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The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons: Prince William

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The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons by Maggie Cutler  
Index

Introduction



Triumph of the Willie



“Paella? I’d adore some!” I enthuse. Gorgeous Prince William, wearing nothing but that purple polka-dotted vest he modeled for photographers, is cooking for me right here in my apartment where we’re celebrating his eighteenth birthday far from the eyes of paparazzi and concerned royals. The paella looks as vile as the one he prepared for his official photos, but I don’t care, because the only thing on my menu this evening is GPW himself.

       

And what a lip-smacking dish he is: over six feet, blushy-cheeked and still warm from the cradle. He plays rugby, swims, loves art and is willing to have sex with women. No wonder girls are lined up at the foot of his bachelor bed — even girls with high-class hyphens, like Davina Duckworth-Chad, the rubber-clad “Deb on the Web.” The tabs report that Britney Spears, Queen of Teen, is virtually leaping out of her pin-up photo into his arms. On Crossfire, Mary Matalin finds him “so cute” and such a “hunk,” she’s begging England to stick with hereditary monarchy, just to someday see his adorable buttocks on a throne. And one can only imagine what Ralph Lauren would do for a taste of him. As for the hoi polloi, they’re all drooling in anticipation of the first photos of GPW doing something royal — getting his toes-sucked, committing adultery or invading the Falklands. Only I float high above the swarm of horny, exploitative vultures, his one true soul mate.

       

The reason William Wales (his official title this year) feels so close to me is that we both live in dream lands: his, the British, mine, the empire of the senses; his, the life of a figurehead, mine, the NASDAQ’s heady figures. Besides, I can tell we’re meant for each other by the size of his chorizo.

       

“Give me that!” I murmur, taking the tray, meaning the salami. Grasping his firm, ruddy eagerness, I lead him gently to my couch where he reclines like an odalisque. Against its red upholstery, he looks veddy, veddy royal indeed. You don’t need to decode every base pair in the human genome to know this babe’s blood is blue.

       

I run one hand through William’s sandy mop, gaze into his privileged blue eyes, then pull aside his gaudy vest to suck one pink nipple. The jolt rocks him like an IRA car bomb or a Paki nuke.

       

His Little Prince is practically abdicating, and it hasn’t yet crossed my moat. “By the time I get to rule, you know, I’ll be quite doddering,” he confides soberly. “The Queen Mum just turned 100 although she smokes like burnt toast. Dad won’t ascend for a couple of decades and by then we’ll all be subjects of Microsomething. As we would be at this moment,” he adds, “if mother had not made monarchy seem attractive enough for me to bother rescuing.”

       

I take his scepter firmly in hand. “You’ll be ruling any minute, little shagmeister,” I comfort him, stroking it sinuously. Although Willie Wales has decided to wait a year before making his subjects bow and curtsey to him, I can tell that he’s now impatient to be obeyed. Amused by his outrageous sense of entitlement, I kneel, my soft lips crowning him with great pomp and ceremony. I take him in, my tongue rolling out the red carpet. But no sooner does my free hand caress the royal jewels when he goes into a kind of convulsion.

       

I can feel his driver, drunk and giddy, skid into the legendary tunnel where time slows with unreason, speeds with fatality, stops at the wall. An explosion of limousine glass shatters everything human. There’s a momentary hush, then the flare of a thousand flashbulbs ignites a firestorm of myth-making upon which no sun can set. Love blooms from a million cellophane-swaddled bouquets.

       

His senses mobbed, his innocence spent, Prince William lies in my arms, reborn as a public institution, his eyes closed tightly. “England,” is all he says, but I know now what ghastly script this poor boy is doomed to relive in every spasm of joy, corrupted forever by his poor mother’s awful fusion of death, desire and glamour.

       

And I? Normally I’m annoyed at anyone who gets off before I even get started, but not this time. The secret snapshots I’ve taken of Willie and me will finance my husband’s next documentary (on the running of the grunion in Malibu) and the semen sample I’m depositing in my freezer will make me rich as Midas. After all, Prince William may carry the Queen’s own genes, but in the city of Kitty, capital is king.

last week next week

Maggie Cutler ©2000 All rights reserved