My born-again dad likes George W. Bush Jr. for president, Mom hates him even more than she hates Buchanan, and Max is itching to film an exposé about his campaign’s backers. But to me, Junior is a hunka hunka sexual challenge, pure and simple.
When an ex-party boy like Dubya goes around preaching celibacy to teens, my inner predator strains at her leash. I’m obsessed: How can I score with this tan and handsome epitome of Christian rectitude?
Although his manner’s deliciously relaxed, I know he’s not easy. Any successful assault on his virtue will require a three-pronged attack: (1) God, (2) Country and (3) Yale.
Because I gather that the most formative of Dubya’s pre-Puritan decades were misspent in college, I start in New Haven. Humming a few bars of the Whiffenpoof song, I corner him at a fundraiser. I’m irresistibly tricked out in a coral-colored cashmere sweater set, my helmet hair in a flip doing my best to look like a debutante coke-whore from Smith, because conservatives are fond of the familiar.
“Boola boola,” I pout, invitingly. Sidelong glance, eyebrow up, tits out. It gets his attention. “Bet I can make you forget your own name even the last one,” I giggle.
“I’m too good for you,” he whispers, with his usual mix of flirtation and hostililty.
“Prove it, frat-brat,” I dare him, appealing to his competitive streak.
“I don’t have to.” He smirks his signature smirk. “I was born to it.”
Lost him, dammit. He’s thinking about the White House instead of me! Or anything else, for that matter. What focus!
Moving on to strategy point number two (Country), I take the Republican approach, which is to argue bombastically that a quickie with me would somehow serve a patriotic purpose. “Look,” I remind him, “The whole time you were fornicating out of wedlock, you were too drunk to notice much. How can you properly lead America away from carnal temptation unless you’re fully aware of how thrilling recreational sex with a woman half your age can be?”
“You’re good,” he grunts, mouth corners down and nostrils up. “Get you a job with the Rangers,” he winks sexily.
Encouraged, I deploy my big canon. Normally this means the authority of God the Father, but in Dubya’s case, George, his father, rules. “Your daddy cheated on your mom,” I tempt him. “Refuse me, and it’s like you’re questioning his moral fiber.”
“Poppy didn’t cheat on Barb until after the election!” He quibbles.
“I’m taking that as a rain check,” I warn him.
“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?” he scolds, desperate. “I won’t covet a neighbor’s wife; and that’s in stone!”
Anger, the first crack in his Hail Fellow façade. It’s my cue to beg. “As a compassionate conservative, please take pity,” I implore him. “I won’t compromise you with the voters. Just lie beside me naked and whisper to me about abstinence, while I do all the heavy lifting.”
I can tell by his narrowing eyes that he wants my vote bad.
“I know I’m a menace to society you can even threaten me with the death penalty,” I bargain and I’m in.
On my couch, he murmurs in my ear about sins of the devilish flesh hot, terrible, hellfire sins every bit as twisted as unions, environmental regulation and campaign finance reform. Soon, I feel flames of lewdness lick my belly and ignite my neural vortex. “Oh God, Dubya,” I cry, “I am a dirty, dirty girl! Bad, bad Kitty!” My body convulses like a biotech stock and I howl like a Texas coyote. Ahhhoooohoooooohoou.
“Jeez, Dub,” I pant, shaken. “Physically speaking, I have not had sex that wild and scary since I was a guilty teen. I just can’t wait to do It with you in that windowless room off the Oval Office!” I know I’ve planted a seed of desire in his belly that’s only a trimester or two from viable.
“I’ma beat this like I’ma beat the McCain thing,” he vows, but I, Kitty Lyons, am going to get into that man’s pants, just as surely as he’s going to ban RU-486 and make us all bear his love children.