by Bob Maschi   

I have a confession to make. I do not do this to make money, embarrass a presidential candidate or to sell books (Front Row Activist now available on Amazon). I do this to lift a heavy weight from my shoulders. A weight that has finally become too much a burden to bear.

My name is Bob and I am the real reason that Newt Gingrich asked his second wife for an “open marriage.”

I’ve known Newt since high school. We attended Baker HS in Georgia (you should be able to tell from my accent). We shared some classes; geometry (his favorite subject), Spanish and wood shop. We used to laugh about flunking American history together. Even as freshmen we both served on the Student Council. There, we bonded during our successful campaign to change the school mascot from ‘Indian’ to ‘Lion’ since ‘Indian’ is offensive to Cleveland and even back then Ohio was a swing state (no, not that kind of ‘swing’).

Newt and I grew so close that we double dated to the prom. Well, not really a double date. It was me, Newt and a cheerleader named Sonny. It was then that Newt and I began an intense, physical relationship. After prom, Newt, kneeling (but not praying!) and drunk on peppermint schnapps and Schlitz, voiced his undying attraction to me as Sonny, tearfully, looked on. At that point in my life I hadn’t actually yet chosen to be gay. But looking down at Newt, his disco-bunny hair the tint of newly fallen snow, his gerrymandered little squirrel eyes, the corners of his pink lips turned down in a sneer, I could see a future together. Sure, Newt was fat and squat and out of shape too, but that night was truly magical.

I was deeply disappointed when, only a couple years after graduating, Newt married our shared geometry teacher (no, not that kind of ‘shared’). It was 1962 and I was invited to the wedding, but decided not to go. I hear he looked lovely in a flower-patterned tuxedo and a crown of thorns.

We went to different colleges together but kept in touch. More than pen pals but less than lovers. Then, one day, by complete coincidence, we were both called into the draft board. It was 1970 and the Vietnam War was raging. My heart stopped when I saw him. He was wearing tight flared jeans, a puca-shell necklace, macramé vest and an afro.

He was arguing with the board. First claiming to be exempt from service because he was a married father. They scoffed. Then he claimed a college deferment. They scoffed again. Finally, he claimed that he had an incurable disease that prevented him from saluting. More scoffing. I knew it was up to me to keep dear Newt from being fragged over in the ‘Nam, so I walked up behind him, grabbed both his ass cheeks and whispered my name into his ear. Newt, turned, smiled and we didn’t stop kissing until both our forms had been stamped 4F. (This was, of course, long before gays were accepted into the military and the primary reason Newt forever opposed the removal of that ban).

We grabbed a couple coffees in a small bistro known for its selection of Tony Bennett tunes. There, we swapped our life stories (no, not that kind of ‘swap’). Newt confided in me that his first wife wasn’t young enough, pretty enough, wealthy enough or as fond of dinosaurs as he would have liked. I confessed that my life hadn’t been complete without him either.

Newt and I began a regular romance after that. We were together when he was married to his first wife and made a mistress of his soon-to-be-second wife. We were together when he was married to his second wife and made a mistress of his soon-to-be-third wife. We were together when he asked his second and third wives if they would consent to an open arrangement. I was there to comfort poor Newt when he came to me with blackened eyes and kicked-in nuts. All along I wondered what in hell are all these women were doing around here if Newt so enjoys playing back the choo-choo into the caboose with me.

Finally, after almost 50 years of knowing each other biblically, Newt ditched me. It was last year and I’m not sure of his reasons. My heart says that he dropped me for his presidential ambitions. But my mind, my mind suggests that he found another caboose.


Bob Maschi
Socialistcafe.com