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Pillow talk goes from amendments to unmentionables

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We were in bed late on a lazy morning after the advent of daylight saving time had destroyed our sense of timing when the subject of America’s three Ps came up: politics, prostitution and pornography.

It actually began with a serious discussion of constitutional amendments when my wife, the piquant Cinelli, brought up the subject of gun ownership, which I managed to segue into the predicament of former fun-loving New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer.

I realize that’s something of a reach, but I have a certain facility at making remote connections. Boogie along as best you can.

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Cinelli and I have pillow talk discussions when she doesn’t have a place to go and I’m not in a deadline panic. We discuss parties we’ve been to, people we’ve met, movies we’ve seen and the slow transmogrification of Hillary Clinton into Bill Clinton, indicating that even Hillary isn’t sure if America is ready for a woman president.

On this particular morning we were agreeing on how the 2nd Amendment ought to be rewritten to get firearms out of the hands of thugs, gangbangers and members of the National Rifle Assn. -- and to make sure they are not legalized for students, teachers, emeritus professors of Chaucerian literature or playground attendants.

“Right on!” she said, high-fiving me, which disturbed the cat Ernie, who was sprawled out between us. He glared and jumped off the bed.

“The trouble with altering amendments,” I said, “is that religious fanatics will want to rewrite the 1st Amendment to specify that pornography is not in any way covered by the rights of free speech or assembly; things like adult couples in the privacy of their homes wearing penguin costumes and yelling . . . “

“Hold on,” she said, sitting up. “Are you going to start talking dirty? Because if you are . . .”

I remember she was wearing a light blue nightgown. Sunlight streaming through the window illuminated her hair. That’s as much as I am allowed to say. The 1st Amendment does not cover our bedroom.

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“No, no, nothing like that,” I said. “I hardly ever talk dirty in the morning.”

“Then let’s keep our discussion on a higher plane.”

“I would, except that Client No. 9, the ex-New York guv, and an alleged call girl he called Kristen are in the news. We always discuss what’s in the news.”

“Client No. 9?” she said, amusement creeping into her voice.

“That was his code name while doing business with Kristen, whom the New York Times identified as Ashley Alexandra Dupre, an aspiring musician. I saw a photograph of her. She’s petite, dark eyes, great legs, nice . . . “

“Down, boy.”

“I just think it’s important to clearly identify the cookie on Eliot’s plate, so to speak, before we get into the matter’s constitutional implications.”

“You’re a sick man, Martinez.”

“That’s what writing a column does to you.”

“You were that way in college.”

“I was writing a column there too.”

“OK, I’m willing to agree that opening up the 1st Amendment to a Moral Majority’s holy definition of porn would end the social life of about 72% of anyone in Los Angeles between the ages of 17 and 32.”

“You think the percentage is that low?”

“I didn’t include the voyeurs who stand on the sidelines cheering or the drooling old men who lie on the beach entertaining their erotic fantasies.”

“The movie industry would suffer too,” I said. “What used to be considered smut is now mainstream cinema. Since Sharon Stone broke the crotch barrier in “Basic Instinct,” anything goes. Every once in a while movie makers manage to work in frontal nudity even if the woman is, like, cooking or driving the kids to school.”

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“You’re enjoying this discussion, aren’t you?”

The cat jumped on the bed again and warily snuggled down. He was giving us one more chance.

“I always enjoy discussing constitutional issues with you,” I said, memorizing from the new husband’s manual on marital survival.

“I have to admit that there’s a certain enjoyment in watching a moralistic politician getting caught in an unmoral situation,” she said, “Too bad he’s a Democrat. I would have preferred Dick Cheney with a duck, but then you can’t have everything.”

“Now you’re getting into it,” I said.

“It was the code name Client No. 9 that got to me.” Pause. “Would you pay $4,300 for a hooker?”

I meant it to be amusing when I replied, “Only if she cooked, cleaned, dusted, danced in a penguin costume and did a credible job of singing “Love Potion Number 9.”

She was not amused. “I’ll see you downstairs,” she said, putting on her bathrobe and leaving the room. It was a faded pink bathrobe. I liked the nightgown better.

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The cat stretched, sneered and followed her out. Neither of them looked back.

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almtz13@aol.com

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