A Freudian, yet understandible slip on my part. I had just read Howie Carr on gigilo Kerry's adventures over the years:
"Here's another Liveshot (Kerry's sordid nickname) story, told to me by a major Boston nightclub owner who had a luscious young galpal. One night, they're all getting down, and among the guests is a four-sheets-to-the-wind Liveshot. The girl, who's up on current events, starts tearing into Kerry for his weathervane-like voting record, telling him he needs to make a ``commitment.''
``Baby,'' he finally says, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze, ``I am ready right now to make a commitment. To you.''