Another banner evening! You raised nearly a million bucks, and Charlize Theron was making eyes at you. Wait till you make it to the Oval Office. You’ve already asked Bill Clinton for his favorite brand of cigar.
Your speechwriter’s golden toenails draw your eyes like magnets, gleaming against the S&M gloss of the black leather couch of a junior suite in the chicest hotel in New York. (Thanks, Charlize.) The couch’s buttons remind you of navels. There’s your speechwriter’s navel, peeking out from the gray sweatshirting that envelops her like the fur of a Persian cat.
