None of what I'm about to tell you could have happened after Bush v. Gore.
For those of you who missed that episode of TheDaily Show, Bush v. Gore was the Supreme Court case that handed the 2000 presidential race — let's not confuse matters by calling it an "election" — to George W. Bush by halting a recount in Florida. But Bush v. Gore represented something far more personal for me, a kind of politico-sexual fault line. Simply put: it marked the end of my willingness to fuck Republicans.
Note the word choice here: "willingness." I don't mean to imply that my desire for Republicans dried up with Bush's coronation. No, ma'am. Despite my best intentions — and a happy marriage! — I retain an illicit lust for right-wing hotties. Show me the left-wing horndog who hasn't fantasized about stirring Sarah Palin's moose stew and I'll show you a liar (though if we're going to be completely honest, my Palin fantasies tend to involve Biblical reenactment, light bondage and bacon grease).
But here I am, getting all hot and bothered about our next Sex Prez, when my purpose was simply to share a few memories from my years of sleeping with the enemy. . .
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promotion
Was her name really Muffy McBride? It was not. I can't tell you her real name, because we grew up in the same town and our families remain acquainted. I know this because her father mentioned, during my one and only dinner at the McBride compound, that he knew my grandfather from such-and-such a club. (Which, it turned out, was the sort of club that had proven its enlightenment by allowing Jews to join.)
Did I realize Muffy was a Republican? The size and location of her home were clues, as was the unironic wearing of seersucker by McBride males. But we were sixteen and Muffy had a great ass, an exquisite shelf-like protuberance, which I wanted to rub. (If possible, with my Hebrew National.) Our affair was brief and non-ejaculatory, its climax arriving on the night we snuck into the pool at Rinconada Park and groped one another in the deep end. Then we hung from the diving board and panted. With her wet hair swept back I could see the high noble forehead, the moneyed smile and the blue water lit beneath her.
I was a goner.
Bush v. Gore represented something personal for me, a kind of politico-sexual fault line.
But Muffy wanted a dalliance at most. She was a virgin, tightly wound, intrigued by me, but also a little disgusted. I discovered this on the night I picked her up for our final date. I was sucking on a cherry Lifesaver. "That smells good," she said, and I, in a maneuver I saw as hopelessly debonair, pressed my mouth against hers and passed the Lifesaver from my tongue to hers. She squirmed away, spit the candy onto her palm and threw it out the window.
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And what of the bank teller in El Paso? She was tall and quietly smoldering, with ringlets of reddish hair moussed stiff. My pals and I showed up every week with our puny checks and our hanging tongues. Her name was (let's say) Lourdes and I was (let's say) Sad and Ugly.
I eventually invited her to go see a George Strait concert. Why would I have tickets to a George Strait concert? Had someone dropped a large brick on my head? No, I was the music critic at the daily paper. It was my job.
Lourdes showed up in painted-on jeans and a cowboy hat. That was the first sign I might be in the presence of a Republicana — the second being that she knew the words to all of George Strait's songs. But I had a hard time seeing how Lourdes could be conservative, because she was Mexican-American and she worked in the service sector. It struck me as impossible that such a creature could support a greed-deranged plutocracy. I suppose I should mention that I was twenty-two years old.
We had a few more dates, all terrifically awkward, before I managed to get her back to my disgusting bachelor pad where we drank a gallon of wine. How lovely her long body looked in the moonlight! "I'm not going to do that," she kept saying.
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