Yesterday I found myself musing over the heady, mesmerizing days of the summer of 1973, when I fell desperately in love with a woman. Full disclosure: that woman was, Michele Bachmann. And yes, we made love. A lot. Like tons of it, and it was awesome.
Regrettably, our relationship ended like the flash of a meat cleaver through the shank of lamb. I was rather slow to heal. After loving a woman like Michele, it’s hard to bounce back, but I can honestly say that I look back on those crazy days (and nights, when our lovemaking sessions were the most ferocious) with fondness, and just a smidge of terror.
I first spotted her as she hopped out of a cab in the East Village. She was shrieking at the taxi driver who had offended her by asking for more than a nickel tip on the 50 buck fare. But, Michele’s tight with a buck, and fairly loose with the insults as I soon came to learn. She called the cabby a homo who wanted more than just one kind of free ride. Wow. Her shrill voice pierced the humid air as she gave him what for. And frankly, I was instantly smitten. She seemed so dangerous, yet indifferent.
I approached her cab, my outstretched hand dangling a twenty, somehow knowing that that would catch her eye. She grabbed the bill with her talon-like fingers and briskly walked away. I raced after her, my batik dashiki flapping in the late summer breeze. I didn’t know her name at the time so I simply shouted, “Lady! Hey, Maam!” Finally, she turned on her pricey heel and met my beseeching gaze. And that, as they say, was that.
We spent our first afternoon together in my tiny studio apartment, burning incense, and our bras. (Michele’s was huge. I mean her knockers are just tremendous.) We talked Steinem, Zinn, Chomsky, and the Parent Trap. (We’re both just crazy about Hayley Mills.) It seemed there was nothing we didn’t agree on. We compared our fraying ACLU cards and threw back our heads, and laughed like crafty toddlers at how we would bend this country to our mutual will. How was I to know that this was mere charade? (Pronounced SHA-ROD.)
At the time I was toying with the idea of starting a commune in upstate Idaho. Michele initially seemed supportive, but kept dropping hints about using the land as a part-time dog fighting ring. When I refused, she smacked me on the ass and said, “Just use those lips for coolin’ soup, sister.” Yep. She’s tougher than a nickel steak. And I knew she was no good for me, but like a huge festering boil – you sort of like it.
Things went from bad to worse. She began peddling green stamps, used my comb when her hair was greasy, and stole change from my coin purse, making me buy it back at twice the price.
As expected, I awoke one morning to find myself strapped to the radiator in my empty apartment. She’d drugged me and cleaned me out. She'd also taken the deed to my land in Idaho. Apparently her dog fighting ring was fairly fruitful for a time.
The next thing you know she’s running for President. Isn’t that something? I gaze at photos of her now – shrieking about gun control and arabs, or standing uneasily next to her gay husband, and all the memories come flooding back. Some good. Some not so good. Anyhoo, she was a great lay and my one and only lady love.
