The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons: Monica Lewinsky

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The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons by Maggie Cutler  


Monica Dearest

I have gotten to know Monica Lewinsky so intimately over the past two years of sex and perjury scandals, I feel like we’re practically old lovers. It’s with some disappointment that I learn that she is going to be a Jenny Craig spokeswoman who will teach us all to be more careful about what we put into our mouths. Somehow, the idea of her switching from nibbling the president’s love bar to chomping a bunch of celery sticks makes me sad for her. If she’s looking for a new career, I think we can do better.


To get her to think creatively about the alternatives I take her for lunch at the Ritz-Carlton in Pentagon City. Why, I ask her, should we be climbing a Stairmaster to nowhere in some musty gym when we could burn twice the calories by paddling Ken Starr or flogging Linda Tripp, right here at a nice hotel? Monica says, “I am, like, so intrigued by that idea,” but she’s worried: once you start beating your enemies, will no one will think you’re a good person anymore? I assure her that people who get away with tastelessly exploiting a young woman inevitably suffer from the sort of guilt that thrills to a little discipline. The key, I tell her, is in dressing for the occasion. And I don’t just mean avoiding horizontal stripes.


So we round up the thong she flashed at Bill, the special tie she gave him, the Mary Tyler Moore beret she wore when she hugged him on video and, of course, that blue dress the Smithsonian would kill for. I pick up a few tools and toys, including a box of Godiva chocolate cigars (I have my limits, and second-hand smoke is one of them), then we book a suite. I set up while she invites everybody over for a little “off-the-record, never-before-published testimony.”


Within minutes they start arriving, drooling with anticipation — Ken and Linda, followed by Matt Drudge in that adorable hat and Lucianne Goldberg. Monica and I greet them at the door dressed in a few choice pieces of legal evidence.


“Hi — I have figured out a way to put you all behind me and move on,” she coos, showing her fabulous cleavage. I’m too busy stripping everybody down and trussing them up to beds and chairs and bureaus to waste my breath on formalities. Besides, showing up in nothing but a thong sort of says “Hello” for you.


When I handcuff Matt Drudge’s wrists to the bar of the closet his excitement is so visible I hang his hat on it. Ken, bottoms up, is blushing prettily beside the bar (liquor, not legal). Lucianne and Linda are each in their favorite position — with their noses in someone else’s business.


“Jenny Craig wants Monica and me to lose some weight every single day,” I announce to them. “And you are going to help us.” I wag a cane (imported fresh from Singapore) in front of Ken’s face and his dimples go into contractions. Monica reaches into her purse and produces first a ping-pong paddle (which Lucianne eyes like a three-book deal), then a boar-bristle hairbrush, the sight of which does something wonderfully rejuvenating to Linda’s already revised face. I repeat aloud what Monica told Larry King: diet alone won’t produce weight loss unless we work on our issues — “many of whom I believe are present here this afternoon,” I add with an elegant leer.


The next hour is a blur of strenuous activity. Monica is a bit timid at first with her strokes, but she quickly gets over it when Linda begs for more. Lucianne cries out that she wants to feel the burn, and Ken grants Monica immunity in between gasps.


When we’re all gleaming with sweat and they’re all welty (especially Matt), I reveal that I’ve videotaped everything — every flap of their flab, every sagging jowl, every love-handle, saddlebag and cellulite pucker — for Larry King to comment upon. And as we play the tapes back on CNN with scathing commentary, we finish off our gratified victims with the worst possible torture of all: Monica and I take our cigars and disappear into another room to have really hot screaming gluttonous lesbian sex — that we don’t let any of them watch.


After we’re done, she admits she feels at least five pounds lighter thanks to me, and that her self-esteem has never been higher. I explain that she can do all this as a regular cable show and make a series of exercise videos that will pay her legal bills without Jenny Craig. And after she thanks me (I won’t say how), I kiss her on her dear foolish adorable star-fucking nose, at which point I realize that I do still have a terrible crush on her. After all these years.