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The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons: Jesse Ventura

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 REGULARS






The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons by Maggie Cutler  
Index

Introduction



Body Double




My spiritual union with Jesse Ventura was conceived over Thanksgiving, when my born-again father said I was as big a disgrace as Minnesota’s governor. It happened after Dad’s even-more-born-again wife, Deb, invited us all to bow our heads in prayer and thank Jesus that our mothers hadn’t aborted us. She did it over the giblets, and I confess I just lost it. Unlike Jesse, I stopped short of denouncing all organized religion as a crutch for weak minded people — but at one point I believe I did compare Deb’s concept of divinity to a three-way of imaginary playmates. Whatever — it was an off-the-cuff remark I will never live down.


    

So all week long, I keep thinking about Jesse and all we have in common. I even try to imagine having sex with him, but no go. He looks so big and solid, it’s like going to bed with my bureau. Yet the way he packs himself into a business suit — that frank-about-to-burst-on-the-grill look — I just have to have him somehow. It’s only after the movie Being John Malkovich that it hits me: Just Become Him.


    

Turning myself into an ex-Navy SEAL and pro-wrestler isn’t easy. I must meditate on what it’s like to have delts like basketballs, traps up to my ears, triceps the size of pork roasts. But when I get there, I realize to my delight that being Jesse Ventura muscles out anxiety faster than a new Prada tote.


    

Go ahead — call me a flash in the pan, a buffoon, anything. Insults fly by me like squadrons of bombers pestering King Kong. I’m not afraid of selling eBay short because I clicked the wrong button. I’m not afraid that my ankle boots are so 1999. I make jokes about Indians, Irishmen, murdered children. I support the death penalty, then change my mind. I wear buckskins, feather boas, loincloths and I look good in all of them, because I’ve warred and whored and played the villain and raised teenagers and none of it killed me. If Dad and Deb harass me, I get them in leg-scissor locks and whomp ’em onto the mat. Take that! Body slam ’em: Grrrr! It’s fun.


    

I keep going deeper into Jesse until my abs are six-packed, my quads pumped. When I clench my fist around my thick joystick of a cock, power courses through my arms into my spine, zip-zap, and the whole entertainment machine that is me starts plugging in, switching on, gearing up for Mortal Kombat. One step into the political arena and my high-speed connections crackle . . . The crowd roars me to life. I raise my arms in a pillar of light and people rise to their feet booing and cheering. I am an invincible American Juggernaut, hedonic, gold-buckled, the Roman circus, the free market embodied and engorged! Confident! Erect! Alive!


    

And that’s when I realize what I want most in the world.


    

I want to be a bra.


    

I can’t believe it of myself at first, the desire is so perverse. Me, Mr. Tumescence, a 38-DD, like I told Playboy? A lacy cup, hollow, yearning to be filled with female flesh, poked by gentle nipples? Can it be true?


    

It is.


    

“You can be my bra, Kitty offers. Her full little tits are so milky-smooth and muffin-sweet my heart breaks over her like an egg. She rests them on top of my head, lets me nuzzle and tease them before she turns her back. I cup her softness and I open completely. Silicone and steroids — I don’t need them. Kitty knows me under the skin, knows how it feels to get stuck in a grudge match with another person’s god. She knows how I feel when my ratings drop in the polls. She knows how I feel when I realize that growing up means shutting up, even though running my mouth has been my one great joy in a life of compromises.


    

Her 38-DD butt angles up to meet me and her cunt gets my populist hero into a body hold. Then I grip her legs high and inside with my huge hands and she fills me and I fill her and we fuck ourselves up, down and sideways, thrashing, and it’s a party, a travesty, a tragedy, a tyranny of need until we’re both crying for all the things we didn’t do perfectly and all the energy it takes us not to give a flying fuck about what anyone else in America thinks explodes through us and out of us and we yowl because it’s true that we’re magnificent and by God we’re going to get things done! And now we’re clean and whole and spunky again and they’re naming rooms in brothels after us, and mixed drinks and action figures — and we’re ready to get back in the ring.