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The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons: Mary Cheney and Candace Gingrich

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 REGULARS











The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons by Maggie Cutler  
Index

Introduction



Like Candy for Mary


I don’t realize quite how much I care about Ellen DeGeneres and Anne
Heche as a couple until I hear that they’re quits. “We are grateful for
the three-and-a-half years we had together,” they told the tabs.

    
Only a thousand days, Anne? I feel cheated. They were supposed to
have kids, the way Ellen did in that HBO special Anne directed. I was
looking forward to prime time debates about whether celebrity lesbians
can ever raise a “normal” child — the way Godfearing Christian parents
can somehow produce a Pee Wee Herman or a Richard Hatch.

    
To replace what I’ve lost, I decide to assemble the perfect lesbian couple. My fantasy pair is Candace Gingrich — Newt’s gay half-sister — and Mary Cheney, daughter to veep nominee Dick. Candy and Mary have so much in common, I can’t imagine they won’t
instantly bond for life. First off, both did promotional work in the gay
community — Candace for gay rights and Mary for Coors beer. Second,
they’re both sportspersons. Candy does rugby, while Mary’s a fly-fishing
and ice hockey whiz. Lastly, they’re both witty dressers. I adored the
labia-colored suit Candy wore to Newt’s most recent wedding, and I
practically drooled over the nipple-tinted sweater Mary wore for the
Republican convention (where she appeared sans Life Partner smiling and
waving beside a hubby-flaunting sister). Their official wardrobes
confirmed my life-long suspicion that when the going gets tough, the
tough wear pink.

    
But they no sooner take possession of my mind when the differences
between them start to tell. Candace rushes to embrace Mary who, feeling
invaded, stiffens, before delivering a professionally friendly hug that
strikes Candy as bogus. They each look at me as if to say, “She’s a bit
of an asshole,” before opening their arms to include me in their club
even though I’m only bi, because I, too, was the sexually censored child
of a puritanical male, and lived to brag about it.

    
In close, Mary’s teeth are as white as the Republican Party, and
her eyes as bright as fishing lures. She smells like fresh air and
family money with a soup?on of girls’ locker rooms. Candy has
that political wedding smell still on her — lipstick, vanilla icing,
cigars. The mix makes me so delirious I don’t care whether they like
each other or not.

    
And they don’t. “Did you read my book?,”
Candy asks Mary.

    
“I have so little time to read . . . ” Mary blows her off with that faux
regret that corporate players use to mask utter contempt.

    
“Anybody, um, have a sexual preference — two-on-one or
daisy-chain?” ventures Candy flowerchildishly, hoping against hope that
we’re all in this life together.

    
“I like equipment sports,” declares Mary as she whips a strapping
strap-on from her Gucci satchel.

    
Candy’s eyes widen as if she’s never seen anything so unnatural and
twisted, and my eyes widen as if I’ve never seen a bigger dick. It
suddenly strikes me that the only thing these two dykes have in common
is that I’m attracted to both of them.

    
“Leave the sweater on!” I beg Mary as I fall to my knees between
Candy’s legs, where I re-enact with my tongue her journey from the most
obscure edge of American politics into the clitoral bulls-eye of the fifteen-minute spotlight.

    
Mary’s baton, on the other hand, is so like Dick Cheney — so firm
and inflexible, I think I’m going to explode with gratitude.

    
After I get Candy to come (she’s a shouter), I flip over and pull
the black scrunchie from Mary’s ponytail. She shakes out a bob so blonde
it makes me feel completely deregulated. But Mary doesn’t let me off the
line. She teases me out, like she’s fly-casting with her dad, flicking
her rod like a mayfly, fooling my synapses until they surface and nibble
hungrily at the bait, then, zam! The fight is on, tug and tumble. Her
clit’s getting pounded. She grits her teeth. Over the ice
our blades are slicing fronds of frost from the slick floor of the rink,
our sticks clashing, our bodies slam into each other, push towards the
blurred goal past staid old gentlemen and snooty ladies who’re slipping
and tumbling on their asses like ninepins.

    
“Fuck me, Jesus!” I cry, hardly an original remark, but at the
moment heartfelt. Mary’s exclamations are wild and mournful, the song
of life in the throat of abomination, as she dissolves into me, as
globally warmed as a Republican icecap.

    
Later, Mary promises that if we inform anyone what we’ve done, we
will regret it. “And I’m not asking you,” she smiles, “I’m telling you.”

    
Candace’s smile freezes, as in: “These corporate imperialists crush
anything that gets in their selfish way.”

    
“I know how you feel about privacy,” she says.

    
Mary shoots me a look that says, “Like hell she does, the liberal
slacker slut.”

    
Me, I want to choke them both for caring about anything other than
how adorable I am when I’m post-coital. But we all do manage to agree on
one thing: We do greatly value the three-and-a-half hours we spent together.