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“Interview with Thomas Rumpleberry” I am sitting at the Royal Ladeeda Hotel on New
York’s East 65th Street, a six-star hotel so extravagant,
so exclusive that it is not mentioned in any reference guides,
not even the phone book. As I wait in the lobby, I am passed by
Danny de Vito and Pamela Anderson, he immaculately dressed, she
in a bikini, holding hands and sharing a giggle. I’d often
heard this is where the rich and famous go to have a fling without
the press finding out. Naked Sunfish: Mr Rumpleberry, thank you so much for your time. I know you are a rather reclusive man. Let me not waste your time: you have been in the unusual position of being, quite literally, in the bedrooms of the past eight US Presidents. How does one come to such a…position? Rumpleberry: Well, I had written a book in the early fifties, quite revolutionary for its day, called, “The Kama Sutra Upside Down,” and Mamie—that’s President Eisenhower’s wife—had read it. One day a car full of secret service men whisked me off and took me to the White House late at night. They complained of their sex life, she more than he, so I volunteered my services, and the rest, as they say, is history”— Naked Sunfish: “Sorry to be prying, but are you suggesting that you slept with Mamie Eisenhower?” Rumpleberry: “I’m not saying I did sleep with Mrs Eisenhower or the President, and I’m not saying I didn’t.” Naked Sunfish: “Did I hear you correctly? Are you implying, then, that in addition to Mrs. Eisenhower, you and President Eisenhower also…” Rumpleberry: “I’m not saying I slept with President Eisenhower and I’m not saying I didn’t. But let me say that part of my job has always been a very hands-on approach, so to speak. They were so happy, in fact, that I was, you might say, passed on from President to President.” Naked Sunfish: “I see. In your experience, then, who were the most prodigious, sexually, of the Presidents you have come across?” Rumpleberry: “That’s easy--Clinton and Kennedy.” Naked Sunfish: “Interesting. Both Democrats. Coincidence? Or is there any correlation, in your view, between a President’s politics and his sexual proclivity, so to speak?” Rumpleberry: “That is a topic that has intrigued me over the years. I would have to say that, based on my experience, the answer is yes, there is most definitely a correlation. The more left leaning a President, no pun intended, the more sexually active he is.” Naked Sunfish: “None taken. Does that go the other way would you say? In other words, the more right wing politically, the worse they are as lovers?” Rumpleberry: “No doubt about it.” Naked Sunfish: “I see. So, Reagan must have been and Bush Jr is really awful.” Rumpleberry: “We must be fair to Reagan. When he took office, he was 69. Nonetheless, yes, Nancy often complained that once a year wasn’t enough. You see, Ron wasn’t particularly well endowed. If you look closely on the photos, you will see he has stuffed his pants with a cucumber wrapped in a sock. There were many occasions that I had to act as substitute.” Naked Sunfish: “You mean you and Mrs Reagan”— Rumpleberry: “Oh, yes. On numerous occasions. Nancy was grateful. So was President Reagan.” Naked Sunfish: “I see. How about Bush Sr?” Rumpleberry: “He wasn’t involved. Oh sure, we asked him to partake on numerous occasions, but he’s always been quite a prude with other people. But Karl Rove--now he’d shag a donkey if he had half a chance. And on more than once occasion, I believe he has. The Brazilian Embassy is still complaining about his antics in their countryside when he visited a small village.” Naked Sunfish: “Ah, we are really more interested in Presidents, not people who take themselves to be Presidents. What I meant was, how is Bush Sr in bed?” Rumpleberry: “I’ve never slept with him. You see, Bush Sr is not so much sexually inactive as self-sufficient. He has mastered, over the years, the art of auto-fellatio, as has his son. I believe it was passed down from father to son, some generational Bush family tradition.” Naked Sunfish: “Quite limber fellows, aren’t they?” Rumpleberry: “Oh, yes, you can say that again. In fact, Bush Jr, well, one finds him in such positions several times a day, often during meetings.” Naked Sunfish: “No one minds? I mean, it is quite unusual, is it not?” Rumpleberry: “Oh, yes, but what can you do? He is the President.” Naked Sunfish: “So, then, I guess you have to keep Laura satisfied in the meantime.” Rumpleberry: “That’s right, it’s part of my job. Better than with her mother-in-law, let me say that much.” Naked Sunfish: “Were there any other unusual stories you can share with us?” Rumpleberry: “Hmm, let me think, well, Pat Nixon insisted on menage-a-trois each and every time.” Naked Sunfish: “Wow. Go Pat. Different third party each time?” Rumpleberry: “No, in that she was pretty conservative. She insisted on the same individual each time.” Naked Sunfish: “You?” Rumpleberry: “No—Henry Kissinger.” Naked Sunfish: “Wow—go Henry.” Rumpleberry: “Henry used to complain he couldn’t resolve the Vietnam conflict as he was always being asked to participate with Dick and Pat.” Naked Sunfish: “That would explain the prolonging of the war, I suppose.” Rumpleberry: “Watergate, too. The Democrats, you see, had photos of the three having sex. Nixon sent in the plumbers to get the pictures back. Let me let you in on a little secret, too: Deep Throat was more than a code name, and it wasn’t the number 2 in the FBI…” Naked Sunfish: “You mean Betty…” Rumpleberry: “No—Kissinger.” Naked Sunfish: “Good God.” Rumpleberry: “Yes. The Viet Cong were aware of it, too, and took advantage. I don’t mean literally in this case, only metaphorically. Another fetishist, by the way, was Ford. He loved shrimping.” Naked Sunfish: “Shrimping?” Rumpleberry: “Sucking toes.” Naked Sunfish: “Sucking toes? Let me guess--his own?” Rumpleberry: “Uh, no. Usually Betty’s. Sometimes mine. Betty said it—lack of fornication—drove her to drink. She said shrimping was okay, but no substitute for the real thing.” Naked Sunfish: “Yes, I can see that. What about Carter? Any stories?” Rumpleberry: “Carter was—is—a most decent man. And any stories of him and sheep are sheer nonsense and unsubstantiated rumors. And I will not go along with any such mean-spirited nastiness.” Naked Sunfish: “Ok.” Rumpleberry: “I mean it. You will not get a peep out of me. I categorically deny that Carter’s favorite destination was Australia. You simply won’t get me to corroborate any such nonsense.” Naked Sunfish: “I see. Well, in that case, should we move on? LBJ?” Rumpleberry: “LBJ liked to rub himself against plant life.” Naked Sunfish: “I beg your pardon?” Rumpleberry: “Plant life. You know—plants, trees, bushes, whatever. Any flower shop, any nursery; hell--most parks the motorcade passed by, he insisted on going inside and rubbing himself against plants or trees.” Naked Sunfish: “You must be joking. A bit bizarre, wouldn’t you say?” Rumpleberry: “Well, yes, but I have been in this business long enough not to be surprised by anything anymore. I mean, is it more unusual than shrimping, than auto-fellatio? Who can say? It’s all relative, isn’t it?” At this moment the elevators opened
and a young, scantily clad blonde came into the lobby. In a distinct
Scandinavian accent, she purred: “Oh, Rumples, you are a
naughty, naughty man, making me wait like that. Come back to bed,
darling. You are driving me crazy.” Thomas Rumpleberry shook
my hand, apologized and excused himself. I shook my head, wondering
how at his age, with his looks, he got to be with such a young,
beautiful woman. As if reading my thoughts, he winked and said:
“Training goes two ways. Clinton showed me a thing or two.
A man has to do what a man has to do, surely you understand.”
As the elevator closed on them, I thought, oh yes, Rumples, I
surely do understand. |
