Christopher Buckley - No Way to Treat a First Lady

Babette Van Anka had made love to the President of the United States on eleven previous occasions, but she still couldn't resist inserting "Mr. President" into "Oh, baby, baby, baby." He had told her on the previous occasions that he did not like being called this while, as he put it, congress was in session. But she couldn't stop thinking to herself, I'm screwing the President of the United States! In the White House! Unavoidably, the "Mr. President" just kept slipping out.

Thrilled as she was, however, tonight Babette was ready for occasion number twelve to be over. It was after 2:00 A.M., and it was plain from the exhausted grunting noises and wheezes coming from her partner that he was straining to prove a point, more to himself than to her. God knows she had done what she could to make the evening exciting for him, but it had turned into an endurance contest. Where's the romance in that? Plus there was the fact that the First Lady of the United States was right down the hall. The President had assured her that his wife was sound asleep, but this was bold even by his incautious standards. The combination of his unamorous rutting and his wife's proximity made it difficult for Babette to relax and enjoy.

She concentrated on helping her commander in chief achieve bliss. It was work. Occasions one through four had been earth-moving experiences. Five through eight had been pretty exhilarating. Occasion ninedisaster. Ten and eleven were little more than awkward attempts to rekindle Eros' flame. Was he losing interest? The pressure was on. Babette knew that she had to deliver or suffer the unthinkableindifference. No more overnights in the Lincoln Bedroom at the White House, no more trips on Air Force One, no more golf or meals with world leaders, no more seat at the table. And just a few weeks ago he had dangled before her the prospect of a Middle East summit weekend at Camp David, the presidential retreat. Oh, to miss that.

Babette stirred from her reverie of trysting with the President in the Catoctin Mountains amid prime ministers.

There was a sound.

...bump... bump... bump...

It was the presidential head, striking the Lincoln bed headboard.

"Oh," she whispered, "yes... yes... oooooh.... yessss..."

Sometimes that got them off. Men loved an affirming sound track.

Babette sneaked a peek at the luminous face of her watch. Jesus Christ, he'd been humping her for over half an hour. Normally she'd be tickled to a puddle, but not tonight. The wife down the hall, Secret Service agents everywhere. She'd said to him, Tonight? Here? Is this smart? Navy menthey got off on risk.

He was sweating. He was hot to the touch. His breathing sounded labored. What was this new sound?

Unh, unh, unh, unh.

Grunting. Wonderful. It made her feel as sexy as a slab of meat.

She opened her eyes, then wished she hadn't. He had this look, like that of an exhausted bull salmon fighting his way up rocks to squirt his DNA over the roe so he could turn belly up and die. Isn't it romantic?

He was probably fantasizing aboutsomeone else. Some body he'd seen in a magazine.

"Unnnnnnnnnh."

Finally, thank God.

"Ohhh," she lied.

Silence. The sheets were damp from presidential sweat. Babette liked clean, crisp, ironed sheets, the kind they had in British hotels, so much starch that they crackled. Now look at her bed. Lake Superior. What was she supposed to do, ring for the maid in the middle of the night to demand that they change the bed linen? Uch. She was going to have to sleep in them. Wonderful. She and her husband had donated half a million dollars to the party, and for what? To be on the receiving end of a joyless hump, with the risk thrown in of being walked in on by the wife, then to spend the rest of the night in damp sheets.

He rose.

He had gotten out of bed, without so much as a kiss or pat on the bottom, and was silhouetted against the window overlooking the South Lawn of the White House. He seemed unsteady.

She flicked on the bedside lamp. A vision greeted her: the President of the United States of America, naked but for knee socks, his face flushed like a Harvard beet, his most prominent feature still perpendicular from excitement.

"Nothing wrong with you," Babette purred in her best Mae West accent.

The President looked down at his cantilevered anatomy, taking it in clinically. He grinned and made a satisfied, male grunt. He stooped to gather up his clothes, scattered over the floor. These were the only occasions when he had to pick up his own clothes. One of the perks of the office was to undress like a maharajah, tossing garments to the floor to be picked up uncomplainingly by reverent lackeys.

He pulled on his trousers but was unable to zip up. He seemed amused by this challenge, but then a look of distress took over his features and he backed into an armchair, where he sat, defeated, fly open.

"Would you like me to"

Before Babette could finish her offer, the President lurched out of the chair purposefully toward her.

What impetuosity! She prepared to receive him, but he veered off in the direction of the nightstand. He grasped the leaded crystal carafe of ice water and with the other hand painfully bent the afflicted object downward and plunged it into the icy carafe.

Babette's mouth gaped as she viewed the presidential anatomy immersed in her ice water. A wonder there was no hissing of steam.

The immersion had the desired effect. The President was able to sheathe the afflicted limb in his trousers, though the zipping was done with extreme care, as if unstable nitroglycerin were involved.

Having finished dressing and combed his hair, he turned and flashed her a grin of triumph, with a navy-man wink. He opened the door, put his head out to check both ways down the hall, and was gone, leaving Babette to her damp sheets and unappealing ice water.

Elizabeth Tyler MacMann, First Lady of the United States, lay awake in her own still crisp sheets, looking out the window toward the Washington Monument. Being married to America's most prominent symbol of virility, she was not blind to the irony of finding herself in bed alone, staring at the nation's most prominent phallic symbol. Not much had ever been lost on Beth MacMann, other than happiness.

Following the dinner for the President of Uruguay, Beth and the President had left their remaining guests and gone upstairs at 11:30. They'd undressed and gotten into bed. She'd fallen asleep.

She had woken up, at 1:42 A.M. by the digital bedside clock, thirsty for water, to find herself alone. Sometimes when a call came in the middle of the night, he went into his study so as not to disturb her. If it was a crisis of some sort, he usually went downstairs to the Oval Office. If it was really pressing, he would go to the Situation Room in the basement of the West Wing so that the press secretary could inform the press that the President had monitored the situation from the Situation Room. This sounded more impressive than "on the phone in bed."

The dark thought crossed Beth's mind, though she reallyreallypreferred not to consider the possibility, that her husband was down the hall in the Lincoln Bedroom. Surely he wouldn't pull something like that. Surely.

She knew the rumors and, moreover, knew the truth about her philandering husband of many years. But even if the rumors were true, this was the one night it was safe to assume that her husband and Babette Van Anka, actress, singer, party fund-raiser, were not engaging in bilateral relations.

Beth sat up in bed, straining to convince herself that her husband was at this very minute downstairs issuing orders to attack some Middle Eastern, or possibly Asian, country with stealth weaponry.