OLD BILL NEXT TO ME 2008

New York's Plaza Hotel has been a world-famous destination for decades and its 2008 reinvention as a condo-palace and demi-hotel failed to tarnish the reputation of Grand Lady on 5th Avenue.

While the newly opened Retail Plaza in the basement had been an abject failure, the Oak Bar continued to attract power brokers, celebrities, and faces from the front covers of the newspapers and magazines.

Susan Lucci, the soap opera queen from ALL OF MY CHILDREN, entered our subterranean jewelry store and my young 'work wife' asked the diminutive TV actress, "Does anyone tell you that you look like Susan Lucci?"

"All the time." Her mouth expressed a sweet smirk at my blonde work-wife's innocence.

"Are you Susan Lucci?" Vanessa gasped like she had been tossed out of the Space Shuttle into zero atmosphere.

"Most of the time." Susan Lucci exuded the internal beauty beneath her botoxed skin.

"Congratulations." My work-wife stammered out her best wishes to Lucci being Lucci with her face was a nice color red.

"Thank you." Susan wheeled a turn on spike heels without which she would have been less than five feet tall.

We later related this encounter with the star of ALL MY CHILDREN to the other salespeople trapped in the doomed Plaza Collection. Only boilers and bars worked well in basements.

They laughed at my work-wife's offering 'congratulations'.

"I didn't know what else to say." Vanessa had worshipped Susan Lucci for years.

Several days later David Beckham and his wife Posh visited the hotel. The paparazzi rioted outside the entrance. Fans screamed out his name. The madhouse lasted for hours. They went straightbto their suite. No basement tour.

Celebrity has its perks, but power demanded different security accommodations and one February evening the Secret Service locked down the hotel for the arrival of Bill Clinton, the former president of the USA, who had a table reserved in the Oak Room.

Agents in black suits roamed the hotel. They surveilled guests and workers with suspicion. Bill had been a popular president, but men in high places retain enemies after retirement.

The secret service agents ignored me, judging a fifty-five year old diamond salesman to be harmless. They were right. I was no assassin.

I almost visited the Oak Room to gawk at Clinton, but customers kept me busy and at the closing hour I went to washroom at the rear of the Retail Collection. The owner of Leather Spa said that the ex-president stopped for a shoeshine.

"He tipped Segundo $10. He wore handmade loafer from England." Segundo knew his shoes.

"A good tipper." A shine cost $4 at their stand. "Is he still in the Oak Room?"

"Far as I know."

"Maybe I'll stop up there for a drink after work."

I tipped Segundo $2 for the info and headed into the men's room.

There wasn't an attendant on duty, but the facilities were clean.

I stood at a stall and unzipped my fly.

Two seconds later a taller man joined me. His shoulders were higher than mine.

Male toilet manners require strangers neither touch nor talk to another man while standing before the porcelain god, so I dropped my eyes to the floor, only to notice that my neighbor's shoes were highly buffed loafers with tassels.

I lifted my gaze.

The ex-president was peeing next to me. There were no Secret Service agents in sight. Some things a man has to do on his own.

The former president smiled at me and I involuntarily peeked into his urinal.

Bill frowned and lowered his broad shoulder to block my view. He shook his member and then strode out of the men's room after washing his hands.

"Weirdo."

Exiting from the men's room I expected to be accosted by his security detail, except the only people in the hallway were Segundo and his boss. They pointed upstairs to indicate the direction of Bill's departure. I nodded and returned to my shop.

Vanessa was ready to go.

"What took you so long?"

"I ran into Bill Clinton in the bathroom."

"Hillary's husband?" Women looked at men different from men.

"I peed next to him."

"And did you look at him?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know look at his schwanze?" Vanessa was a nice girl from Moscow, but she wanted to know. "My husband says all types of men check out him in the bathroom. Did you look at his penis?"

She was my work-wife, not my real wife, so I told her what I would have told anyone.

"No."

"Oh." She was disappointed. "Were you scared about being gay?"

"With the president of the United States?"

"Ex-president." Women were experts at putting men in their place.

"I don't look at men's penises."

"Liar. All men look at porno. Don't tell me there aren't any penis there?" She eyed my groin.

"That's different."

"Right." Vanessa huffed and picked up her cell. She spoke in Russian. I heard the name Clinton, then pietska. It meant penis in her language. My co-worker smiled at me. She knew the truth.

I had looked at Bill's crank.

And checking another man's schlong wasn't a gay thing.

It was just something you do.

Of course my gay friends think that all men were gay.

Given the right circumstances.

Bathroom, ex-president, New York?

Not a chance.

Then again Bill was not my type and I was certainly not his, because he never bothered to look at mine.

Chain Of Command

Donald Trump's desire to be with beautiful women is neither a sin nor a crime.

His ties to Jeffery Weinstein, the dead pedophile kingpin, have not tarnished support amongst his MAGA followers, who wish they were like # 45.

Rich, powerful, and his hands on young flesh.

Trump knows the best way to cover his tracks is to bury any evidence with a dead man, but no one can kill skeletons in the closet.

Donald hung with Harvey Weinstein, the sexual predator.

So did Bill Clinton.

Hillary can claim a 'me too' as well.

The rich and famous believe they can get away with rape and murder.

They know things about each other.

They have money.

None of that saved Jeffrey Weinstein in prison, because those that know are best left knowing when they are dead.

Same goes for Harvey Weinstein.

And then there is # 45.

Littlus Dickus.

Pizza In The Oval Office

In November 1995 a conservative GOP-controlled Congress shut down America and that weekend a blizzard isolated the President in the Oval Office. Bill Clinton faced down this crisis by ordering a take-out pizza and thirty minutes later a buxom 21 year-old intern delivered the pizza to the Oral Office.

Her name was Monica Lewinsky.

As I said many time the worst thing to happen to America without a federal government was that the President got head and a pizza or a reality version of the XXX classic THE PIZZA GIRL COMETH, but that has never taken in consideration Ms. Lewinsky's feelings.

Their affair lasted eighteen month until January 17, 1998 when Matt Drudge broke the news that President Clinton had asked Newsweek to kill a story about his affair with said intern and other women.

The Big Press ignored the scoop from an Internet free-lancer, however sex in high office gave the story legs and Kenneth Starr, the GOP's independent counsel, conducted a three-year investigation into a crooked Arkansas land deal, the death of White House counsel, Vince Foster, and the Lewinsky sexual scandal.

Bill's wife stood by the President throughout the tears, pain, and humiliation of believing the lies until they became the truth.

During an interrogation by Mr. Bittman, a lawyer for Kenneth Starr demanded, “Mr. President, if there is a semen stain belonging to you on a dress of Ms Lewinsky’s, how would you explain that?”

No other president has been asked that question for the simple reason that none of the recent White House presidents have had sex while in office.

GW BUSH was too Christian to have sex.

His father had been CIA director and hid his afternoon designation with his mistress thanks to well-honed spycraft.

Ronald Reagan allowed Nancy to have sex with Frank Sinatra, but the Great Communicator never got any in the White House from his 2nd wife.

Jimmy Carter merely entertained impure thoughts and Gerald Ford’s wife suffered from the wasting disease of alcoholism. Richard Nixon only masturbated to nude photos of Jackie O and LBJ arranged his dalliances to occur in Texas.

JFK had scores of women in the White House and confided to British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan that he suffered migraines, if he went three days without sex. At state dinners the president would disappear with women into the recesses of the White House. His paramours included Angie Dickinson, Inga Arvad, a Danish journalist, the stripper, Blaze Starr, Pamela Turnure, Jackie's press secretary; Mary Pinchot Meyer, Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee's sister-in-law; two secretaries nicknamed Fiddle and Faddle, and mob moll Judith Campbell Exner. Marilyn Monroe was a beard for his conquests and JFK was too cool to get caught.

Despite being called America's first black president, Bill Clinton was not so cool, however he survived the interrogation and impeachment proceedings to serve out his term, because he had committed no crime.

Clinton denied having sex with Monica by stating that oral sex wasn't really sex as long you are receiving the oral sex and didn't touch any other part of a woman's body.

The American public accepted his definition, because millions of American men realized that they might be faithful to their waves according the Clinton Doctrine and he was re-elected for a second term by a landslide.

His wife supported him to the hilt.

Monica Lewinsky barely survived the maelstrom of media abuse and the former intern graduated in December 2006 with a Masters in Social Psychology.

At present she stays out the public eye and I hope that Miss Lewinsky is faring well, because we will never know the story of her liaison with a philandering president.

I fear th worst.

OLD BILL NEXT TO ME by Peter Nolan Smith

New York's Plaza Hotel had been a world-famous destination for decades, however its 2008 reinvention as a condo-palace and demi-hotel has seriously tarnished the reputation of Grand Lady on 5th Avenue.

While the newly opened Retail Plaza in the basement had been an abject failure and the hotel was run by Israeli realtors with the hospitality of the IDF in Gaza, the Oak Bar continued to attract power brokers, celebrities, and faces from the front covers of the newspapers and magazines. Still the basement wasn't a total lost.

One afternoon Susan Lucci, the soap opera queen, entered our subterranean jewelry store and my young Russian 'work wife' asked the diminutive TV actress, "Does anyone tell you that you look like Susan Lucci?"

"All the time." Her mouth smirked sweetly at the blonde's ignorant innocence.

"Are you Susan Lucci?" Vanessa gasped like she had been tossed out of the Space Shuttle into zero atmosphere.

"Most of the time." Susan Lucci exuded an internal beauty beneath her botoxed skin.

"C-c-congratulations." My work-wife stammered out her best wishes to Lucci for being Lucci.

"Thank you." Susan wheeled a turn on her spike heels without which she would have been less than five feet tall.

We later realted this encounter with the star of ALL MY CHILDREN to the other salespeople trapped in the doomed Plaza Collection.

They laughed at Vanessa's offering 'congratulations'.

"I didn't know what else to say." The blonde had worshipped Susan Lucci from her couch for years.

Several days later David Beckham and his wife Posh visited the hotel. The paparazzi rioted outside the entrance. Fans screamed out his name. The madhouse lasted for hours.

Celebrity has its perks, but power demanded more challenging accommodations and one February evening the Secret Service locked down the hotel for the arrival of Bill Clinton, the former president of the USA, who had a table reserved in the Oak Room.

Agents in black suits roamed the hotel. They surveilled guests and workers with fascist suspicion. Bill had been a popular president, but men in high places retained their enemies after retirement and their zecret service detail.

As I walked through the hotel, the Secret Service ignored me, judging a fifty-five year old diamond salesman to be harmless. They were right. I was no assassin.

I almost visited the Oak Room to gawk at Clinton, but customers kept me busy and at the closing hour I went to washroom at the rear of the Retail Collection. The owner of Leather Spa said that the ex-president had stopped for a shoeshine.

"He tipped Segundo $10."

"He wore handmade loafer from England." Segundo knew his shoes.

"A good tipper." A shine cost $4 at their stand. "Is he still in the Oak Room?"

"Far as I know."

"Maybe I'll stop up there for a drink after work."

I headed into the men's room.

The attendant wasn't on duty.

I hate Mssr. Le PeePee.

I stood at a stall and unzipped my fly.

Two seconds later a taller man stepped close to the adjoining urinal.His shoulder almost touched mine.

Male toilet manners require strangers to neither touch nor talk to another man before the porcelain god, so I dropped my eyes to the floor, only to notice that my neighbor's shoes were highly buffed loafers with tassels.

I lifted my gaze.

The ex-president was peeing next to me without his Secret Service agents.

Some things a man has to do on his own.

The former president smiled at me and I involuntarily peeked into his urinal.

Bill frowned and lowered his broad shoulder to block my view, then shook his member and strode out of the men's room without washing his hands.

Same as 99% of the men at Yankee Stadium or Madison Square Garden.

Being and Old School 1% I rinsed mine under cold water and exited from the men's room expecting to be accosted by his security detail. The only people in the hallway were Segundo and his boss. They pointed upstairs to indicate the direction of Bill's departure. I nodded and returned to my shop.

Vanessa was ready to go.

"What took you so long?"

"I ran into Bill Clinton in the bathroom."

"Hillary's husband?" Women regard the importance of men differently from men.

"I peed next to him."

"And did you look at him?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, look at his schwanze?" Vanessa was a nice girl from Moscow, but she wanted to know. "My husband says all types of men check out him in the bathroom. Did you look at his penis?"

She was my work-wife, not my real wife, so I told her what I would have told anyone.

"No." A gentleman never talk about woman's age or the size of a man's penis.

"Oh." She was disappointed. "Were you scared about being gay?"

"With the president of the United States?"

"Ex-president." Women were experts at putting men in their place.

"I don't look at men's penises."

"Liar. All men look at porno. Don't tell me there aren't any penis there?"

"That's different."

"Right." Vanessa huffed and picked up her cell. She spoke in Russian. I heard the name Clinton, then pietska. It meant penis in her language. My co-worker smiled at me. She knew the truth.

I had looked at Bill's crank.

And checking another man's schlong isn't a gay thing.

It's just something you do.

Of course my gay friends think that all men are gay.

Given the right circumstances they are right.

Bathroom, ex-president, New York?

Thankfully Bill's not my type and I'm certainly not his and I know, because he never bothered to look at mine.

update Bill Clinton has been mentioned thousands of tiems in the Epstein Files. No American is guilty until convicted, unless there are photos and the photos don't look innocent. I'm surprised Monica Lewinsky hasn't come out to tell the truth about her First meeting with Clinton in the Oval Office.

The Importance Of Size

Judging from the number of spam emails that I have received over the years about adding length and girth to a penis, I would have to assume that the typical porno-surfing male's sense of inadequacy is much greater than their anxiety of hair loss, obsession with obesity, and fear of impotency. Most online XXX films feature male performers possessing truly biblical Staffs of Moses. These seemingly impossible proportions are the goal of many men purchasing pills, pumps, and medical herbals from internet sites to enhance their girth and length.

I'm happy with the size of my penis, but just once I would like to hear a woman say, "Not with that you don't."

Many women say that size doesn't matter.

Last year I was at the Welkom Inn on Soi 3 in Pattaya. The girls there see a lot of action.

When asked if they liked big the most popular girl said, "I like small and fast too. Not hurt. And not take too much time."

Another libertine admitted, "Sometime when really horny. I like big. Good. But can't work later. Small better."

This doesn't prevent them from massaging the male ego.

The fellatio expert says, "Man always love to hear he have big penis. If not big, he believe big you tell him big. Stupid kwai."

My cousin Sherri did over 2000 XXX films, professed, "Size isn't important. Well, if it's a cashew then it's a problem, but otherwise most girls in the industry like a normal penis. Nothing too awe inspiring. And quick too. Guys with bog ones, not many of them know how to use it, plus when a guy with a giant cock gets an erection most of the blood leaves his skull so he grunts like a caveman. Gimme a nice Irish or Jewish guy any day. Cut too."

Of course there's the old joke about the size of President Clinton's penis.

"How do we know that Clinton has a big penis?"

"It had to be big to get beyond Paula Jones' nose."

The presidential mistress had a huge honker, but Clinton was no John Holmes.

So there you have it.

Here is a list of the average male Erect Penis Lengths for 10 species;

1. Humpback whale 10 ft.

2. Elephant 5-6 ft.

3. Bull 3 ft.

4. Stallion 2 ft 6 in.

5. Rhinoceros 2 ft.

6. Pig 18-20 in.

7. Man 6 in.

8. Gorilla 2 in.

9. Cat 3/4 in.

10. Mosquito 1/100 in.

Just remember, an ejaculation is never premature as long as you get it in.

OLD BILL NEXT TO ME by Peter Nolan Smith

New York's Plaza Hotel has been a world-famous destination for decades and its 2008 reinvention as a condo-palace and demi-hotel failed to tarnish the reputation of Grand Lady on 5th Avenue.

While the newly opened Retail Plaza in the basement had been an abject failure, the Oak Bar continued to attract power brokers, celebrities, and faces from the front covers of the newspapers and magazines.

When Susan Lucci, the soap opera queen, entered our subterranean jewelry store, my young 'work wife' asked the diminutive TV actress, "Does anyone tell you that you look like Susan Lucci?"

"All the time." Her mouth expressed a sweet smirk at my blonde work-wife's innocence.

"Are you Susan Lucci?" Vanessa gasped like she had been tossed out of the Space Shuttle into zero atmosphere.

"Most of the time." Susan Lucci exuded the internal beauty beneath her botoxed skin.

"Congratulations." My work-wife stammered out her best wishes to Lucci being Lucci. Her face was a nice color red.

"Thank you." Susan wheeled a turn on her spike heels without which she would have been less than five feet tall.

We later realted this encounter with the star of ALL MY CHILDREN to the other salespeople trapped in the doomed Plaza Collection.

They laughed at my work-wife's offering 'congratulations'.

"I didn't know what else to say." Vanessa had worshipped Susan Lucci from her couch for years.

Several days later David Beckham and his wife Posh visited the hotel. The paparazzi rioted outside the entrance. Fans screamed out his name. The madhouse lasted for hours.

Celebrity has its perks, but power demanded different accommodations from the public and one February evening the Secret Service locked down the hotel for the arrival of Bill Clinton, the former president of the USA, who had a table reserved in the Oak Room.

Agents in black suits roamed the hotel. They surveilled guests and workers with suspicion. Bill had been a popular president, but men in high places retain their enemies after retirement.

The secret service agents ignored me, judging a fifty-five year old diamond salesman to be harmless. They were right. I was no assassin.

I thought about going up to the Oak Room to gawk at Clinton, but customers kept me and at the closing hour I went to washroom at the rear of the Retail Collection. The owner of Leather Spa said that the ex-president stopped for a shoeshine.

"He tipped Segundo $10."

"He wore handmade loafer from England." Segundo knew his shoes.

"A good tipper." A shine cost $4 at their stand. "Is he still in the Oak Room?"

"Far as I know."

"Maybe I'll stop up there for a drink after work."

I headed into the men's room.

There wasn't an attendant on duty, but the facilities were clean.

I stood at a stall and unzipped my fly.

Two seconds later a taller man joined me. His shoulder almost touched mine.

Male toilet manners require strangers neither touch nor talk to another man before the porcelain god, so I dropped my eyes to the floor, only to notice that my neighbor's shoes were highly buffed loafers with tassels.

I lifted my gaze.

The ex-president was peeing next to me. I checked the toilet area. There were no Secret Service agents in sight. Some things a man has to do on his own.

The former president smiled at me and I involuntarily peeked into his urinal.

Bill frowned and lowered his broad shoulder to block my view. He shook his member and then strode out of the men's room after washing his hands.

Exiting from the men's room I expected to be accosted by his security detail. The only people in the hallway were Segundo and his boss. They pointed upstairs to indicate the direction of Bill's departure. I nodded and returned to my shop.

Vanessa was ready to go.

"What took you so long?"

"I ran into Bill Clinton in the bathroom."

"Hillary's husband?" Women looked at men different from men.

"I peed next to him."

"And did you look at him?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know look at his schwanze?" Vanessa was a nice girl from Moscow, but she wanted to know. "My husband says all types of men check out him in the bathroom. Did you look at his penis?"

She was my work-wife, not my real wife, so I told her what I would have told anyone.

"No." A gentleman never talk about woman's age and other things too.

"Oh." She was disappointed. "Were you scared about being gay?"

"With the president of the United States?"

"Ex-president." Women were experts at putting men in their place.

"I don't look at men's penises."

"Liar. All men look at porno. Don't tell me there aren't any penis there?"

"That's different."

"Right." Vanessa huffed and picked up her cell. She spoke in Russian. I heard the name Clinton, then pietska. It meant penis in her language. My co-worker smiled at me. She knew the truth.

I had looked at Bill's crank.

And checking another man's schlong isn't a gay thing.

It's just something you do.

Of course my gay friends think that all men are gay.

Given the right circumstances.

Bathroom, ex-president, New York?

Not a chance.

Then again Bill's not my type and I'm certainly not his, because he never bothered to look at mine.