REGULARS

Index Introduction

The Defense of Sex Act

Here's how Bill Clinton ruined my marriage:

    

As soon as the Bush the Younger is installed on the throne by his brother, his cousin and his father's Supreme Court appointees, I realize that I'm losing more than democracy here: I am about to lose the sexiest Commander-in-Chief I have ever had. I'd assumed, unthinkingly, that he'd always be there, tumescent and willing. But very soon William Jefferson Clinton will be on his way to . . . What? Long walks around the Harvard Quad with Lani Guinier? A cameo on The West Wing? Chilly chats with Senator Hillary in their empty nest?

    

Stepping down. What pathos.

    

I rush to his side before he ends up on Prozac, CNN or any other drug that jams the libido, and I find him skulking around the Oval Office, picking things up and turning them upside-down, as if he was checking
tchotchkes for potters' marks at some garage sale in Westchester. I watch as he caresses the underside of a paperweight eagle.

    

"I think you're patting the wrong bottom," I quip.

    

When our eyes meet, his get even bluer. He shoots his famous twenty-first-century seduction beams straight through to my fallopian tubes. Gennifer Flowers was right — you can feel the heat radiating off his body just standing near him.

    

I make a moue so that he can see that I am slutty, treacherous and easily impressed — everything he craves in a woman. But he holds back. To encourage him, I assure him that he's not the only one who's between careers. (Me, I was no good at online trading, hated producing my husband's documentaries and have no idea what to do next.) And then I confess: I want him and have always wanted him as long as I can remember, ever since his first bimbo eruption, back when I was barely old enough to vote.

    

"Kitty Lyons," he opens. His grit-on-velvet drawl sends shivers up my dorsal meridians like a couple of next-generation weapons. His warm hand cups my right breast, though I'd rather he had started with the left one, because it's slightly bigger. "I cherish each moment we spend together," he continues, eyes crinkling.

    

I vaguely remember that he used similar words on Monica, but his hand feels so good I don't protest. His touch says, "You don't have to suck in your gut when you're with me." So I don't. But I do feign indignation, hoping to elicit some of the aggro that Paula Jones, Katherine Willey and Juanita Broaddrick reported. Bill, however, is not fooled, because instead of biting my lip or groping me crudely to make me feel fabulously cheap and defiled, he merely swells against me, smooth as a child's balloon.

    

I swear, I don't think I've ever had my nipples kissed so sweetly. So tenderly. His lips are so damn soft. Sexual harassment was never this good. It feels so fine fine fine I just have to do something fine for him, too, so I swallow him lock, stock and barrel like I'm the most desperate of single mothers or the toughest of marines.

    

"Bill, do you mind if I call you 'Mr. President,' the way Marilyn did JFK?" I ask in a tiny, breathy voice, coming up for air.

    

"Kitty, I don't care what you call me, as long as you keep up the magic down there," he says, frank and honest for once. And I do, until he gives me a huge DNA sample to take home, risking his whole career just for this one ecstatic moment with me.

    

His generosity doesn't stop there. "I'm going to give you an orgasm for every Republican who tried to impeach me for lying about my adulteries while doing the same damn fucking thing themselves!" he promises.

    

I so adore his righteous indignation, I'm ready to take on the whole list. But after Henry Hyde, the two Bobs — Livingston and Barr — Helen Chenoweth, Dan Burton, Charles Canady and Newt Gingrich, I'm begging for mercy, and so is Bill, because as we name each hypocrite, I tell him what I think sex would be like with them and — unlike my fantasy-phobic husband — Bill is rolling on the floor, loving it. Loving it! Worshiping all the golden arches of my saxophonic, body-electric, dog-wagging, Elvis-at-Graceland mind . . .

    

I'm just beginning to tell Bill about my Bush Jr. coke-whore fantasy when Max comes home, takes one look at me sprawled on the couch all akimbo and sags with disapproval. That is when I realize that William J.Clinton, for all his lying and signifying, appreciates my all-embracing All-American spirit more deeply than my lawfully wedded ever did or can. It hits me as hard as a malicious political lawsuit: it's my husband who's the lame duck here.

    

Sultry, I look into Max's reproachful eyes. "I cherish each moment with you, too . . . Mr. President," is how I end it with both of them.

Maggie Cutler ©2000 All rights reserved