In a rare moment of contrition and defensive thinking, the the Clown has decided to expose (in a manner of speaking) his own shortcomings (another manner of speaking) in the sexual misconduct and sexual assault realm. Given the recent revelations about the rich and powerful using their status to obtain their own prurient gratification, the timing seemed right for the Clown to get out front of his own issues.
As you might imagine, in the celebrity world of clowndom, which stretches in stature from Herve Villechaize through the likes of Louis C.K. and all the way to great big-butted clowns like Donald Trump, the opportunities for sexual predatory behavior are nearly limitless. Certainly, in the Clown’s experience, these temptations are hard to resist, given man’s despicable nature. In fact, clowns are more likely than other celebrities to engage in sexual misconduct because of our low self esteem, which caused us to become clowns in the first place. We can hide our self-doubts behind the greasepaint and merrily scare children at bus stops.
The Clown needs to address each of his transgressions (at least those he can recall) in order to clear his conscience and likely avoid legal problems from victims, as showing genuine remorse convinces others that you are truly, really remorseful
Many years ago, the Clown was smitten with the Bearded Lady, one of the most popular grotesqueries in the circus sideshow. Her name escapes me now, so I’ll just call her Harry. Harry was a well-traveled side-show fixture who was from some central European country where women with heavy beards are not unusual. Side show performers do not have the status of the main tent crowd, including clowns, so my status was above hers in the circus pecking order. This fact gave me the courage to grope Harry in the props tent. Harry was looking for a Norelco Floating Head razor as a sight gag in her show and I was searching for a large Whoopee Cushion.
In any case, I cornered Harry near the unicycles, forced myself against her and slipped my hand down the front of her sequined hot pants. Wow! For a woman, Harry had quite the package. Then, Harry reciprocated my advances in a very aggressive way, so I beat a hasty retreat to the clowns’ green room. I steered clear of Harry for the rest of her/his tenure. Still, although deceived by Harry, I regret the evil of my intentions.
Then, Wanda, the World’s Largest Woman, attracted my attention when I learned that she was seeing Marwan the Midget. I know, “midget” is politically incorrect but “Leland the Little Person” just didn’t have the marketing snap needed for enticing rubes into the Freaks Tent.
The images in my head of Marwan crawling over and around Wanda, looking for interesting and erotic flaps and folds, consumed my imagination. Again, as she was a mere side-show performer, I had some leverage over Wanda. And, in her case, leverage was very important. Wanda had enormous breasts, which were basically the same size as the two distinct rolls of fat just below them. This visual gave me the impression that I was lusting after a woman with six! breasts. I was intent on copping several feels.
Wanda spent her off hours lounging on a reinforced divan in her tent. I quietly slipped under the tent flap and snuggled in behind her. Like Al Franken, I reached around to cup a breast, any breast. Startled, Wanda rolled my direction and pinned me to the divan. Like a newborn Panda being suffocated by its clueless mother, my breath was labored (think the grandpa in the COPD commercials). I screamed, but the sound was muffled by Wanda’s enormous arm wattle, which closed over my mouth–actually, my whole face–and I felt my consciousness slipping away. Just when I felt near death, Wanda lurched forward, releasing me. I quickly scurried back out under the tent flap. As I left, I heard Wanda say, “Marwan, is that you, you little devil?” I am so ashamed, yet grateful to have survived.
Finally, there was the young mother who hired me to entertain at her daughter’s fourth birthday party. This was very early in the Clown’s career. The party was your standard gathering of screaming, snot-nosed entitled brats whose parents were wealthy enough to pay for a clown. The mother was quite attractive. I showed up in my civvies and she directed me to the spare bedroom to change into clown gear. I did my routine, caused several children to cry, made anatomically correct balloon animals and finished with the old “confetti for water” routine.
Back in the bedroom, I was changing into my street clothes when the mother slipped in the room.
“You’re very talented,” she purred, advancing as she spoke. “And, under that disguise, very attractive. I’m lonely and desperate to get it on with someone in show business. Can you help? Please?”
Taken aback, I took a step back and caught my heel on the bedpost and crumpled, unceremoniously, between the wall and bed. Wedged in and unable to move, I began to whimper. Apparently, disgusted with my reaction to her intentions, she did an about face and left the room. I finished dressing and slunk out the back, without a check.
I have often thought of that encounter and imagined the outcome if only I had developed my sexual predator mindset early on, before I became a powerful celeb. I keep imagining the fevered activity, the wild thrashing about, the desperation to keep it quiet so as not to be interrupted by some random four-year-old looking for the pee-pee place. It is an erotic memory that could, no, should, have happened. I’m so ashamed of these innacurate-fantasies. Can I ever be truly forgiven?
There now, I feel worlds better. And, as the current wife has pointed out, any further sexual misconduct on my part would likely result in some form of actual or, in practice, emasculation, if you get her drift. I certainly do.
Observoid of the Day: “All household projects can be successfully completed if one says “goddamnit” enough times.”
Steve Kesselman’s Father