![]() ![]() He was nice but not all that good-looking, and certainly not for $200! Now I might go for the fur-company owner if he offered me a $20,000 sable, but only if I cared about him. “I’d never sleep with a furrier, especially not that one. “Absolutely ridiculous!” laughs Flowers, saying the mink coat was a cheapo she picked up with the money and paid about $200 to refurbish. Later, claims Wright, Flowers pocketed the $5,000 insurance reimbursement only to show up with a mink coat that a furrier says she asked him to repair in exchange for sex - and more. She alleges: resume hype, attempted blackmail, manufacturing a self-styled 12-year affair with Clinton to salvage a flopola singing career, and shenanigans involving a mink coat that Flowers reported stolen. Wright ticks off her dirty laundry list about Flowers. Everything in her life is a lie, yet she continues to be able to throw out stuff like, ‘Why doesn’t somebody ask Bill?’ Why doesn’t somebody ask her?…” “Ask her if she’s willing to take a lie detector test. “Why should anyone be asking Clinton those questions?” Wright bristles in a telephone interview. ![]() Instead, she dismisses Flowers as a “pathological liar,” responding with her own dossier of dirt on Flowers, much of it gathered by a lawyer/investigator hired by the campaign to handle “bimbo eruptions,” to use Wright’s words. “Why doesn’t someone ask him directly,” grins Flowers, “‘Bill, have you ever had sex with Gennifer Flowers? Did you screw her?’”Ĭlinton campaign manager Betsey Wright never did say yes or no to that question. “I made him a household name overnight,” declares Gennifer Flowers, hugging a white plastic bowl of salt-free popcorn - dieting to perfect her bodacious voluptuary at 42. Now here he is, up on the TV in her den - Bill Clinton, live, at the Democratic National Convention, preaching family values, sanitized by the party hype machine and moments away from coronation as its nominee for president. In her den now, she flips channels to tune in the candidate who has dismissed as fiction what she describes as their impassioned 12-year love affair, and Flowers as a mere “casual acquaintance.” But after listening to more than an hour of cassette tapes she secretly recorded while chatting him up in 19 phone conversations - tapes authenticated by an independent forensic audio expert hired by Penthouse - it sounds like they had something cozy going on at some point. As Gennifer Flowers likes to say, “You’ve got to pay to play.” She pitched an ex-Dallas sugar daddy for a Porsche, then dropped the geezer cold when he gave to charity and not to her. Five floors below, security guards eyeball TV monitors scanning the grounds and a garage where she parks a sporty black Nissan 300ZX-scandal booty. Outside, downtown towers twinkle beyond the treetops. “It’s almost time,” she says, tuning a small color TV to “the Speech” on this steamy July night. “God, it can be sooo good when you’re singing well!” She checks an answering machine: callbacks from her stockbroker, her lawyer. “One of the few orgasms I ever had was onstage,” she says. “The only thing about mirrors in the bedroom,” says the cabaret singer, “is they show every flaw on your body.” In the closet, above an Imelda Marcos pile of high heels, hang her sex-goddess gowns for the stage. Her lair is snow white - carpet, walls, quilt - with a queen-size brass bed and floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She mixes up her landscape to ward off boredom: animal skins on the floor, a Chinese screen, antiques alongside art deco, family photos near one of her posing with Jessica Hahn and Rita Jenrette from a recent HBO “bimbo” cameo, as she jokingly puts it. She glides past a print of snarling leopards, blond hair cascading over a black designer jogging suit. Now an English newspaper calls her “the most dangerous woman in America.” Finally, Gennifer has nothing left to hide! The Beauty and Controversy of Gennifer Flowersĭinner’s served,” she jokes, offering popcorn, playing hostess as she prowls about her Dallas condo, catlike, vigilant after what she describes as a Watergate-style break-in last year and anonymous telephone threats surrounding her tabloid billing as the Candidate’s Ex-Honey Bun. She was a drop-dead beauty with near mystical power to render men weak and helpless.
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