Assigned Reading: Susie’s ‘Sexual Sting’ on Amorous Tories
(FROM: Daily Mail)
Given what seems like a pattern of politicians (on both sides of the aisle) and marital tomfoolery, I saw this story at the Daily Mail’s site, and thought it absolutely ingenious.
But any amorous politician tempted to make the most of their week away from home in a swish hotel should heed a cautionary tale involving Susie Squire.
A former model, she is now political director of the TaxPayers’ Alliance, the high-profile pressure group which has helped to bring MPs to task over their expenses.
At last year’s Tory conference in Birmingham, she became so exasperated at the male attention she was receiving that she mounted a sexual ‘sting’ which left not one but two would-be suitors humiliated.
The sting, news of which has been passed around political circles, was hatched while Ms Squire was enjoying a round of evening receptions. At one, she was approached by a middle-aged delegate who told her: ‘You must come back to my room.’
Despite Ms Squire’s refusal, the man continued to press his case, eventually thrusting one of his room cards for the Birmingham Hyatt into her hand and saying: ‘Come to my room at 3.30am, when the parties are over, and I will give you the time of your life.’
Ms Squire, who was a model and journalist in South Africa and New York before joining the campaigning group, accepted the key – but with no intention of taking him up on his offer.
She then went to another reception, where she was pestered by a second, younger man in similarly persistent terms.
Exasperated, she eventually reached for the first man’s room card and smiled: ‘OK. Here is the key to my room. Come up at 3.30am and I’ll give you the time of your life.’
She was left in little doubt that her ploy to bring the two ardent men together had succeeded when she encountered one of them the following morning, who expressed his fury about his early-hours meeting.
Can you even imagine? It’s the wee hours in a D.C.-area Marriott. The cocktails have stopped flowing, the conferences have long since wound down. John Edwards has situated himself in front of a fire extinguisher in a fourteenth-floor hallway, is stooping over, peering at his reflection in the glass and feathering his silky pony hair with his fingers. Satisfied, he smiles at himself, and pulls the room key from his pocket.
Click. The light on the door mechanism turns from red to green. Edwards checks his breath one last time, puffs out his chest, smiles that smile and strides into the room confidently . . . and finds Mark Sanford, laying spread eagle across the bed, wearing only a topographical map of the Appalachian Trail over his most sensitive region.