Regulars

The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons: Bill Bradley

Pin it

 REGULARS






The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons by Maggie Cutler  
Index

Introduction



Hammering Brads





I know Bill Bradley lost the primary, and losers aren’t normally my meat, but of all the candidates, it seems to me that Bill was offering government services for those in need. And if anybody needs servicing right now, it’s poor me. Lately my husband has been something of a taker in bed, wham-bamming minus the gratitude, not to mention the finesse.

   

I finally said something wifely, along the lines of “You’re not still banging that money-bag twerp from Antwerp just because she funded the documentary that you care about more than you care about your marriage, are you?” His response? “I will not dignify that accusation with an answer.” Not my idea of reassurance; just like ten minutes of strenuous, emotionally 404 humping is not my idea of sex.

   

Last night when Max called to say he was eating dinner in the editing room, I nearly phoned up that guy from Vida Loca Travel who dropped his card on my abs yesterday at the gym in the middle of my crunch set. But something tells me that if what I want is calming, ego-healing and gratifying, I’d do better tonight with Bill “No-Frills” Bradley — the man who cares, even when no one else does.

   

So I cut to the gritty with him right off: “Brads,” I drawl, reclining with my legs in the air like a peace sign, “I know you’re anxious to get back to your real life after a long campaign, but could you just, like, eat me for a half-hour or so before you go on vacation?”

   

Bill sighs wearily. Like most candidate types, even low-key ones, ordinary life bores him unless it packs a pinch or two of grandiosity.

   

“Don’t look upon doing me as a chore,” I admonish him. “Look upon it as a heroic undertaking, a historic reversal of unjust gender privilege.”

   

He studies my vagina a bit quizzically, as if it were a tricky question in a debate.

   

“You can push your powerful thigh against it and wiggle while holding my waist tightly,” I explain. He does.

   

“Now you can grip my thighs high up on the crease and push your thumbs up against the bone, under the inside fold.”

   

He does that too, like he was gripping a basketball.

   

Now,” I continue, “slide down and skid your tongue around on the slippery part.”

   

He hesitates.

   

“It’s an important political issue. Something about women’s freedom from the enslavements of nature,” I improvise.

   

Inspired, he dives the muff and thrusts his tongue repeatedly into me.

   

“This is doing me more good than a politically impractical health plan,” I pant encouragingly. And before long I have him sucking very, very gently at my clit as I pound my vitality into his sweet, bland face, my heart racing and my legs jelly.

   

“Gimme a rim shot, hey,” I cry, quoting Erykah Badu and throwing my legs over my head entirely. And, marvel of marvels, he does that, too.

   

I don’t have to tell him to lie on his back and pull me down onto him. He figures that out all by himself.

   

We start pumping along at a respectably steady pace until suddenly I cross an invisible line. Dockata dockata dockata, we’re coming down the court like a whirlwind, I’m throwing blind, and he’s there at the basket, open, and the fans are on their feet and it’s rolling off his fingers, up and whoosh! He’s scored, and I’m wet as a center’s T-shirt after a long game.

   

Bill keeps pumping though, no letup, not just because he’s driven to meet my underserviced needs but because he’s really starting to want me now. I feel a twinge of guilt about keeping him from his wife. But then I think, Kitty, know your worth! This is Bill’s last fling. Basketball’s over. The presidency thing didn’t gel; he’s going to be an also-ran staring mortality in the eye from here to the end, and however down he may be with that, you, Kitty, are the best thirty-two-year-old side fuck he’s going to get for all eternity, so let’s all enjoy it without a lot of senseless moralizing, shall we?

   

And then we do. He’s no longer running for National Savior and I’m not funding him or competing with his woman, and it’s a simple, clean afternoon of human decency and giving all around, so touching you could cry, which I do when I come for the second time. And then he shoots, in that straight-ahead, under-hyped style of his, without a lot of grunting or fury or hamming it up for my benefit. After which he holds me and whispers, sounding like Jimmy Stewart, in my ear, “You’re a beautiful woman, Kitty Lyons!”

   

And then I get it: Nice guys finish last. And that’s what’s so damn nice about them.