If You Thought Comey’s Statement and Testimony Sounded Like Really Bad Erotica You Weren’t Wrong
50 Shades of Orange: A Tale of Obsession by J.B. Comey
I met Crispin Burnt Sienna on Friday, January 6 in a conference room at Burnt Sienna Tower in New York. I was there with other Intelligence Community (IC) leaders to brief him and his new national security team on the findings of an IC assessment concerning Russian efforts to interfere in the election. At the conclusion of that briefing, I remained alone with “”The President-Elect” to brief him on some personally sensitive aspects of the information assembled during the assessment. The Director of National Intelligence asked that I personally do this portion of the briefing because I was staying in my position and because the material implicated the FBI’s counterintelligence responsibilities. I have a way with these things, and people, I’m a big, strong, man- as Senator Feinstein will assure you. We also agreed I would do it alone to minimize potential embarrassment to Mr. Burnt Sienna. His anger raged at the idea he had a urination coronation with a variety of Russian prostitutes, reminding me he’d never actually paid a contract worker in his life and it was his natural animal magnetism, Croatian Viagra, and his fame that allowed him to grab whatever he wanted by the pussy and no one would resist. Then he gave me a long look that said he mistook my sensitivity to the nature of the subject to mean something else entirely, “a thing” if you will, and he began stalked me relentlessly.
“I’m just calling to tell you you’re doing a great job,” Crispin said as I strained to hear him over the helicopter’s roar. It was so strange. No other man, let alone a “President” had pursued me the way Crispin had. But Crispin Burnt Sienna was no ordinary man. He had lived high life thinking himself above the law and now he was the law. The calls, the meetings where he’d ask me to stay just a little later, the lingering glances as he extended his neck as far back as it could reach my site line. He kept pushing me, even as I reminded him we could never be together. My loyalty could never be his. It was forbidden. Not only was it that his sweat smelled like a bag of rancid cold cuts, it was my commitment to pursuing constitutional democracy (and a dossier that lead me to believe and he and/or Putin may have at least one form of VD) would always stand in the way.
“The President” and I had dinner on Friday, January 27 at 6:30 pm in the Green Room at the White House. He had called me at lunchtime that day and invited me to dinner that night, saying he was going to invite my whole family but decided to have just me this time, with the whole family coming the next time. It was unclear from the conversation who else would be at the dinner, although I assumed there would be others.
It turned out to be just the two of us, seated at a small oval table in the center of the Green Room. Two Navy stewards waited on us, only entering the room to serve food and drinks. The tension became unbearable.
“The President” began by asking me whether I wanted to stay on. My instincts told me that the one-on-one setting, and the pretense that this was our first discussion about my position, meant the dinner was, at least in part, an effort to have me ask for some sort of patronage relationship. And then, because the set-up made me uneasy, I added that I was not “reliable” in the way politicians use that word- if you offer me enough money you can dismantle the planet and my backside- but he could always count on me to tell him the truth.
He seemed confused by the term “Truth” he became quiet while searching for its meaning. After a seemingly endless pause he was not to be dissuaded, a few moments later, “The President” said, “I need loyalty, I expect loyalty.”
I didn’t move, speak, or change my facial expression in any way during the awkward silence that followed. We simply looked at each other in silence. The conversation then moved on, but he returned to the subject When “The President” returned to the subject of my job, saying he was very glad I wanted to stay, adding that he had heard great things about me. He then said, “I need loyalty.” I replied, “You will always get honesty from me.” He paused and then said, “That’s what I want, honest loyalty.” I paused, and then said, “You will get that from me.” I began to type my diary immediately after the dinner and I couldn’t help but wonder- it is possible we understood the phrase “honest loyalty” differently? But I decided it wouldn’t be productive to push it further. The term — honest loyalty — had helped end a very awkward conversation and my explanations had made clear what he should expect. During the dinner, Crispin returned to the salacious material I had briefed him about on January 6. He again became very excited. He said he would think about it and asked me to think about it... I did and recorded them in my diary.
I then remembered walking across the Blue Room, upon one of our first meetings and Crispin longing to embrace me. I rebuked him as best I could as I towered over him and avoided his tiny-handed, girthy bodied embrace using a term I’d often heard women employed “retracting the boob” to put space between us. He then leaned in and whispered in my ear “I REALLY look forward to working with you”. So after those encounters —
On Valentine’s Day, he asked to see me again, something about a counter-terrorism briefing. Crispin signaled the end of our official business by thanking the group and telling them all that he wanted to speak to me alone. I stayed in my chair. As the participants started to leave the Oval Office, the Attorney General lingered by my chair, but “The President” thanked him and said he wanted to speak only with me. The last person to leave was Jared Kushner, who also stood by my chair and exchanged pleasantries with me. “The President” then excused him, saying he wanted to speak with me. When the door by the grandfather clock closed, and we were alone, “The President” began by saying in a voice meant for my ears alone, “I want to talk about Mike Flynn.”
After he had spoken for a few minutes about leaks. “Leaks were always on his mind”, I said to myself as I remembered the dossier. He then said, “I hope you can see your way clear to letting this go, to letting Flynn go. He is a good guy. I hope you can let this go.” He seemed very concerned about Flynn and going. It was all leaks and going, going and leaks. But I did not say I would “let this go.” “The President” returned briefly to the problem of leaks. He knew he was being very bad and he liked it. He knew how uncomfortable it made me yet he persisted.Our relationship didn’t get off to a great start, given the conversation we had to have on January 6th. This didn’t improve our relationship because it was as all our interactions- very, very awkward. He was asking for something, and I was refusing to give it. I didn’t know him well enough to know how he’d reacted to that exactly.
Shortly afterward, I spoke with Attorney General Sessions in person to pass along “”The President’s” concerns about “leaks”. I took the opportunity to implore the Attorney General to prevent any future direct communication between “The President” and me. I told the AG that what had just happened — was inappropriate and should never happen. He did not reply. He knew what kind of man Crispin was. One who doesn’t play by the rules, unless they include humiliation, urine and mostly likely an Obama mask.
On the morning of March 30, “The President” called me at the FBI. He said, “a cloud” that was impairing his ability to act on behalf of the country. He needed release. In a voice I’ll never forget and said, “I was the only one who could “remove his cloud”.” He said he had not been involved with hookers in Russia, hoping he would sway my heart, and assured me and had always assumed he was being recorded when in Russia. He asked what we could do to “lift the cloud”, in a voice that sounded as if his eyes were on my trousers. Maybe if I were stronger, I would have stopped it. I was so stunned by the conversation that I just took in. The only thing I could think to say, because I was playing in my mind — because I could remember every word he said — I was playing in my mind, what should my response be? That’s why I carefully chose the words. I responded that we were investigating the matter as quickly as we could and that there would be great benefit, if we didn’t find anything, to our having done the work well. He agreed, but then re-emphasized the problems this was causing him. Was he really asking me to release his cloud? Was he asking me to “rain” on him? Was that a special code word between he and Vlad? When I was appointed FBI Director in 2013, I understood that I served at the pleasure of “The President”, but this was going too far.
Immediately after that conversation, I called Acting Deputy Attorney General Dana Boente (AG Sessions had by then recused himself from all Urination related matters), to report the “substance”, of the call and said I would await his guidance. I did not hear back from him.
But I wasn’t fool enough to think I was free.
On April 11th, Crispin rang again. I couldn’t believe his persistence. He seemed to have forgotten I was a skilled justice official who’s forgotten more about the political process, the constitution and how our body of government operates than he would ever know. And that I’m built like an NBA power forward and though I’d never admit to it, know 6 ways to kill a man with my bare hands. Was his desire for me based solely on my immunity to his gas lighting tactics? Was it because I was professionally trained to take one look at him and see into his empty soul? Why was he trying to claim me? Why was he playing these games?
When I rebuffed him again, he tried one last time to manipulate me saying “ I have been very loyal to you, very loyal; we had that thing you know.” I did not reply or ask him what he meant by “that thing.” Who would want to know the answer to that question? Not that it mattered. It was all in his head. I thought about our dinners and our talks, how it was all about his agenda and never mine. I oversaw 10,000 cases and he never once asked about my day, or even if I had any desire to “release his cloud”. He wanted what he wanted and when I wouldn’t give it he seemed bent on destruction.
We never spoke again. But he continued to speak about me. He wanted to make sure everyone knew he broke up with me and not the other way around, assuring Russian officials I was just another crazy bitch in a long line who’d recoiled in horror at the idea of touching him, even when he’d been so kind as to offer to buy them furniture. Soon he will unleash his storm in under 140 characters poorly executed, grammatically questionable rants of which I will be the target. And I while I will never stand over him urinating into a pillow until it begins to leak aka “releasing the cloud” and not just because there’s not a ceiling high enough for me to execute it, but if it actually means telling people the truth about his passions, I’m more than willing. I had my diaries and The New York Times seemed a good place to start.