearly about perjury indictments.