Investigators looking into the scandal involving General David Petraeus and his comely biographer/mistress Paula Broadwell have found possible evidence of pillow talk revelations that could have adverse effects on the national security. An unedited transcript has fallen into my hands about one rendezvous at the Benghazi Motel 6.
Broadwell: Oh, David, sir, you can’t imagine how I tingle when you mention the big buildup of fighter jets outside Baghdad. No man has ever talked to me like that before!
Petraeus: I just tell it like it is, baby. Could you move your arm a little? I’m having trouble checking my Twitter account. I expect a message from the Pentagon soon about some troop movements on the Pakistan border. It could be important.
Broadwell: I’m sorry, sweetie. Um, is this something I should know for the book?
Petraeus: Nah, just a routine CIA thing, but I gotta keep up to speed on this damn stuff. You wanna break for dinner later? We can order in. You like pizza or Chinese?
Broadwell: Gosh, I’d love to, sir, but I want to finish that chapter we talked about last night. It drove me absolutely wild when you whispered what you told Leon Panetta.
Petraeus: Oh, you mean the business about moving a nuclear sub outside Libya?
Broadwell: You say it so casually, but a girl takes these things seriously…
Petraeus: I didn’t mean to lead you on. It sorta just slipped out. Hey, it was 0400 hours.
Broadwell: I know, honey — I mean, sir — but it turned me on anyway.
Petraeus: I should button my lip, I guess, but you’re not just any woman, ya know.
Broadwell (raises up on one elbow): Well, I should hope not! What time is it, by the way? I need to split before the cleaning woman gets here. I feel like I’ve seen her some place before. She could be wired.
Petraeus: Really? Geez, it never occurred to me. I was hoping you and I could spend the day together. I don’t need to be back at Langley until Tuesday.
Broadwell: Darn it, sir, darling, I just can’t spare the time now. My editor wants me to get this new chapter to him by tomorrow. But it’s terribly nice of you to give up your Sunday for little me. I can’t remember when I’ve had such a good time, sir.
Petraeus: Listen, Paula, I’m not in this just for the — you know, sex. I really like you.
Broadwell: I like you, too, sir, very much, but a girl has to look out for her career. Besides, we can meet again real soon, maybe at that little Greek place by the Pentagon.
Petraeus (pouts): So what am I supposed to do the rest of the weekend?
Broadwell: Don’t you have some CIA reports or something to work on?
Petraeus: Well, I guess I could catch a few winks. These all-nighters are wearing me out. I’m not the two-star general I used to be back in the good ol’ Desert Storm days.
Broadwell: Sir, could you pass me my other shoe and zip me up?
Petraeus: Sure. Come on, you have time for a quick bite to eat.
Broadwell (glances at her watch): Well, OK, but only if you promise to tell me that story about what General Allen told Hillary about those Drones outside Damascus.
Petraeus: It was a hoot. You’ll get a kick out of it. So why don’t you go on ahead while I paste on my mustache and wig. Meet you at Arby’s down the block. I’ll check us out.
Broadwell: Let’s split the motel bill. I can write it off on the publisher.
Petraeus: No, no, no — this one’s on me. CIA will take care of it. See you in about 20 minutes. At ease, baby face.
Broadwell: Yessir!
