All about being gay, that is.
His life as a crooked-politician-American is kind of glossed over.
Leave it to McGreevey to usher in a new low for sexual politics: The he-said, he-said.
On one side, we have a fallen leader waxing nostalgically about how it took the love of another man to make him finally feel like one.
On the other, McGreevey's so-called savior, Cipel, says he was sexually harassed and assaulted by his boss.
In The Confession, which hits bookshelves today, McGreevey writes of finding a soulmate in Cipel, saying their first embrace "was the first time in my life that a kiss meant what it was supposed to mean."
In an interview with my colleague John Shiffman in Sunday's paper, Cipel recalls the 2001 encounter much differently: as a physical attack fueled by Jagermeister shots and McGreevey's insatiable lust for power.
McGreevey, Cipel said, "comes up, turned toward the den very fast, and pushed me toward the bedroom. I froze, and I said, 'What's going on?' He pushed me again on my chest. He jumped on me, and we wrestled. He tried to kiss me. He tried to sexually assault me."
Neither of these guys is entirely believable, but at least both men agree on one thing: McGreevey's unforgivable sense of timing.
The night that changed both of their lives forever claimed two other innocent victims: McGreevey's wife and infant daughter, facing the future alone in a hospital room, miles away.