Assuming that Mark Sanford considers the "ultimate line" to mean boning, though it's certainly possible that Mark Sanford's "ultimate line" is less than conventional, he claims that, outside of his wife, he's only stuck his red, white and blue pee-pee into Maria Belen Chapur's Latin ladybox during the time he's been married. So based on what we know about Mark Sanford's personal history, let's make a few educated guesses—errr—baseless conclusions about how Sanford may have "crossed the lines."

Paying for professional handjobs—Mark and Jenny Sanford met while both were living in New York and working on Wall Street. This is where the early part of their marriage took place. Now, it's an open secret that Wall Street dudes love "rub-n-tugs," i.e. Asian massages that feature "happy endings." Could we see Mark Sanford frequenting such places? Absolutely! Though we've personally never been to one of these fine establishments, we have many friends working on Wall Street who do frequent them, and we have absolutely no trouble seeing Mark Sanford slinking in to one of these joints during his lunch break or at 2AM after a night of cocktails and cigars for a handjob. And if you're in the market for a "massage" yourself, our Wall Street friends sing the praises of "Bonnie" at the West Garden Spa. They tell us she's "a real workhorse."

Sexy online chat sessions— By now everyone has read Mark Sanford's seductive emails to Maria Belen Chapur. What woman can read Sanford's vivid descriptions of humming diesel engines and tan lines and not become moist in the nether regions? Mark Sanford is the Erica Jong of American politics! So it stands to reason that Sanford has spent time verbally sexing strangers on the internets, in freaky chat rooms and such, which is likely where he honed his considerable erotic literary skills. Mark Sanford is probably one of those people posting ads in the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist seeking someone to "sexy chat" with. We always wondered who those people were!

Lusting in his heart and loins—We know that Mark Sanford is an Episcopalian and according to author Bill Bonner, the Episcopal Church has the hottest babes filling the pews.

"Throughout all of Christendom, no group has more attractive churches – nor more fetching women – than Episcopalians."

So it stands to reason that Mark Sanford has spent many Sundays in church feeling lust in his heart for other women, just like that sinning liberal communist Jimmy Carter, in church no less, which means that Jesus will personally lash him about the genitals with wet bamboo when he finally gets to heaven, if God is even willing to let him through the pearly gates that is.

Masturbating in other people's homes—After Mark Sanford left Wall Street, he and Jenny moved to South Carolina where Sanford worked as a real estate broker. Now, real estate brokers, as you probably know, are notorious for pleasuring themselves in the properties they're showing when no one else is around. This is some sort of cheap thrill that they all seem to enjoy, and if there's one thing we've learned about Mark Sanford, it's that he loves cheap thrills.

Pony play—People in South Carolina love horses. So it stands to reason that...Oh Nevermind.

Feel free to add your own reckless speculation in the comments.

Previously: Things To Do In Buenos Aires Without Your Wife

Cindi Leive, Glamour editor-in-chief, denied she could be one of the book's funhouse mirrored versions of Manhattan media fixtures. It was Leive who playing host at Da Silvano's wine bar to a mix of unnervingly relaxed gossips, writers, and flacks, which meant she invited guests to pet her fur purse — "No, I don't even know what kind of animal it is, but you don't really want to know, do you?"

Froelich, in fishnets, advised that really, "If you can eat it, wear it." She had her own arm-candy: a bouquet of tiny violet roses, compliments of (former?) gossip and one-time Gawker editor, Alex Balk.

Also in the gallery, shot by the unstoppable Nikola Tamindzic: Erica Jong, George Gurley, Sloane Crosley, David Carr, Rachel Sklar, Elizabeth Spiers, Kate Lee, and Neel Shah's hat.

Morgan Spurlock (Super Size Me), Page Six's gossip columnist and Mercury in Retrograde author Paula Froelich

Cindi Leive (editor-in-chief, Glamour), author Erica Jong

Elliot Furman, former Defamer writer Molly Friedman

Glamour's Cindi Leive, Rachel Sklar of Abrams Research

Neel Shah (gossip writer for Page Six, and former Radar), Chris Wilson ("the Neel Shah of the late 90's" he explains), Steve Garbarino (the survivorman of the magazine world, now working with Playboy)

Classing it up, old-school publicist Bobby Zarem

The next generation: omg omg omg

Sloane Crosley (book publicist, author of I Was Told There'd Be Cake), Cindy Eagan (head of teen lit imprint Poppy) Caroline Waxler (writer)

Mediaite Rachel Sklar with Ron Perelman's spokeswoman Christine Taylor

Neel Shah shortly before hatting Sloane Crosley

Alex Balk (The Awl, former Radar executive editor) shows his face with Paula Froelich

A barely debauched George Gurley (New York Observer, Vanity Fair)

La Froelich's fishnets

Paula Froelich, with snappy flack Marvette Brito

Morgan Spurlock

ICM agent Kate Lee with client and Gawker founding editor Elizabeth Spiers

David Carr (star Twitterer and media columnist, New York Times)

Sara Bernstein, of HBO's documentary operation, and Jesse Angelo, New York Post managing editor, who claims to have only ever drunk-bought one domain: yourwifeisonmyblog.com

Sloane Crosley, Neel Shah's hat

Paula Froelich just wants you to go home now

"Jong has apparently never read anything else I've written," Taibbi writes. He then goes on to list some of his recent descriptions of male politicians. Rudy Giuliani has "the vestigial stoop of a once-chubby kid who grew up hiding tittie pictures from nuns"; Mike Huckabee "has the roundish, half-deflated physique of an ex-fatty"; former House Judiciary Committee Chairman James Sensenbrenner is "An ever-sweating, fat-fingered beast who wields his gavel in a way that makes you think he might have used one before in some other arena, perhaps to beat prostitutes to death."

Taibbi concludes: "I mean, wow. And I thought I was a hack."

(He also called Jong an "eight hundred year-old sex novelist." Heh.)

Jong's sister, Suzanna Daou, made her initial comments in the question-and-answer segment of the conference. She resembles Jong, and introduced herself. Here is how the New Yorker summarized her comments:

"I love my sister very much, but 'Fear of Flying' has been a thorn in my flesh for thirty-five years." The book was, Daou said, "an exposé of my life when I was living in Lebanon"—Isadora Wing has a sister, Randy, who lives in Beirut with her many children and her husband, a Lebanese Christian who makes a pass at his sister-in-law—and also betrayed, she said, an ugly and ill-befitting prejudice. (Jong’s Beirut chapter is called “Arabs and Other Animals.”) "The book speaks of resentment, and cruelty to family," Daou said, as Jong flushed mutely and a third Mann sister, Claudia Oberweger, who was sitting close by, looked on, aghast.

Later at the event, she elaborated for the magazine:

"Erica used me, and she used my husband, who was a very kind man, a very handsome man. I just felt I had to do it. It was not a novel; it was a memoir, but it was a memoir something like James Frey’s memoir. A lot of nastiness went into that book. But I forgive her for everything, except writing that my husband crawled into her bed, which he didn’t, and asked her to perform fellatio, which he didn’t."

Daou left without saying goodbye to Jong, who later fired back at her sister. She told the New Yorker, "This reminds me of a fairy tale in which the evil fairy comes and makes a curse on the baby... But every intelligent family has an insane member."

Jong said she regretted naming a chapter "Arabs And Other Animals," because when freedom-hating Arab extremists take over the world they will execute her for that. That should quash any further controversy.

New Yorker: Still Flying (Talk of the Town)

Says DPC of Erica:

She has spent time with Mrs. Clinton and she knows that she is a woman who will look after the children. Not all women, she said, are interested and not all men can, but Hillary will. Her record already speaks it. This was all expressed by Erica very quietly and matter of factly. I saw Hillary Clinton somewhat differently.

Later on in the day I was thinking about our conversation. These are very uneasy times for many. So many people talk about the political campaigns with confoundment and no strong feelings in any direction. Disappointment is almost a given. Is it the time, or is it the way life is.

Last night we were celebrating the publication of World Without End, the sequel to Ken's 1989 historical novel The Pillars Of The Earth, which is another book I had been excited to discover on my parents' bookshelf because MAN. It is dirty. I mean, most historical fiction is! How else would anyone get readers to sit through a 900-page book about the building of a cathedral? Anyway, as I told Ken, "I was 11 when I read The Pillars of the Earth, and it was the first time I remember, um, feeling aroused." (I am a big oversharer, but I was not about to say "getting wet" to some dude I had just met. I don't work at Jezebel.)

"Well, I think I can safely say that's the first time I've ever aroused an 11-year-old girl!" Ken said. Funny guy!

Erica met Ken while yachting on the Aegean, she said during her little speech. Theirs is a great friendship because their spouses are friends, too. He is married to Barbara Broer, who is a member of Parliament! She is married to Ken Burrows, who is a divorce lawyer.

I didn't get to talk to Judy Collins but she was there, bringing the grand total of "people at this party mentioned in Bob Dylan songs" to two (Erica).

Critic and novelist Daphne Merkin was also very present. At first when we were introduced she started off being very anti-Gawker because of that post about her "cattiness" in reviewing Tina Brown's book. "It was a rave!" she bellowed. I was like, "Please send all bellowing to Doree Shafrir care of The New York Observer." But after just one bellow, Daphne mellowed. Later, she dished about how Mediabistro founder Laurel Touby had taken the writing class she teaches at the 92nd St. Y once upon a time. "She was very confident. Very."

In the bathroom, many perfumes were arrayed on the mirrored vanity (we took a picture!). I did not open the medicine cabinet, or sneak into the bedroom and look in the bedside table drawer. That would be rude. However, I did see a sculpture of a couple engaged in an act that Erica's daughter, the author Molly Jong-Fast, described to me via IM today as "falichio." Like so many writers, she can't spell worth shit.

"Also," Molly typed, "they have a painting of two men doing it but I think they took it down for last night." Well, it is important to draw the line somewhere! Maybe.