Earl Fox was introduced to me at a dinner at Chez Josephine, the four star restaurant in mid-town run by the gay, adopted son of Josephine Baker.

Earl was not a fox but for some strange reason felt I should be all over him because of who he was.

It wasn’t Earl’s birthday and he was far from being worthy of bedding with me, considering he had a lover and was a skinny-ass white dude.

My friend and landlord Patrick McGovern invited me to the dinner party at Chez Josephine, it was his birthday bash. I’m not one to pass up a free steak dinner.

They seated me next to Earl. It was a set up, an attempt to get the powerful physician laid while he was in town.

The Democrats had just lost the White House and Earl was practically starving at dinner, wondering if he would still have all that power after Bill Clinton, the man who appointed, him left office.

I pretended to be interested that Earl was doing so much to save the world.

“He’s an M.D., Charles,” my friend Patrick whispered in my ear as I reached out to shake his hand.

Earl ran SAMSA under Clinton, according to my sources and had control over a lot of the Federal Government’s grant funding and where it was spent.

I wanted a new job, a government job, with good benefits and lots of perks. Ideally I wanted to move to D.C. and find a position as close to the Oral Office as possible so I let Earl fondle me under the table at the chic midtown restaurant.

Oh to be that young and beautiful again with all those powerful men fussing over who was going to pass me the bread at Chez Josephine. Quite frankly, I wasn’t impressed and could tell that Earl was full of bologna, just like his boss Bill Clinton, and wanted nothing but to suck me off and head back to Washington to find a new position to hold him steady until the Democrats won back their rightful place at the top.

I couldn’t stand all the useless chatter in that special little party room on the first floor at the Chez so I tried sneaking away to see what was happening at the bar while we were waiting for our filet mignons to finish burning.

Little Miss Josephine Baker’s reincarnated gay soul was sitting at the bar. He owned the place and asked the cute bar tender to pour me a free one.

Oh to be young and beautiful again with all those powerful men fussing over who was going to pour me my first gin and tonic at Chez Jospehine.

Out came Earl and looked at me as if I were Miss Monica the intern standing in a forbidden zone at Hillary’s end of the White House. He rushed me back to the party room because the steaks were being served.

I never had the chance to thank Jean-Claude, or whatever his name was for that free cocktail. I thought for a moment I would get to hear a story about the Toast of Paris that nobody else knew– a bite into the life of a true star.

I thought it was sad when the director of SAMSA handed me his personal business card-- the little paper rectagle contact form did not have a telephone telephone number– only a post office box where we could communicate.

He promised me a good job if I slept with him. So I did, wouldn’t you?

I wrote the little dick several months later ready to cash in my favor.

He had the nerve to send me a form letter that he used for reaching out to the masses to whom he still owed favors.

I didn’t care.

I could have called Patrick and started making threats if he didn’t at least call me.

I remembered how Josephine Baker lived her life and decided that it wasn’t worth trying to call in all those favors.

I put down my bananas, picked up my ballot and watched from my living room as the Fox jumped over the moon.

Earl is still waiting for the Democrats to take back the White House, but as long as I’m around shaking my ass, he’ll never sing on stage again.