Any headline including “Dominique Strauss-Kahn” and “DNA” is going to a bad place very quickly. First of all, do you think DSK (as we will now and forever be calling him?) feels bad about having a girl’s name? I would, if I were in his shoes. Or maybe he takes off his shoes before he, well. See, there, right there is the problem. The guy is not really all that much fun to imagine naked. Not that Bill Clinton was all that fun to imagine naked, but this is beyond the pale, y’uns.
Not to mention that we are talking about straight up rape as opposed to abusing the power of your office to get, um, play. So it is time to have, yet again, the discussion about consent. And what constitutes consent. And the circumstances under which one can really give consent. Which is to say that a 20 something intern in the Oval Office is going to be a bit overwhelmed by her surroundings. The maid at the Sofitel is going to know that the dude in the 4 room suite is powerful and making bank. She might not know that he is the bank, but at that point there is little to quibble about.
Which is to say, little room for a person to demure. Unless you are the wife of the creepy guy who leaves DNA samples on domestic service uniforms while you are uptown in your couple million dollar apartment. Whither you shepherd the bastard when he gets released from Rikers. I thought the First Lady of South Carolina figured this out for the rest of us. Let the creep rot on the podium all by himself.