Running Up Hill
But once I’ve pried myself away from the thrashing of the Nasdaq to concentrate on some thrashing of my own, I discover that fantasizing about Hillary is kind of like workfare: a lot of effort in return for very little compensation.
Maybe it’s a question of priorities: I feel that Hill will let all her old baggage Bill, Whitewater, that health care mess keep her from a here-and-now romance with me. But I, Kitty, deserve better from an elected official. I want someone who can lead me forward away from past pain and Max’s Belgian patroness-tramp who I am not letting myself even think about towards adoration, ecstasy, passion, hope.
If Hillary could only project the languid, seductive power of, say, Chloë Sevigny I’d have no trouble getting off. The light would bounce off the blue of her irises into my eyes and I’d think I was in some cerulean grotto off St. Tropez where no factories get relocated, no innocent immigrants get gunned down by police and nobody’s husband gets seduced by a pretentious opportunist with a big checkbook and a bad French accent. If Hillary looked at me with Chloë’s heavy-lidded, fire-banked dreaminess instead of her I’m-only-pretending-to-listen look, I’d follow her anywhere, even to Albany.
I tell Hillary, “If you want to win this election, pretend I’m New York and try to seduce me. Forget what you’ve been through. Just make like Chloë Sevigny.” I loved her in Boys Don’t Cry Chloë played a character who is so totally romantic that no matter how she gets lied-to by her lover (who’s a girl, kind of, pretending to be a guy), her desire for emotional contact makes her seem glamorous, not pathetic.
Once I show Hilly the poll numbers on her current attitude, Hillary obediently follows my instructions and adopts instead a sulky, lust-saturated gaze. She caresses my face with it and I hold her close to my heart. When our eyes lock and interpenetrate, I can believe that even if the only jobs I have to offer are in prisons, gravel pits and garbage dumps, the most beautiful of women would want to stay in my arms instead of moving west.
When she starts to talk about education policy vouchers, equality, blah, blah I thrust my breast into her mouth to shut her up. You want education? I’ll give you an education, I whisper.
Then I slide my tongue over her nipple and blow on it to make it cold and suck it gently when it stands up. I put my hands around her waist and squeeze. Her face softens like a landscape rescued from developers and she goes all Chloë again.
Then, once she’s convincingly receptive, I send her on a real live listening tour of my entire body from Canada to Long Island. She kisses my navel and I say, “Seneca Falls, the birthplace of modern feminism,” and my slit, we agree, is the Erie Canal, historic gateway to the Heartland. Full of speechless ingenue awe, she explores my darkly beautiful Catskills and my still-pristine reservoirs with her pliant, hopeful fingers.
In return, I kiss her plump ankles; I wrap my arms around her earthy hips and press my mouth to her cunt. Speaking to it in a thousand tri-state accents, I guide her to victory. I murmur into her deepest crevice all of my state’s great secrets how half of New York City believes graffiti is art and half of Hancock believes the world was created in seven days and half of Troy believes it’s a city.
“Why,” she laughs, “It’s just like Arkansas!”
“Shhh! Don’t tell!” I smile. As I stroke her and suck her until the Hillary who’s naked and alive obliterates the Hillary who’s pre-programmed by corporate professionals, I start to really care about her, and I don’t really notice if she is a woman or just a woman pretending to be a “woman” or a lawyer or a starlet in a HBO chick flick with Ellen DeGeneres and Sharon Stone. When she comes, she shouts “Fuck Giuliani!”
It’s a whole new Hillary.
But I, alas, am still mostly me. Fun as it was with Hill, I’m madder at Max than I want him to know. If he wants me tonight I’ll have to pretend he’s Jude Law again.