The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons: Abraham Lincoln

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The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons by Maggie Cutler  
More Kitty, More, More

The Story So Far

Lincoln Logs On

That guy I met in some chat room about a month ago was so smart, game and rude, I keep going back to look for him. Today he appears like an answered prayer, logging on as “Rail-splitter.” “I’m not Antonin Scalia any more,” he writes. “Today I’m Abraham Lincoln.”


He has been inspired, he says, by an article he read recently about Abe having had a well-documented “secreat and private” past — one replete with brothel visits, religious skepticism, racist prejudices and dirty jokes, not to mention a loveless marriage


and a mother born out of wedlock. If Lincoln were alive today, he says, he’d go for “Kittenesca” (my online alias) like a bear for hot honey.


“And Mary Todd need never know,” he adds, with a emoticon wink 😉


Infidelity, ugh! Now that my husband has committed it, I hate the very thought of cheating. I should drop Rail-splitter’s thread for even bringing up the topic, but instead I follow him to the Lincoln Bedroom, promising myself I’ll just peek in.


“This wasn’t really ever my bedroom,” writes my Lincoln simulator, striking a reassuringly informative note, “And I never actually slept in that dark, hulking cathedral of a rosewood boat over there, though Teddy Roosevelt, Woody Wilson and countless Clinton campaign donors have all pounded their wives to jelly in it. Guess its size and density, Kittenesca.”


“Big and hard?” I venture reflexively, instantly aware that I’ve ducked under the velvet rope.


“Dearest Kittenesca,” he begs, “how I long to see the pearly glow of your lovely Breasts shine through the gloomy trappings of this Mausoleum.”


“Mr. Late-President!” I reply with pathetically false modesty, “I am surprised to hear such a boorish entreaty from the Great Emancipator!


“Surprised? Why?” he wonders, “I married a plug-ugly shrew whose girth, as I once wrote a friend of mine, put me in mind of Falstaff. My reward for rescuing America from a Fate worse than Yugoslavia’s was a shot in the head, a moldering Grave. Won’t you take pity on a poor Servant of Democracy and let a little Nature into his hard, demanding life?” Then he begs me: “Give me your phone number, Kittenesca. We can better erect a Monument to my memory if we do it voice-to-voice.”


But before I can be seduced into an escalation of intimacies, Max comes home and I furtively shut down my browser.


Hours later, lying beside my husband in the dark, I let the real Lincoln back into my thoughts. His sunken cheeks, deep-set eyes and bad-to-the-bone lankiness are so Keith Richards. And his arms must be fabulously strong from splitting all those logs. Furthermore, I trust him not to propose anything as risky as phone sex. To keep his house undivided while his appetites raged, Honest Abe had to be a solitary wanker, like me.


Alive as ever, President Lincoln woos the North of me by emailing me tall stories and filthy jokes — never at random, but always to make a clever point. With written words — simple and clear ones, well-chosen, as perfectly cadenced as the Gettysburg Address — he leads me into his magical cyber-bedroom where desire is safe from all consequence.


When he reveals himself, with a warm, confident smile, I understand instantly why he is so comfortable among men better-educated and bred. “How’d you ever buy into the idea that all men were created equal?” I marvel, grasping his massive Proclamation with both hands, and giving it a big, friendly lick. It tastes like a truffle.


“I was well-endowed by my Creator,” he admits, swooning. Then he urges me in language I can’t repeat to “free his slave.”


Once ascended to my topmost post, he’s firm and unbending, relentless in his pursuit of Union. Respecting our equally-created needs, he’s ready to attack again and again, to obliterate my foolish fantasies of independence, my vain and petulant separateness. As his long, dark phalanx plunges relentlessly into my damp and torrid territories, he overcomes every resistance and repels every counter-thrust until my entire South capitulates in a blaze of rebel blood and fire. And in victory he is humble — kind to my fallen little Dixie, appreciative, compassionate and ever-amusing.


Abraham Fucking Lincoln, I want you still, you down and dirty boy you, you with the highest sense of purpose and duty. There hasn’t been a man as fine for me before or since. Half-sated and lonely as a cloud, I throw my arm around Max. Musky with sleep, he rolls over and, without a word, takes me in his arms.