Last night, George Washington, The First President of Our Great Nation (president, 1789-1797), fucked me three times. Now I know, I know: This is not a feminist thing to say. So before I get any hate mail from Luce Irigaray or her minions, let me rephrase: Last night I fucked George Washington, The First President of Our Great Nation (president, 1789-1797). Three times. And it wasn’t just him; that’s just how it started. Soon, I noticed there were two other men in bed with us: Harry Truman (president, 1945-1953) and Calvin Coolidge (president, 1923-1929). I didn’t see them arrive, but all of a sudden they were there, and in their underwear. I will only say this: The whiteness of their bellies shocked me. It is an alarming thing, being surprised by presidents in this way.
Harry’s glasses kept falling off, and Calvin put them back every time. The tenderness of the act made it seem like it could go on for a while. Calvin’s lips were constantly moving, and they seemed to form words but I couldn’t hear anything he was saying. I think Harry could hear him, though, because every once in a while he’d laugh, or say something like ‘right,’ or ‘shut up.’ It’s embarrassing to admit, but they didn’t seem interested in me at all. They were a lot more into each other, and for a few seconds I thought maybe these were two different scenes (George and I, Harry and Calvin) that somehow ended up in the same bed, like telephone lines that got crossed. But then Harry started touching George and I realized it was an orgy after all. I’d never been in an orgy before (that time in high school doesn’t count, and I don’t want to get into that now), and I have to say I felt intimidated. I couldn’t remember how my evening with George even started, but I recalled it was gentle, honest. And I specifically remembered a moment when he looked at me and said, It’s just you and me, babe. Then he tried to slip his hand under my shirt, which embarrassed me because we were in a public place, but it was still a nice moment. Now all of a sudden two men that I didn’t even know (or know too much about – I never listened much in history class) were pleasuring him simultaneously, and I was feeling more and more unnecessary with every masculine moan.
At some point Harry said, I would like to play the piano now. George seemed taken aback, because they were in the middle of things, but Calvin said Oh, Harry plays so nicely, and seemed excited. This was the first time I could actually hear Calvin, and he had a beautiful voice, the kind that could easily land him a radio gig. In fact, it sounded a bit like he was already talking to us through a radio. I leaned toward George and whispered, He has such a unique voice. It is possible that I was simply trying to get George’s attention again. Coolidge has this thing with cigars, George whispered back, though it was clear to me that the other men could hear us; they make his voice beautiful. I smiled, and George said, Go figure, and shrugged. Do go on, please, Harry said to the men, suggesting he didn’t mind if they touched each other while he played. Then he looked at me. Would you mind it terribly if I played the piano? he asked. I found the whole discussion ridiculous, seeing as I didn’t own a piano. I was about to point that out when suddenly I realized that I did own one, because it was right there in front of me, facing the bed so you could sit on the mattress and play. And that is exactly what Harry did, not before motioning to the men to go on and waiting for them to take the queue. It took me a couple of minutes to realize he was doing some kind of cover for the national anthem. Oh, that’s just in bad taste, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.
Now, I must admit, those men were virile. Their stamina did not go unnoticed, and if I gave that impression, I would like to correct it. But you have to understand: When a woman feels ignored, it is hard to remember that one’s always supposed to see the glass half full, focus on the beauty in every situation, maintain a positive attitude. I fell asleep.
This is probably something a boring person would do, and as a rule I try to avoid any such action, but there was not much for me to do, and I was pretty tired. When I woke up, Gerald Ford (president, 1974-1977) was on top of me. He wasn’t doing anything inappropriate, just trying to understand if I was indeed asleep. I guess you could argue he was subconsciously trying to wake me up. I said Gerald, when did you get here? and he seemed to take offense at the question. George said, What’s wrong with you, he was here the whole time. Then Lyndon Johnson (President, 1963-1969) came to my defense. The girl just woke up, he said, suggesting it made sense that I was confused. Don’t say ‘girl,’ I said; I’m a woman. That’s the whole feminism thing again – I feel strongly about that. You should know better, I said to Johnson, you were president in the sixties, for God’s sake. Then I felt bad. He was trying to defend me, and I attacked him in return. True, I resented his assumption that I needed his protection. That’s the problem with men in general, presidents in particular. But I knew that was no excuse for my behavior. I’m sorry, Lyndon, I said, and he nodded.
Harry and Calvin were gone. I wanted to ask George about it, but I was afraid he would say they were never there. So I said nothing and waited for one of the men to do something. While I waited, my thoughts started looping inside my head. That happens often when I’m anxious. It started with this thought about the very fact that I was waiting. That didn’t feel like a feminist thing to do. I felt that I was reinforcing, in my behavior, this whole idea that men are active hunters and women are passive containers. But I didn’t feel like initiating anything and, to be honest, the fact that these were presidents played into my reluctance as well: all that legacy is not something you can simply overlook when it comes to acts of a sexual nature. Then I thought of what Irigaray says in “This Sex Which is Not One” about women owning their sexuality, making love to other women, and even going on sex strikes to take back the power. That made me realize that initiating something would come with its own set of problems, and so maybe it was actually okay, from a feminist standpoint, to do nothing. Then I thought, well, they are in my bed, technically they’re my guests, so I am responsible for their happiness, but then I thought, there I go again, falling into the place of the stereotypical woman, the nurturer. This is what I mean when I say “loop.” Against my better judgment, I offered tea.
Part Two
Richard Nixon (president, 1969-1974) said black tea isn’t healthy. I was surprised he was there. He was sitting by the window and therefore out of my line of sight. Am I right or am I right, Leslie? he said, looking at Ford, and Ford pouted at him in return. C’mon, Leslie, don’t be like that, Nixon said, and Ford looked somber and said, Please stop calling me Leslie. Now, I know that this is not a polite thing to say, but having Nixon in my bed made me nauseated. It’s like everything he went through found its way into his face, and in every little wrinkle you could see corruption, deception. It is the kind of thing that immediately turns me off – I’m a very candid person. Additionally, he seemed sweaty.
I wanted to ask Nixon why he assumed I meant black tea, but since he wasn’t wrong I figured I might lose the argument. Who are you? I asked a man who was sitting on the floor playing with his necktie. My name is John Tyler, ma’am, he said. I was embarrassed – I’d never heard of him. I was president from 1841 to 1845, ma’am, he said, obviously reading my befuddlement. I was impressed: he clearly had well-developed people skills, and a shrewd eye for human behavior. That’s the kind of leadership this country needs, I thought.
Something about him made me think of birds. Do you like birds? I asked, and he said, It’s quite all right that you haven’t heard of me, ma’am, I get that a lot; people in this country have no respect for a little thing called Orderly Transfer of Power, but the truth is we’d be a mess without it. He looked at me and I assume he could see I had no idea what he was talking about. He took a deep breath and said, It’s what happens, for example, when a President dies and his Vice President takes over. Oh, I said. Does it bother you that people don’t remember you? I asked, and he said, It took me many years of therapy to be able to admit it, but yes, ma’am, it does. I gave him a look that said I wanted to know more, because I did. With most men, what happens when you say things with your eyes is that they don’t hear you. Not so with John Tyler. I’ll tell you the short version, ma’am, he said, but it will be long. I said, I’ve got time, just please stop ma’am-ing me, it makes me feel old.
When he started talking, the room fell silent. He was clearly the kind of man who holds a room the way other men put on underwear: easily, routinely. He talked for a long time, but I have to admit there’s much of his story I don’t remember. It’s just what happens to me when I’m in the presence of extraordinary public speakers, especially men: I find myself so fixated on the music, the presentation, that I forget to notice the words.
These are the details that I remember from John Tyler’s story, and please accept my apology if they are not in the right order or are incomplete: 1) Something about his therapist, and it sounded like the relationship wasn’t completely appropriate. 2) Something about his daughters, and I remember he seemed sad when he talked about it. 3) A recurring nightmare he used to have for years. I think that part constituted most of his story, and I remember it relatively well because the nightmare involved Washington’s farewell address, and John was doing a pretty solid imitation: “It is of infinite moment that you should properly estimate the immense value of your collective and individual happiness.” (I looked at George: poker face.) John also imitated Ford at that point, although it had nothing to do with his story as far as I could tell; I think he just wanted to display his remarkable acting talent again: “My fellow Americans, our long national nightmare is over.” (I looked at Ford: he seemed angry.)
Then suddenly John looked somber and said, I will explain to you now what made me seek therapy. I could see this part was difficult for him to talk about, and it involved his running to the stage after Washington’s address, grabbing the microphone, and declaring himself president. Every time I would do the same thing, he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head slowly. Apparently the crowds ridiculed him, and things were thrown. Mockery is a damaging thing to a man’s character, he said quietly.
In all honesty, by the end of the story John Tyler sounded pretty whiny. Personally, I found it endearing, but I suspected the others did not. While he still had everyone’s attention, I could see the men moving slightly, like all of a sudden the bed or window wasn’t comfortable.
Well, I’ll be making coffee, then, I said, and headed over to the kitchen, because I felt a strong urge to cradle this man and assumed that would be inappropriate. Then I stopped; I wanted to tell Nixon that I would make him some green tea, to defuse the awkwardness between us, but I wasn’t sure that I had any left, and I wanted to avoid making promises I might not be able to keep. It was all John Tyler: he made me want to be a better woman.
Part Three
It turned out I did have green tea after all. I made coffee and tea, put various cookies on small saucers, and enjoyed the few minutes I had to myself. Being surrounded by powerful men can get suffocating. I do not know what the presidents talked about while I was gone. My apartment is pretty small, so I can say with certainty that there was no shouting. Other than that, I can attest for nothing.
When I came back to the bedroom, holding a heavy tray, only George was there. Now, I know — based on everything I said, I should have been happy. But the truth is, I was disappointed. My disappointment was in great part linked to the effort I’d put into the preparation of all the beverages and baked goods, and also to the interest I took in John Tyler, but if I’m completely honest, it also had a lot to do with sheer curiosity: I wanted to see what would happen next. Now there was nothing to be curious about anymore; it was just George and me. I was noticeably taken aback by the absence of the other presidents, but George did not seem to notice my distress or want to help me with the tray. He simply didn’t possess the observational skill that sweet John had displayed with so much tact and grace just minutes earlier. I felt frustrated, upset. But it seemed too early in the relationship to start some heavy conversation. Any of those ‘why didn’t you’ sentences would have obviously been out of place. I may not know much about men, but I do know that they have to fall completely in love before they can take even the slightest bit of criticism. And George Washington, Our First President, was clearly not in love with me. It was all about the sex for him.
I assumed the most casual tone of voice and asked, almost indifferently, Where did all the others go? What others, he said, and I swear to God, it pissed me off so much that had he been a normal guy I was sleeping with and not The First President of Our Great Nation, I would most likely have slapped him. This wasn’t the first time either: throughout the evening, he had this irritating habit of acting all innocent, pretending he had no idea what I was talking about, whenever it was time to be honest and open about something. Obviously, not boyfriend material. This naturally made me lose my façade. The others, George, I said, the other presidents who were here! I could see him hesitating, contemplating his next move. Should he flat out deny it like he’d done before, maybe come clean and explain, or possibly find a third way that was neither truth nor lie. I’m happy to report, our First President eventually chose the way of candor.
There was a huge brawl, he said. Republicans and Democrats? I asked, but he made a gesture that implied I was foolish even to suggest such a thing. Famous ones and not-so-famous ones, he said. I felt something like a hiccup in my heart: John. I wanted to know more, and waited for George to explain. I am quite ignorant when it comes to American history, and my ignorance was blocking any possible insight into the situation. I needed George’s help, but George would say nothing more. Can you be more specific? I asked. He didn’t answer. Not even a facial expression – nothing! It was the flatness only great men are capable of.
I changed my approach. How come I didn’t hear anything? I asked. If there was one thing I was sure about, it was the size of my apartment, the thinness of its walls. Baby, he said, and I found his tone condescending, these are not little boys you’re talking about, these are Presidents of the United States of America! If they don’t want you to hear something — you won’t. These were his exact words, and I’m quoting them here precisely as he said them, for liability reasons. Whatever happens, I do not wish to be held accountable for something I feel I had no control over, and by that I include all the events that transpired that night: those I have described, and those I have not yet mentioned.
Then he said, Babe, I got rid of them just for you, great men each and every one of them, now show me some love. I wanted to say, Don’t bullshit me, George, you didn’t get rid of them, you just told me what happened; and I wanted to say, I didn’t even want them gone, not anymore; and I really wanted to say, You misogynist asshole, George, you really think just because I’m a woman I’ll buy into that crap? But instead, I let him fuck me again. There was something about his presidential masculinity that drew me. And as much as I would like to say that I fucked him (for reasons previously mentioned), it would not be an accurate account of what happened.
Part Four
But then all of a sudden George stopped altogether. I think he was having a hard time climaxing. He said, I’m having a hard time climaxing. Out of respect for The First President of Our Great Nation, I will skip the awkward conversation and the gory details and tell you what happened next, which was the oddest of the night’s occurrences: I pleasured him the way he asked, which mainly involved tickling repeatedly in thirteen different spots, and he eventually exploded in a burst of some presidential liquid that had the taste and smell of rust.
Now, let me be clear: when I say ‘exploded’ I mean that literally. The strong scent of rust is my last memory of a moment when things seemed more or less all right with the world. Because only seconds later, I realized that the liquid around me was all that was left of Our First President. I wish I could say there was a big bang, something that would honor his memory. But the truth is that it happened just as I told you: one minute I was pleasuring him, the next there was no one to pleasure. Now, I know I’m a good lover. I mean, everyone has their strengths and weaknesses, and let’s just say for me that’s a definite strength. But no one is that good, and I don’t think that I should have to bear responsibility. I admit that that was my first thought – could it have been my fault? I know you’re probably thinking that’s not a productive way to react, that I wasted time, that you would have been more selfless. So let me just say, we all have some heroic idea of ourselves functioning flawlessly under pressure, but these ideas almost never materialize. And unless you’ve ever sexually tickled a president to death, I suggest you pass no judgment on me.
When I decided, finally, that I could not have been at fault, I looked around the room, afraid of what I might see next. And boy, was I right to be afraid. The organs and limbs of Our First President were scattered all around my bedroom. To my surprise, there was no blood anywhere. But the poor guy had simply been dismantled. What seemed to be his liver was dangling from the window, right next to where Nixon had sat earlier. His lungs stuck together, luckily, and both were somehow glued to the closet. His fake teeth kept opening and closing, making a clicking sound. And his heart, his heart! was just lying there on the carpet, as if it were an old sock that never made it to the hamper.
I realize that many might criticize me for being sentimental when faced with such an emergency. So to those I say: criticize me not, because if ever there was a moment I was proud of, it is the one that came next. Perhaps this was some kind of divine intervention and not my own doing, but I feel proud nonetheless. Even though I never went to med school, never even dissected a frog and always got C’s in Biology, suddenly, as I was looking around the room, spotting more and more parts of Our First President, I realized I knew what to do. And I did. I would probably not be able to repeat my actions if I needed to, but that’s not important. At that moment, something strong was operating through me – the same thing I always believed the truly great leaders of the world had access to in times of crisis. And that thing sure knew what it was doing: I put Our First President back together in less than three minutes!
I was working quickly, efficiently, but midway through the second minute, I suddenly stopped, not knowing why. Awoken from this trance, I was once again able to see the organs for what they were, instead of Lego pieces for which my brain seemed to hold the instructions. I looked down: a diaphragm was resting in my hand. I knew it held some kind of answer, but I didn’t know to what question. I wanted to direct the question to it, but felt stupid for thinking a diaphragm could talk. Then I noticed it was shaking. At first I thought it was my own hand causing the tremble, but I soon realized that wasn’t the case. The diaphragm was clearly trying to tell me something, and I felt inadequate for not being able to decipher its message. I looked at it and thought, what if it holds emotional truths? What if most of us hold our emotional truths in our diaphragms and not in our hearts as many believe? I remembered John Tyler and suddenly it all seemed to make sense: he, of course, was no stranger to this fact, and when I first saw him, what I perceived to be a man playing with his tie was actually a man involved in the act few men ever practice: getting in touch with one’s feelings.
I knew then that I’d stopped because I couldn’t go on, because to place George Washington’s diaphragm back into him would be an injustice of which I could not be part. I’d obviously been given an opportunity to make a difference, and at the very least, I had to know that I’d tried.
But where would I get another diaphragm, a better diaphragm? I could use my own, of course, but that felt like more than I was willing to sacrifice for my country. And then there was the whole gender thing to consider: mine might be too much for him to handle, it might wear his entire system down.
I wanted to pause and ponder: if an organ holds gendered characteristics, does that mean biology plays a bigger part than I, an avid feminist, would like to give it credit for? Or is it that everything our culture teaches us simply sticks and accumulates in certain parts of our bodies? But I had to keep working.
I looked at the diaphragm again and noticed there was a hole in its center that was causing a bleeding, which, in turn, was probably causing the trembling. None of the other organs were bleeding, so it seemed significant. C’mon, c’mon, work with me here, I said, though I wasn’t sure who I was talking to. The dentures made their clicking sound and it made me look at them. I could take a tooth out and use it to fill the hole, but somehow that didn’t feel right. For one thing, the teeth looked expensive – I always thought Our First President had wooden teeth, but now that I looked at them I could see that they were made of something like gold or ivory. And besides, I had the distinct feeling that George was sensitive about his teeth and would not appreciate one of them gone.
All of a sudden, the diaphragm jumped out of my hand, or maybe I just dropped it. When I kneeled down to pick it up, I saw a cigar butt on the floor right next to it. It must have been Calvin’s, though I hadn’t actually seen him smoke it. I knew now what I had to do, though it made very little sense. I picked up the butt and stuck it in the middle of the diaphragm, to stop the bleeding. It worked, and soon the shaking stopped as well. But cigar ashes were making the diaphragm all filthy now, and I couldn’t possibly put it back like that. I ran to the bathroom and grabbed some Lysol and a wash cloth, and I scrubbed the diaphragm until you couldn’t look at it and not think: Clean. When it seemed like I might be peeling off some tissue, I stopped, and put the diaphragm back, feeling hopeful.
Even though my detailed description suggests time had passed, in reality this took place in a matter of forty-two seconds. Then I picked up the work exactly where I’d left it off, once again working accurately and proficiently, reassembling Our First President back organ by organ.
Part Five
When I was done, I had a flash: for a split second I saw it again, the room as it looked with all the organs scattered around. I feared that all my hard work just went to waste, but then realized it was just a flash and that George Washington was right there, all in one piece, oblivious to all that’d happened. I was curious to see what would be different about him, now that he had this whole other diaphragm. I was hoping the new version would be a little more like sweet John Tyler. That was mind blowing, babe, George said. I understood then that there was no point in telling him. I didn’t want him to have to carry that around with him for all eternity – the fact that some chick saved his life. Glad you feel this way, I said.
The situation required enormous amounts of concentration. As far as he was concerned, we were at the post-coital state of relaxed muscles, easy breaths. I thought it best to say what I would have probably said if he’d never exploded, if I’d never put him back together, if it had really been just an ordinary sex act. Need some tissue? I asked, but immediately realized my mistake:. There was obviously nothing that needed wiping by that point, and drawing his attention to that fact might raise his suspicion. But, apparently, there was no reason to worry. I’m good, babe, he said and stretched, real good. Then he winked. And there was something about the way he said it, and the way he winked, that made it clear: he was the same George, different diaphragm or not. I had deluded myself if I thought I could really make a difference. In my chest, frustration felt heavy like it was going to stay, as the pointlessness of it all became unmistakable. Then I could feel my anger again, as if I’d just walked in the room, carrying the heavy tray that he would not help me with, realizing there was no president left but him.
In my anger, I wished I’d never reassembled him. I wanted to tell him everything, to scream the truth in his face, to humiliate him. But I knew it wouldn’t matter. He would make up his own truth, and then choose to believe it, as men often do. He would call me a liar, a megalomaniac bitch, or worse. So, he’d say, feeling better about yourself now that you’ve deconstructed and reconstructed the First President of your nation? Planning to go to the press, get your fifteen minutes? And then he’d laugh, to show how ridiculous he found my story, and probably hiss a threat about what he would tell the press in return. No, there was no need in all of that. I obviously had to be the bigger man here, so to speak.
As I walked out of my bedroom, making it clear that I expected him gone when I returned, I suddenly had the distinct feeling that I’d won. Even though I wasn’t sure what the contest was, and couldn’t even be sure that there ever was one, I licked my lips twice and smiled; when I get back, there will be no men in my apartment, and I will once again reign over my space. If that isn’t victory, then what is?
