Abraham Lincoln: A Demon in the Sack

WARNING: This blog is less family-friendly than usual. I still swear and overshare like always, but there's a lot of sexual speculation coming up. Chris, William, if you're reading this, you're about to find out a lot you never ever wanted to know about what Mommy looks for in a long-dead sexual partner.

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I got to do a really fun interview a few weeks ago over at International Heat right here.  Among the questions: MJ, which historical figure would you bang? (I might be paraphrasing.)


I didn't even have to think about it. (That's an attitude I tend to bring to every interview question; it works for me.) It was so obvious. JFK? No chance; rich guys never have to try, and rich guys who've had Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, and Brenda Starr? I'm not following those acts. Patton? Ugh, never sleep with a power-mad perfectionist. Napoleon? Sorry, I'm six feet tall and shallow. I did the dating a guy way shorter thing and ugh. (I can see all the posts that comment will rain upon me and let me just say again: shallow! What about any of my blogs, ever, made you think I was a good person?)

Let's see, who else? Thomas Jefferson? Sorry, I like my shags to be a little less rape-ey. (Don't tell me Sally Hemmings probably loved him. Lack of consent because you're his property = rape. Also: he was a ginormous hypocrite. And there's only room in my bed for one hypocrite.) Henry VIII? No, afterglow should not include beheading. And he was kind of a shit to his mistresses, being all about the slut-shaming (he had the gall to reprimand Mary Boleyn for sleeping around while he was courting her sister/cheating on his wife with same), and who wants to be slut shamed by the guy who just banged you? Even if he brought some yummy turkey legs to bed?

Roget? As in Roget's Thesaurus? Hereditary insanity, a tendency toward humorlessness, and he loved making lists. I do not need to be in bed with a guy who won't get my jokes and makes lists while we bang. Mozart? Huge pervert and way too into poop jokes. First off, the biggest pervert in the bed needs to be me, and second, poop jokes are the worst.

Ramses II? Sure, he was a cocksman who fathered over a hundred children, but he banged his daughters so just NO. (Don't tell me that was a thing in Egypt back in the day. Here it is again: just NO.)

Einstein? The hair is cool, but he cheated on both his wives. Pass. Elvis? If I passed on Einstein, do I even have to explain why I wouldn't touch The King with a ten foot penis? No. I do not. Pass.

(You're thinking, "For a woman who made her name writing about bitchy annoying heroines while pondering which dead guy she'd like to bang, you're being weirdly judgemental." To which I reply: yep.)

(Hmm. I should probably warn my assistant about the deluge of "you suck!" doubtless headed our way. "More than usual?" she'll gasp, unbelieving. "I...that's really hard to picture. Because...you know. You're awful." Yes I am. She probably doesn't need to be warned at all.)

Anyhoo. The name that leaped to the front of my teeny tiny brain was Abraham Lincoln, for which I blame cable television, because Lincoln has been playing about four times a day for a month, and it stars Daniel Day-Lewis whom I have been crushing on since Last Of The Mohicans. Remember that scene where he and Madeline Stowe were making out and you couldn't tell where he ended and she began because they both had all that long dark hair flying around? Oofta. Also, his vow to (eventually) return and save her (but not her kid sister), sooo hot. My instant re-write: "Stay alive, MJ, no matter what occurs. I will find you and bring you Cinnabon!" "You got it, Daniel...no, wait, what's your name in this movie again? Something to do with the show MASH, right?"
Lincoln was a BAMF and judge me if ye will, but you'd bang him, too. Okay, maybe not, but here's the quick and dirty version of why I'd take him to bed and show him the nine thousand names of God: smart, self-educated, progressive, great writer, great speaker, ended slavery, BAMF. 
What more do you need? If you're me, not one damn thing. And let's talk about his less-than-movie-star looks: lanky, skinny, not a contender for male model of the year and historians are now pretty sure he had some genetic defects. You know what that tells me? That he would try really hard between the sheets. That he would not take his partner for granted. That he'd be glad to be in my bed and would set about emancipating me, so to speak. Also, I'm very into the gangly as anyone who has seen my husband knows. Love the gangly. Bring on the gangly.
So there it is and I am not ashamed and I am standing by my (dead) man. The best part of this is that not only did the interview above print my answer in full, they ran a picture of Lincoln right next to it. Most of my readers know I'm cracked and probably took that in stride, but I love the idea of someone who's never read me checking out the interview: promo pic? Check. Book cover gif? Check. Picture of a dead lawyer...wait, what? 

There was a question the good people at International Heat didn't ask, for which I remain grateful: MJ, what the hell is wrong with you? To which I would have replied, some things shall never be told.