I met Karen Finley last month and got a chance to read her new illustrated book, George and Martha, the damning story of a one night stand between George Bush and Martha Stewart-- with a tip o' the hat to Edward Albee, and the Original First Family. --Not to mention Ionesco and De Sade.
Finley based G&M on a play she wrote and performed last year, but I'm tellin' ya, I Was Born to Play This Role:
George has a way of not taking me seriously. The room is getting too small for both of us.
"I don't like this, George. It's plastic!"
"Yes, a petroleum product."
I'm trying to make a point with my raised plastic glass. I know sometimes I exhaust a point.
"This is my bad mood, George. It's a bad thing."
"I just put my face to the faucet or drink out of the carton, Martha. Don't make me responsible for the plastic glass. I am overextended as it is."
I don't know why I make so much of a small thing. But it isn't a small thing. The real issue is that I feel like a pit stop for George. The plastic glass is me, a throwaway. I am disposable.
"Then who's to blame, George?"
"My father. My father. My father. My father?" George seems to have snapped. He throws himself on the bed spreadeagle, with his hand rubbing his thigh.
"Now say goodnight, Martha, to your housekeeping Gestapo, and give the President a blowjob before I invade another country."
George looks so cute getting all riled up. I instinctively become a sex kitten purring with a Martha Mae West come on. He slaps my bottom as I sit next to him and wrap my arms around his neck.
"When are you going to enter my country. Mr. President? I am ready to be invaded arid hand over the oil."
I place my body onto his lap with my breasts in his full view.
"Martha, I never get an erection from an uncluttered closet or from poached pears."
I become more playful and arch my back, bringing my heaving cupped breasts to his lips.
"You do too get an erection from my poached pears. Don't say such a ghastly thing," I say in my best Marilyn voice.
George reaches for the phone and places a call.
"Hello. May I speak to the concierge? Would you like to take Martha into the bathroom and fuck her for me? Yes, fuck her. She's all oiled up and ready to go. I am too important. I mean, imporporpporposie, iniportopuss... I mean impotent..."
I adore him as he hangs up. I love him when he fucks up.
"George, I don't know if I am witnessing attention deficit or domestic terrorism."
I sit up and give instructions. "Your cock isn't going to fall off, George. I am not trying to castrate you. It is simple. Mommy doesn't drink from plastic." I say it with a twinkle.
George gets up from the bed and walks over to the suit he'll wear for his nomination speech. It is covered with a dry cleaning bag.
He slowly removes the plastic and touches the bag provocatively. George is breathing deeply now and he starts to wrap himself in the plastic. I am a voyeur, watching George as he becomes aroused.
"When my mommy would have the dry cleaning delivered I would watch as she removed her fancy dresses from the cleaning bags."
George is aroused. The plastic bag becomes a sheet of human skin. He tries to suffocate himself as he covers his face with the wrap.
"And the smell of the plastic... the sound, the shrill of the plastic... and the plastic... covering my mother, sticking to her body..."
George carries the sheer skin over to me and I greedily accept. He covers my body, my face. I run my hands over my sensitive areas until I am engorged. I am ready for him to do whatever he needs with me. I yearn to be his instrument of pleasure. His hand is on my tender throat with the plastic wrapping, taking my breath away.
"I love it when the dry cleaning bags arrive, you take your clothes off, cover your naked flesh with the silky see-through plastic. You glide over my naked torso with your pearls just barely caressing my chin. You glide yourself over me again. I want to touch so much. So much."
Then suddenly he is awakened and jump-cuts to the fantasy, as if he was snapped out of hypnosis.
"Can't we just make this bipartisan and give the election back to me? Good night!"
I really don't know what the hell George is talking about but that isn't anything new. I'm going nuts. Sometimes George abandons our passion so quickly that I understand the meaning of blue balls.
"George? George?" I try to appeal to him.
George grunts and acts annoyed as if I am disturbing him.
I become like a bitch in heat. I try to fluff his cock but he stays flaccid.
George just continues to grunt. "EHHHHHHHH."
I give it the good old college try and position myself on my knees. I squat down with my ample breasts squeezing his penis with the force of my cleavage into a bosom headlock.
"Fuck mommy between her breast and give mommy a pearl necklace," I say while I pull at his tree. I'm turned on and wet. I repeat myself, but finally give up, exasperated. I sit up and demand, "You're the president. Do something!" I am such a bitch."
Yes, that's just a spidgen of the opening from George and Martha, which I had TOO much fun reading out loud on this week's edition of my In Bed show.
In Bed with Susie Bright 251: George and Martha
You may know that the federal government made a rather spectacular scapegoat out of Finley, using her as their excuse to eviserate the N.E.A., and simultaneously make both political sexual speech an underground activity.
Karen is one of the most remarkable playwrights and performers of my generation-- the first time I saw her was at Project Artaud in San Francisco, and my jaw was dropped for days afterward. Her charisma, and her instinct for the psychosexual jugular vein is fearsome. I want a whole collection of her scripts!