You meet him at a viewing party for the first debate. Your hand clenches the party hosts' couch every time Trump says, “WRONG!” He notices, offers you a gentle smile. In no time, he has his hand atop yours in solidarity. By the fifteenth “WRONG!” you wind up in the bathroom, gnawing his mouth like a pork chop.
It’s something no one is talking about.
It is Trump sex.
His hand is heavy yet sensitive, with Tibetan prayer beads on his wrist. He is terrified, along with you, for the future; terrified that a guy who reminds you of the second string quarterback from high school with a “Save the whales: Date a fat chick." bumper sticker on his truck is being given a national political platform. Your fear unites you. Deeply.
When faced with the possibility of Trump as your leader, every cell in your body screams out: Fight! Or, you know, fuck!
You know you are not supposed to be with this guy (see: beads). He is not right for you, but goddamn it, the horizon is hazy. Your politics line up and this whole goddamn circus has your jeans jacked up to Jesus. In this moment of fractured identity politics, we are no longer man and woman, feminist and pro-feminist; we are human, and we must ride out this storm together.
On one another.
At that first debate, you thought it was a fling, but it kept going.
Every headline has him over at your house.
Last night, you got a text at 10 pm: What a day.
You’ve been deep at work, not checking the news cycle. Are you okay?
He responds: All the Utah people have unendorsed him! This could be the end!
Him: People are asking if Pence can take over.
Him: Yes, I’ll be over shortly.
You: Of course.
Truly, who should be alone in such moments?
He arrives. You talk about how Billy Bush’s creepy “How about a little hug for the Donald?” comment made him sound like a frat guy manipulating the 'hot' girls for his ‘brother.’ Then you make sweet, sweet NPR-listening, Jew-loving, body positive, LGBT-friendly, pro-family leave, non-GMO love.
You settle in for the second debate. This fooling around and anxiety will be over November 8th. You laugh when Trump brings up Bill’s sexual misconduct. It is good pillow talk. Ladies and gentleman, this is how affairs are born: a hand on a hand, relief from insanity.
Let the relief come to you in this election season.
It’s 2016, and we are watching a man scream at a woman that she "ought to be ashamed."
Do what it takes to survive.
Do not be ashamed of your Trump sex.