A Taste of Honeypot: One Senator’s Night with Maria Butina
Anyway, we leave the ALS fundraiser and head out to the cigar bar on G and 14th for a drink. Really bright gal, and not just about firearms, mind you. You wouldn’t believe how much she knows about campaign finance reform. You’d think she wrote the Citizens United opinion. Of course, she’s always talking in this delightful broken English. Using expressions that don’t mean anything. Like, after we kissed, she said, “Now we have you in our clutches forever.” She kept using the first person plural like that. “We will require certain concessions.” “Our black ops in the Ukraine.” Just adorable. Also, she put my entire—well, we’ll get to that. Salt?
Have you noticed they’re putting a little lemon in the tuna these days? I love it.
Things were heating up at this point, but I couldn’t take her back to my apartment in Alexandria because my damn daughter was flying into D.C. the next morning from Charleston. Her boyfriend had a meeting with Justice Kennedy about mortgage-backed securities in the Sudan. I still had that key Nunes gave me, though. Boy, she got real hot when I mentioned we had to go there. She’s freaky like that; likes to go where she can get into trouble. So we got in an Uber headed to Capitol Hill, and—meanwhile, she’s telling me, in her country, they put potatoes in every part of the body—I’m trying to get a hold of Devin to find out his Netflix password.
Well, I guess it shouldn’t be any surprise, because have you seen Russian men? They look like eggs in tracksuits. But anyway, you would not believe this woman. When she was going down on me, she stopped to jiggle my belly. I love it when women do that. She told me, she’s never felt like this about anyone before, and at first I wasn’t sure if she was just putting me on, but I believe her, because—get this—she wanted to film it so, she said, “we would have something to remember this special night by.” Get a load of that! Just gotta make sure Lori never gets wind of it. God, I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing.
And Chuck, not only is she a firecracker, but she’s also a great listener. After I finally wore her out, we just lay there, talking about everything under the sun—work, the midterms, my deepest fears and insecurities. We totally opened up to each other. I told her things I’ve never told anyone, not even that woman Kristin Davis sends over twice a month. Some people, you just know you can trust.
Did I tell you she’s even into the thing with the snorkel? I swear, we’re really made for each other.
I am a little worried, though, that she’s not ready for a serious relationship yet. She wouldn’t shut up about this guy, Bill Browder. Sounds like one of those Ivy League assholes at State. I guess he was an ex who hurt her or something. She even suggested we put him on the next flight to Moscow. I told her I’d see what I could co-sponsor.
The next morning, she put her number in my phone before she left. Labeled it as “Red Menace (Anal).” A nickname, because of the hair, you know. Good to keep it discreet. Although I think she must’ve given me her home phone by mistake, because when I called, a man with a Russian accent answered. I guess it’s her father. These Eastern Europeans. Very austere disciplinarians. He must’ve thought it was his daughter calling home because when he answered, he just said, “Is it done?” If only he knew, ha ha!
I’ve been trying to schedule a time to see her again, but she’s so busy. Says she’s been elbow-deep in Wayne LaPierre all week. A bit of confusion with her idioms again. God, she’s adorable. These European women grow up so much slower than our American girls. Anyway, she has almost 2,000 followers online, so Wayne’s probably interested in seeing how he can leverage that. She calls herself an “influencer.” Odd term. Chucky boy, I can’t get her off my mind. I want to make some kind of a grand gesture to her, to show her our night meant as much to me as it did to her. Like a weekend in Martha’s Vineyard, or a vote to impeach Rod Rosenstein.
Oh, hey, is your Internet working? All the computers in my office are going haywire.
Andy Newton is a writer living in Astoria, Queens. His work has been published by National Lampoon and McSweeney’s.