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The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons: World Wide Wank

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The Secret Life of Kitty Lyons by Maggie Cutler  
Index

Introduction



World Wide Wank


I’m with the Pussy Posse, as I call my two dearest girlfriends, snacking in one of those bistros where gorgeous people serve you coffee in bowls, when I learn an amazing thing: everyone and her sister is having romantic fantasies about foreign leaders this week.

       
Eugenie, who is a pundit for a newspaper they give away in health clubs, kicks off the frenzy. She’s so bored with the presidential race, she says, that while watching the funeral of Syria’s Hafez Assad she fell like a brick for the late strongman’s son, Bashar. According to the Associated Press, Syrians mobbed the streets, shouting, “Bashar, Bashar, we sacrifice our blood and lives for you!” which is more of a commitment, says Eugenie, than she is prepared to make for any man. But still, she can’t stop thinking about this dark, sweet-faced potentate, with his dad’s moustache, those Campbell’s Soup Kid cheeks and hands that would fit her ass like a Wonderbra.

       
“Assad means lion, so he’s an actual human Lion King,” she enthuses, “and he’s only thirty-four, ladies. Syria had to lower the minimum age for dictators just for him because he’s still young enough to pull a twosie.”

       
I am impressed.

       
“It gets better,” Eugenie insists. “He speaks English and loves the Internet, which means he’s not afraid of finding ads for ‘Hot Split Peaches’ in his mailbox every day; and he trained as an ophthalmologist, too. So if I say, ‘Zap me with some sizzling eye contact, you geek,’ he’ll take me back to his tent or whatever and split my hot peach all night,” she sighs, adding wistfully, “provided I don’t mention I’m Jewish.”

       
“Oh, mention it,” scoffs Mandy, my performance artist friend who specializes in autobiographical monologues about how men are despicable. “Kings never listen.” If she was going to go for rough trade, she’d prefer to be frontally assaulted, she says, by the new Soviet chieftain, Vladimir Putin. She likes his icy blue eyes and imagines he wears some special KGB cologne that melts women’s brains. “It would be sooo 007 to be with him,” she sighs. If she tells him she is German and has stolen nuclear secrets from Los Alamos that will give him control of NATO, he’ll get so hot she’ll have to tie him to the bed, from which, as a certified black belt, he’ll escape. He’d then force her at gunpoint to drive him through Chechnya as Soviet bombs showered down on civilians, after which, cranked on adrenalin, they’d make passionate detente in the back of a tank under a canopy of buzzards.

       
“Mmmm,” says Eugenie appreciatively. “I didn’t know they had buzzards in Chechnya.”

       
“That part I made up,” admits Mandy. But his KGB past, his bombing civilians and his black belt are all real.

       
I smile encouragingly, but neither the lion cub nor Vlad the Impaler appeal to me. Instead, I have been obsessing about the two President Kims — Kim Dae Jung of South Korea and Kim Jong Il, his Northern counterpart. It is the photo of them holding hands after fifty years of mutual hostilities that does me in. The Kims’ wrists are so plump and their hands so meaty, you just want to sit on them and wiggle. Dae Jung wears a big, vulgar gold watch that he must have won in Vegas. Jong Il is said to be paranoid and reclusive and to “frequent European prostitutes.” A girl can’t ask for more than that.

       
I’m dying to go threes with the Kims, but how? Much as Time magazine carries on about the “Two Koreas Kissing,” it’s going to take a lot more than a glass of diplomatic champagne to bring anything that lubricious to pass. I intuit that the Kims need the medium of my torrid body to facilitate their transition from enemies to friends.

       
I start them as far apart as possible — one Kim to my North and the other to my South. They are both as plump and tumescent below as above and they’re screaming with anticipation — “Internet economy! Global trade!” — to let me know that they appreciate all I represent to their divided people.

       
At first, of course, their rhythm’s off — they push into me and pull out in jerky fits, but with a few rotations of my tongue and hips I get them in sync, shuttling between them until we’re all afroth and then pulling them towards each other simultaneously in frenzied lunges.

       
At which point I hear Mandy say, “Kitty! Wake up! I can’t believe this topic bores you . . .&nbsp”

       
Ooops! I’ve got to cover my flank. Ever since my husband told me that he thinks fantasies about strangers are a form of infidelity, I really can’t tell anybody about mine for fear they’ll get back to him. “Oh, I was thinking about Max,” I lie — which bores the posse to no end, but fibbing about my sex life makes me feel so leader-like, I might have to start fantasizing about sleeping with myself.