Pimp Daddy of Monticello–Difficult People

Pimp Daddy of Monticello



          New England winter weather aside, the rhythmic syncopation of the train wheels, awakens my pen and issue forth progeny of jagged thoughts. Now, about those Founding Fathers. We’ve all heard Father George never met a comely Christian woman or church pew he could refuse.

          Let’s not get too prudish. There’s a dark earthy side to us all. Beware those who deny their unspoken pacts with Lucifer. Now let us praise Tom Jefferson, pimp daddy supreme of bondage and sado-masochism (BDSM).

          Take a closer look at the dark side of Monticello, the slave plantation, and the founding father who couldn’t let his dark side “go”…pimp daddy, six foot four, red-haired, square jawed, Tom J. This Goethe of the New World, universal genius, and master of all his entire, un-equaled mind might meet. No wonder the little Calvinist scholar John Adams, second president, never warmed to the boundary merging habits of his successor, Thomas Jefferson. Enemies and friends to their final day, July 4, 1826. Adams never knew he outlived Jefferson by several hours, the faint advantage of a life lived in monogamous veracity. John and Abigail, a world complete.

          In truth, Tom however savored the dark flesh of his little kept people. And long after other slaves’ owners gave up the practice, despite the contradictions in his own thinking (all men are created equal…but be sure you pursue your pleasures), he learned to live with the split mind of public virtue and private pleasure. Glorify law, live the life of the needy flesh.

          In Monticello, check out the funky spiral staircases inside the mansion, the dark cellar rooms stashed with his pleasures, the alcoves, dumb waiters, and ingenious tucked away beds hidden behind sashes. Despite the great blast of daylight of 18th century enlightenment, see a simultaneous world of darkness. The hidden. The tortured. Perhaps not the cruelty drawing to death of the most vicious of slave owners. But still on familiar terms of bondage and sadism and masochism. Master and slave. Furtive hurried words in stairwells, little kisses, tender brushes of fingers to breast, face and thigh. Architecture and sado masochism. Note the little slave rooms on The Lawn at his pet project, his Academical Village in Charlottesville. Students as slaves to teaching masters. Herein lies an explosive master’s thesis.

          Dare I let my imagination in the nether worlds run free on this universal genius founding father, this ultimate man of deadly contradiction…?

          “Sally…” he whispered in the twilight purple shadows, “come to me…tonight!”

          “Yes, mastuh,” Sally quickly agrees. “In your bedroom?”

          The great man with his great widower sorrows nodded, the melancholy of genius, the loneliness of the great pretense of this “little mountain” castle. This Faust of the Grand Frontier…sweated out his urge to procreate and fill the land with voracious pioneers. Tell me he didn’t sell a few fleshy acres of his aching soul.




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