Ah, the Good Ol’ Days of Repression

There is a virus that, at the moment, seems confined to political circles and men who have been elected to office. But if we don’t act quickly, it will infiltrate society and be out of control. What I am referring to is an uncontrollable urge to expose intimate details about one’s life, anatomy and bodily functions. The latest victim of this stubborn virus seems to be Rudy Giuliani.

We have not only been afforded glimpses into the highly dysfunctional world of Gracie Mansion--which the mayor and his wife have reportedly divided into his and her sections, and which a judge has ruled the mayor’s girlfriend may not visit--but we also know details that should really fall under the protection of doctor-patient confidentiality.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention is apparently doing nothing to get a handle on this virus; it isn’t even attempting to trace its origins. So, let’s just decide that this began with Bill Clinton. It is possible that some foreign dignitary brought the virus over, shook then-President Clinton’s hand, and transmitted it. But we’ll never figure that one out, and we need to start somewhere, so let’s start with Bill.

While it is true that Clinton himself did not mouth off publicly about his genitals, his creative uses for cigars, and his lousy aim with blue dresses--in fact, he tried not to discuss these things--his carelessness made it inevitable that everyone else would discuss them. And let’s not forget his earlier revelations about his choice of underwear. Definite early symptoms of the virus.

The next victim to fall prey was Bob Dole. We couldn’t turn on the television without seeing Sen. Dole, a former presidential candidate, looking us in our collective eye and telling us about his erectile dysfunction. I think I am just one of many Americans who thought, “I’m sorry for your problem, but please stop talking about your penis.”

Most viruses, once they catch steam, get stronger and more stubborn. This one is no exception. We now know, courtesy of some “leaks” by friends and supporters of Giuliani, that because of his treatment for prostate cancer, he has been rendered impotent, has not been able to have sexual relations with girlfriend Judith Nathan, so, technically speaking, she isn’t his mistress.

Of course, if we employ the art of language-dissection made popular by Clinton, that depends on what the word “mistress” means and what the word “is” means. Whatever we decide, the fact is that, once again, another visible political figure has, albeit metaphorically, dropped his trousers in front of us.

Raoul Felder, the mayor’s attorney, is either also affected by this virus or is simply helping it to run rampant in his client’s system. Felder revealed that Giuliani’s wife, Donna Hanover, left the mayor to clean up his own vomit when he was sick from medication. So, did he cross the battle line, enter her part of the mansion specifically to get sick on her side and leave? Wait. We don’t really need to know.

But Felder wouldn’t stop. He also said that Hanover has been “howling like a stuck pig.” What, is Felder living in the mansion? Has he heard this himself? He has also commented on her 5 a.m. workout routines, which deprive the mayor of much-needed sleep. Does she throw the barbells? Howl while she’s exercising? Play old Donna Summer tapes while doing aerobics?

But there’s more. At a news conference earlier this month, Giuliani said, “Do I feel like crying sometimes? Yeah, of course. Of course I’ve cried.”

This brings up a very important point. Maybe it’s the virus, or maybe women are to blame. If so, I would like to speak for most of my gender and say this to men everywhere: We, as women, went a bit too far in asking you to get in touch with your feelings and show more sensitivity. We seem to have given you the idea that it’s OK to go around crying. Please stop. We didn’t mean it.

Taking us a little too literally, many men feel that they should just erupt into tears whenever they feel like it, sort of like Jerry Lewis on his telethon. Just think of Ed Muskie and what tears on the campaign trail can do. Go off by yourselves to weep, and don’t tell us about it afterward. Especially if you have a tough, masculine job like being mayor of New York. Trust me, drug dealers and cops alike are cringing at this display of emotion.

This virus must be addressed before the halls of Congress echo with men crying and talking about their genitals, their illnesses, their sleep habits and God knows what else. Unless some thoughtful person has severely edited the historical records of our country, few of the founding fathers fell prey to this virus. Oh, sure, we may know about their offspring, illegitimate and otherwise, but we don’t know the details. And we like it that way.