Speculating about the Opposition Leader humping a pillow was a bridge too far for Fairfax — this is the full Jack Marx post that got him fired:
Kevin Rudd “has no recollection” of a visit he made to a gentleman’s club in New York in 2003.
This is unfortunate, for if one is going to put one’s a-se on the line by doing such a thing, one might as well afford oneself the luxury of being able to recall the experience if one so desires.
Fortunately for everyone, I’ve visited such establishments many times myself, and thus I believe I’ll be more than capable of filling in the blanks with a few educated guesses, thus shaking the ball from the selfish grasp of Kevin’s memory while, at the same time, providing the public with those saucy details so infuriating for being missing.
Get Crikey FREE to your inbox every weekday morning with the Crikey Worm.
First, he would have sat himself down beside the stage — the one with the pole in the middle. There is [a] restaurant in another part of the club, far from the nud-ty, and one could presumably argue that Kevin and friends went there. But let’s be frank about this and assume that three p-ssed Australians weren’t entering a strip club for soup.
A dancer would have emerged — perhaps blonde, perhaps brunette – in some manner of cocktail dress, a g-string underneath and clear plexiglass heels. Being that it was New York, September 2003, I’d say it’s a fair bet the stripper’s routine would have kicked off to Rock Your Body by Justin Timberlake.
The dancer would have begun with some general pole work; a few twirls here and there, leaning back, bending forward at the waist, that sort of thing. Nothing spectacular — not yet — just some gentle gymnastics to get the blood pumping. Perhaps she would have noticed the little man smiling at her from the edge of the stage, perhaps she didn’t. But he noticed her, that’s for sure. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was gorgeous.
The change in soundtrack, to, say, Gossip Folks by Missy Elliot, would have signaled to the dancer that it was time to start getting a bit better acquainted with the men at her feet — to make ‘connections’ with them that the men would want to pursue with private lap dances later on. And so the dancer would have begun to skirt the boundary of her little stage, engaging the men who looked interested as she went. At some point, she would have come to our Kevin.
On her knees, but still towering over him, she would have leaned forward and stared him square in the eye — a pout, a coquettish smile, a flutter of the lids. She’d have doubtless smiled back.
Leaning into his ear, she’d have told him her ‘name’, which would not have been Sharon or Therese, but Cheyanne or Loquita, or any number of exotic concoctions designed to hide the girl’s true identity. The Australian politician representing his country would have told her his name was “Kevin”.
The girl would have kept Kevin’s eye as she balanced on her knees and elbows, arching her back so that he could see how lithe and flexible she was.
Then, swiftly, she would have spun herself ’round in a scissor movement, one heel planting itself on the backrest of Kevin’s chair, the other swishing through the air just above his head, causing his fringe to flutter, before planting itself on the other side. Here, spread-eagled on the edge of the stage, she would have arched her back, run her hands along the length of her legs and leaned into him, her hair cascading into his anxious loins.
Kevin would have smelled her — the silky perfume, the hint of sweat, the musky other. Perhaps, out of sheer drunken instinct, he’d have reached up to touch, her finger shaking in front of his eyes, firmly, but seductively. She would have whispered a gentle admonishment; he’d have felt her breath in his ear, seen her naked bre-st become the universe in his eye. His glasses would have fogged to near zero visibility as she nestled her bos-m on the crown of his head, her br-asts as saddlebags over the man’s steaming ears. And, through the leaden swamp of drunkenness, to the sound of Tweet’s Oops Oh My, an er-ction would have creaked to life in the trousers of the future Australian Opposition leader.
With minutes until her act were to cease, the dancer, now in but a g-string and heels, would have returned to her pole to close off her act with some swings and upside-down splits and things. At the edge of the stage Kevin would have remained, watching her now from afar until, with a flourish, the dancer would have gone. For just a moment, Kevin would have been crushed as any lovesick man, his heart going pitter-patter, the blood pulsing to his nether regions. For a time, he might have stalked the club in search of the girl who had seemed so keen. But a voice — perhaps belonging to another — would have told him it was hopeless, and to think of Therese.
Back at his hotel room, the shadow foreign affairs minister would have laid in the dark, thinking. He would have smelled her, felt her lingering touch still upon him, like that of some phantasmic seductress. Perhaps, if he were lying face down, he’d have begun a gentle humping, his pillow underneath as kapok mistress. Or perhaps, with closed eyes to the heavens, deliverance would have been at hand. Whether sleep came down before ecstasy we will never know.
And we will never know whether this version of events is close to truth or miles from it. For Kevin Rudd doesn’t remember a damn thing.
Pity, that. Some details might have been interesting.