Funny Sayings About How Stupid Trump Is How Has Underage Drinking Ruined Lives
1.
I am the crazy woman. The nutjob. The skank. The slut who won't shut up. I'm the psycho liar paid by the Democratic Party. I'm the loony who deserves the death threats. I'm the kook who has it coming. I'm so nasty that @BluMrln75 says Trump wouldn't do me "with Biden's wiener." And don't say you don't remember me, reader. I'm the batshit flaky bitch who warned you that Trump won't take "no" for an answer.
And did you listen? Did you? Cuz now Trump won't take "no" from America. Trump won't take "no" from the voters, the Electoral College, the Supreme Court, the United States Congress, @jack, Mitch McConnell, or the PGA golf tour. He sulks, he incites, he shakes the Capitol down to the core of its spleen, and still he won't take "no." So as we approach January 20, when his foul body may or may not be dragged from the White House, I thought I would just remind everyone that all this could have been avoided if everybody had simply listened, and not just to me, but to the first woman who publicly accused Trump of sexual assault two decades ago.
For six straight years she said "no" to Trump, she told me, and for six straight years Trump chased her, pulled her into rooms, unbuttoned his pants, phoned her, called her boyfriend a loser, and begged her to get on a plane and fly to New York, swearing over and over that he would "be the best lover she'd ever have" and promising, "After me, baby, you're gonna be ruined for anyone else for the rest of your life."
2.
Reader, exhibit number one is a lawsuit filed on April 30, 1997, in the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of New York. The plaintiff: Jill Harth Houraney, a citizen of Boca Raton, Florida. The defendant: Donald J. Trump, a citizen of New York, New York. Allegations: Sexual harassment, sexual assault, attempted rape, sexual subjugation, and defamation. Request for compensation: $125 million. Complaint: Jury trial demanded. And if any man in history deserves to be tried by a jury—of about 167 million women—it is Trump. So now let us find out how this happened.
Jill Harth grows up in Massapequa Park, Long Island, a bunny-loving, Girl Scout–cookie-selling, lightning-bug-catching lass who, by the age of 12, is stuffed to the gills with the romance magazines her grandmother feeds her.
At Berner High School, home of the Fighting Baldwin Brothers (Jill and Danny Baldwin attend at the same time), she is not popular. She has acne. She does not make the softball team. Her favorite book is Designing Your Face, by Way Bandy. She begins mixing cosmetics to hide her pimples and experimenting with skin-care concoctions in the family kitchen. With her dad, a Rheingold Beer truck driver, yelling, What's all this oatmeal clogging the sink?, an entrepreneur is born.
Do Jill Harth Beauty Cosmetics & Skincare products work? I'd better tell you right away: I look like Miss Havisham when I arrive at Jill's digs. These days, she owns a cozy apartment in the quaint part of Queens, the part that looks so much like King Henry VIII's England, all that's missing is a block for Anne Boleyn to put her head on.
After we eat the guacamole that Jill makes, and after we have a long jaw in her mauve boudoir, Jill—a hell of a makeup artist with a bizarre client list, everyone from Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michelle Pfeiffer to Bill de Blasio and George Conway—asks me to remove my COVID mask. She studies my mug for a few seconds, then hands me a lipstick called "Natalie" (Jill names her lipsticks after movie stars), which I proceed to slather on. Jill's mother, the jaunty Grace Harth, a former bus driver who is defying doctors' predictions of being dead and gone on account of advanced Parkinson's disease, and who is, instead, propped up in freshly laundered sheets on a giant hospital bed in the middle of Jill's living room, gazes at me and clasps her hands together. "Oh, Jill," she says with heavenly pride. "Jean looks soooo much better!"
Now back to Jill's claims in that court document.
3.
Statement of facts: On or about December 11, 1992, the plaintiff accompanied George Houraney to make a business presentation to the defendant, Donald J. Trump, with regard to the American Dream Festival.
Jill meets George Houraney when she applies for a waitress job at his family's restaurant. She is 15. He is 31. He tells her he owns a magazine. She tells him she's 16. He says he takes pictures. She says she wants to be a model. His magazine is called National Motorsports Annual. He puts it together himself, and, man, can George talk. He can also shop. And while he is buying new clothes for Jill, he showers her with every highfalutin line of movie dialogue you ever heard—they're gonna beat it off of Long Island! They're gonna be famous! They're gonna be moguls!
Jill listens, her hot-green eyes as large as gongs.
It's all gonna happen soon, says George. Maybe not in the next five minutes, but soon, and, indeed, the first order of business, he says, is to turn brunette Jill into blond Jill.
"In a lot of ways, I feel like I raised myself," Jill tells me. "One night, we'd be going to the Playboy Club—"
"And the next day," I say, finishing her sentence, "you'd be going to sophomore English."
Her parents are not happy when, at 17, Jill graduates from high school and leaves home the next day to run off with George, but they do not try to stop her. "They tell me later that it would have been worse if they had tried to force me to stay home."
By 1992, George is president of American Dream Enterprises, Jill is vice president, and they're putting on automobile shows, race car events, music competitions, and a Calendar Girl beauty pageant, which Jill, in charge of the pageant division, describes as "Miss America, but hot girls."
Jill and George get hitched in 1995 at Disney World (in 1998 they divorce and George marries a Jill Jr. on the same spot "about 12 minutes" later, according to Jill Sr.). But in the beginning, "it's a fabulous life!" Jill says. "I'm always dressed up, staying in hotels, eating great food, getting my hair done by José Eber in California, wearing St. John gowns. A glamour life. And I am the mama bear of the pageant. I watch out for the girls. They're so young."
They begin talks with Trump in late 1992 about holding the Calendar Girl pageant at one of his properties in Atlantic City. "We want Trump to sponsor the event and give us a big fee," Jill says. "Trump says he wants to put it on prime-time television and make it bigger than Miss USA."
At the couple's first meeting with Trump, he tells George: "I'm very attracted to your girlfriend," and asks him if they're sleeping together.
Then Trump hears that the couple are staying at a hotel in Times Square, and "he's on the phone," says Jill, arranging to move her and George to the Plaza, all expenses paid. "I didn't have a nice dress, I went to Macy's."
"Do you remember the dress?" I say.
"It was black velvet with a pearl collar," says Jill. "We took pictures. This was a big deal. It was like modeling in Turks and Caicos."
The following night Trump takes them to dinner at the Oak Room, and then to a party for Lee Iacocca, where Jill says that Trump introduces her around as his girlfriend. Still later, they go to a nightclub and, as George is photographing Trump and Jill sitting together at a table, Jill says, the president-to-be puts his hand under the table, runs it up her leg, and sticks his finger into her vagina—all the while smiling like a hyena for the camera.
Now, a woman doing business with a man like Trump has two options. She can slap him, walk out, and say "to hell with it" (which, back in my advice-columnist days, is what I usually advised), or she can play patty-cake, laugh it off, hand him a pen, and get his signature on the contract.
Jill? She lives by her wits. Trump's got a thing for her. She's got a thing for the deal. She moves his hand, excuses herself, goes to the ladies' room, thinks Holy shit!, and pulls herself together. By the time she returns, Trump is at the bar trying to seduce models.
4.
Statement of facts: During the late evening of January 9, 1993, defendant Trump forcefully removed plaintiff from public areas of Mar-A-Lago in Florida and forced plaintiff into a bedroom belonging to defendant's daughter Ivanka.
"We've scheduled a meeting and a dinner with Trump at Mar-a-Lago," Jill says. "We believe Trump is finally going to sign the contract. But he suddenly wants us to 'bring the girls.' So we're scrambling to get the girls. We're bringing them in from all over the country; one girl flies in from Texas, another from Ohio. We're arranging to introduce them to Trump after the dinner. Some are staying the night. [Although it's usual for ex-husbands and wives to disagree, Jill and George actually agree on most details about Trump, though George remembers there being more young women at Mar-a-Lago to meet Trump than Jill does.]
"But Trump dodges the contract signing: 'I want you guys to prove yourselves first before I sign this, because it's a multiyear deal.' And George is livid. We've been working on this heavy-duty all through the holidays, spending lots of money, spreading the news. If it doesn't come off, we're going to be embarrassed.
"We're supposed to stay overnight at Mar-a-Lago. We live in Boca Raton, but we pack a bag. It's the first time I visit Mar-a-Lago. It's magnificent. I've never been in a home like this before, and Trump's such a braggart. I mean, he's going around, 'Look at this, look at that.'"
Let's back up, reader. One more detail: Trump's fellow tour guide is Jeffrey Epstein.
"Epstein is the only other man there except for George," says Jill.
"And how many young women?" I say.
"Let me think…"
Jill counts. "I'm gonna say six girls."
"Oh, boy, Jill."
I am petrified with disgust.
"Yeah," she says.
"You didn't know!" I say.
"I didn't know!" cries Jill. "And the thing is he," she says, referring to Trump, "wants to see the quality of the girls!"
"The quality!"
We both smirk at the same time.
"He's with Epstein," says Jill. "People ask me what's he's like. He's very polite to me. He's nice because I'm the gatekeeper of the contest."
"Of course, he had no interest in me because I'm 30!" she says, and bursts into a cascade of sarcastic snorts.
So here are Trump and Epstein, the Caligula and the De Sade of their generations, giving a private tour of Mar-a-Lago to George, Jill, and six young women. Epstein has been at Trump's place many times, Jill says, and lives just down the road.
"Next thing I know," says Jill, "Donald is taking my hand, shuffling me off my feet, and pulling me into this room—'the children's room.' Now, this is Marjorie Merriweather Post's old house, so it has beautiful murals and paintings. I am looking at everything, and then Donald pushes me up against a closet door—"
We are in Jill's mauve boudoir in Queens, and Jill stands up, and, holding her margarita, pins herself against her closet door which bangs closed with a thud.
"And he starts to grind on me and try to kiss me. And he's maneuvering his way up my dress with his hand. And I push him off—I say, 'What the hell are you doing!' I mean I was flattered he was giving me all this attention, but what the hell? I'm shocked! George is right outside!"
"If that had happened today, Jill," I say, "what would you have done?"
Jack the cat is on Jill's bed, on his back, one hind leg raised in the air in the middle of one of his sprucing-and-sluicing sessions, and he stops and looks up at Jill.
Jill closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. Her turquoise top is sleeveless, and I can see her strong, well-developed arms. I think perhaps she is about to tell me she would paste Trump with a straight left, and then as he begins teetering sideways, she would deliver a right jab to his double chin, tipping Trump over backward and causing the butler to send him back to New York in three different planes.
"Look," says Jill, letting her hand fall. "Today I wouldn't be in that position with Donald."
And neither would the country, if the country had listened to Jill Harth.
5.
Statement of facts: [During that same evening at Mar-A-Lago, January 9, 1993] the defendant Trump also sexually accosted [a model], an invited guest of American Dream Festival.
"I guess Donald receives the message that he's not getting anywhere with me," Jill says, "so he's gonna move on. And I'm worried, because we are supposed to stay overnight. I remember thinking, Damn, I gotta watch these girls."
"And Epstein?" I ask.
"We know Epstein from the [Calendar Girl] pageants. He represents himself as a scout for Victoria's Secret, a big shot. The girls always clamor, because it's a big thing at the time to be a Victoria's Secret model—and one of my ambitions is getting the girls good modeling assignments. I had no idea what was really going on with Jeffrey. He doesn't stay the night."
George, too, wants to split. "But I feel like we're in the lion's den. I feel responsible. I'm thinking about Donald, not Jeffrey! And I say, 'George, we've got to stay,' but he is pissed off. 'Go get your stuff; we're leaving.' So I run to the girls and say, 'Be careful! Watch yourself here!' Two of them are, like, blitzed already, and they're all going out to the bars. We convince only two girls to come to our house to stay.
"The next day, we return to Mar-a-Lago for lunch. When George has a private meeting with Donald, I get together with the girls. And the one girl who I name in the lawsuit tells me what happens with Donald."
Back in Queens, Jill and I have both taken off our masks. In the COVID-19 era, this is the new version of "letting down your hair." So before I go on, here might be a good place to mention, reader, that Trump, the man who has lied every day for the last two months claiming that he won the 2020 election by a landslide, has repeatedly dismissed Jill's story about the girl named in the lawsuit as "total nonsense."
But Jill insists it is true. "Donald hits on the young woman that night, and she tells him, 'Donald, I don't fool around with anybody the first night.' This is her way of putting him off. But Trump sneaks back into her room at five o'clock through a secret passageway in Mar-a-Lago, climbs into bed with her, and says, 'It's the next day. How about it, can we do it now?'"
6.
Reader, what are the odds that one woman who is suing Trump is sitting in a mauve boudoir drinking a margarita and interviewing another woman who has sued Trump? Pretty good, it turns out.
So I will just nip in here a minute and shove in an update of my own Trump lawsuit, though I never know how much you want to hear—too many particulars and you wander off to snack in front of the refrigerator, too few, and you're flummoxed.
Marshalling just the highlights then: I talked about Trump raping me in a dressing room in Bergdorf's in my 2019 memoir, as well as an excerpt that ran in New York magazine which hit the internet on June 21 that year. Trump told the world that he didn't know me, never met me (though there was a photo of us together), the rape never happened, and claimed that I was an operative of the Democratic Party.
I sued him for defamation on November 4, 2019. All pretty clear so far, right?
Then on December 12, 2019, New York State Supreme Court Justice Doris Ling-Cohan set deadlines for discovery, and my attorneys served a request for a DNA sample from Trump to compare against the unidentified male DNA on the dress I was wearing when he attacked me.
As the deadline for giving his DNA sample neared, Trump hurled the case to Bill Barr and the DOJ. I wore my best Armani to federal court, and, on November 11, 2020, Judge Lewis Kaplan told the DOJ to butt out. The DOJ and Trump are now appealing the decision to the Second Circuit.
So that's where we are, reader. When President-elect Joe Biden takes office, and if his pick for AG, Merrick Garland, takes over the DOJ, I and my brilliant and mettlesome attorneys, Robbie Kaplan, cofounder of Time's Up Legal Defense Fund, and Joshua Matz, partner at Kaplan, Hecker & Fink, who served as counsel for the House Judiciary Committee during the first impeachment and trial of Trump last year, will continue to pursue Trump; and the man who won't take "no" will face a future where, at last, he may be forced to say: "When E. Jean Carroll said I raped her, she was telling the truth, YES."
7.
Statement of facts: On or about January 24, 1993, plaintiff had no choice with regard to defendant Trump's demand that plaintiff attend a business meeting at defendant's estate Mar-A-Lago in Palm Beach, Fla. After Trump business associates left, the defendant over plaintiff's objection forcibly prevented plaintiff from leaving and forcibly removed plaintiff to a bedroom, whereupon defendant subjected plaintiff to defendant's unwanted sexual advances.
"This time I have pants on!" Jill says. "I go to Mar-a-Lago armed with pants! I have learned not to wear dresses around Donald. My mission is to get him to sign the deal. George is angry that Donald will only talk to me, but I'm scared to talk to him. Because whenever I call him about some detail, he'll always divert the thing back to me. ''When are you coming up to see me? I'll get a jet. I want to see you. Well, when are you gonna be with me? What are you with that loser for? Oh, you're wasting your time. You're better than this.' One time he calls and asks me to pick him up at the airport!
"I drive up to the house. I'm steeling myself. I'm all buttoned up. I'm gonna be firm with him, you know—nice, but firm. So I go in, and the butler knows me by now, and he seats me in the parlor, and I am waiting and waiting and getting more nervous, and out comes Donald in one of those golf shirts, very casually dressed. As soon as he sees me, he takes my hand. 'Come on. We're gonna have our meeting in the bedroom.'"
"What!?" I cry.
"He asks me if I want a drink. I say no, and he's like, 'Come on. Come on. I want to lie down.' He pulls me into a bedroom and onto the bed with him. And I say, 'Donald! I did not come here for this. I'm here to have a meeting with you.' He says, 'Well, let's have our meeting.'
"I'm trying to get off the bed and he's trying to undo my pants. I'm saying, 'STOP IT! I want to talk business.' And I keep on saying stop it, and he says, 'Oh, come on, come on. What's the big deal? I know you're not a prude.' And I say, 'I didn't come here for this.' And he says, 'Well, what do you want to talk about?' And the first thing I wanted to talk about is settling arrangements with the guy in charge of Trump Castle. So Donald says, 'I'll call Roger right now.' So he calls Roger, and says, 'Helloo, Roger. I have Jill Harth here in bed with me.'"
"I'd sue him just for that alone," I say.
"And he has his fly open. I'm saying, 'Stop.'"
"Wait, he has his pants down?"
"He has his pants open. And this makes me nauseous. I go to the bathroom and throw up. This is really the start of my anxiety attacks. This is a guy who was raised on Penthouse magazine, where these scenarios are common fantasies."
"The business meeting in bed…"
"I say, 'That's it. I'm leaving. And he keeps saying he's gonna do the deal."
"And he never does the deal," I say.
"No," Jill says. "Never does the deal."
8.
George's company sues Trump for $5 million in 1995, for costs incurred with pageant production. In 1997, during the deposition phase, by a weird quirk of Miss Fate, Jill and George and their attorneys arrive at the court building at exactly the same time as Trump and one of his lawyers, and they all get into the elevator together. "I was a witness and I had to do a deposition, which I was petrified to do," says Jill. "I was petrified, Okay? We're all in the elevator. And Donald says to his lawyer, loud enough for everybody to hear: 'See. I told you she was a hot piece of ass.' It sounded like he was bragging that he had got me—which got me on fire!"
During the deposition, Jill ("I'm a Taurus! I have a temper!") began feeling angrier and angrier. "It was a lawsuit about a business deal," says Jill, "but Trump's smugness was unbelievable! Plus his saying that to me in the elevator, and the way he was looking at me, I just thought, Fuck you! It pissed me off! I thought, I'll just sue him myself. And I blurted out that he grabbed me at Mar-a-Lago.
So Jill sues Trump. A few weeks after she files the suit, she drops it on condition that Trump settle George's suit, which Trump does—"for peanuts," as Trump later tells Jill, $100,000 being a pea of the legume family to Trump.
In 1998, Trump invites Jill and George to his divorce party. And they all become friends again.
I will let husbands and wives who own a business together judge whether Jill does the right thing. (We all know she does not do the smart thing.) And although Jill turns down interviews with practically everybody, practically all the time, she does send an email to the Boston Globe in 2016, explaining why she dropped the suit. "It was withdrawn without prejudice at Trump's demand as a precondition to settling a companion 1995 complaint by the company I worked for."
9.
Exhibit number two is a headline: Exclusive: Inside the $125 Million Donald Trump Sexual Assault Lawsuit
Many years later, Jill is happily going along, earning a living as a makeup artist and running Jill Harth Beauty Cosmetics and Skincare (she parts ways, as you recall, with George in 1998). It is 2016 and Trump is well into his clown-like run for president, and Jill, never one to dwell on the past or neglect a business opportunity, particularly when it comes in the shape of an old friend, makes a point of running into Trump at a January 2016 rally.
They hug.
"He introduces me to some hotsy-totsy guy," says Jill. "Trump goes, 'See this girl? She used to be drop-dead gorgeous 20 years ago.' And I'm like—it's on the tip of my tongue to say, 'Oh, yeah? So did you!' But I don't say it because the guy's nice and says, 'She's still gorgeous.'
"But the thing is, [Trump] is such a jerk! And I say to him at the rally, 'Donald, you know, they're calling me, the press. But I don't want to say anything. I'm not gonna say anything, it's in the past, we're all settled. Right?' And he goes, 'Don't worry about it,' and gives me a kiss on the forehead. I'm thinking that it's all, 'Don't worry about it.'"
"Because Trump said not to worry, Jill?"
"Yeah, and I believed him, stupid me."
Jill urges the campaign to let her do Trump's makeup, because, as she says, "he looked like crap." In a handful of emails she sends offering her services at the time—emails that the White House repeatedly says discredit Jill's claims that Trump assaulted her, but which to me sound like the texts of every makeup artist I have ever met—she writes things to him and his staff like: "You are doing a tremendous job of shaking things up in the United States…. We both know you've always been a handsome guy…. It kills me to see you looking too orange and with white circles under the eyes." She is not hired.
Then, in late February 2016, Jill sees a story about her 1997 lawsuit on LawAndCrime.com. To say she is caught off guard is about 20 feet below an understatement.
"I went through this alone. I was solitary. It was like, I got death threats. I was not prepared for the onslaught of press. I was getting a lot of criticism. I got no support. It was hard. It was the worst time in my life—and I've gone through several worst times."
About those death threats: When the latest Trump accuser, Amy Dorris, joins our strange sorority on one of our Zooms (Oh, yes, reader, we gather, drink wine, and let little jets of flame shoot out our nostrils), she innocently asks if "anybody else ever gets death threats," and we all practically roll on our individual floors with laughter. Death threats? Is she kidding? We get death threats on Twitter, we get death threats on Instagram, we get a shitload of death threats on Facebook and YouTube and in our U.S. Post Office boxes. Honey! I say, death threats are the reason I keep a loaded gun next to my bed.
Meanwhile, as Jill is going through this period of maximum torture, she loses her mainstay makeup job. The reason her employer gives, she says, is that the company is worried about the "security issues" she is facing. Lisa Bloom, Phi Beta Kappa from UCLA, Yale Law, attorney for Bill O'Reilly accusers and later—disastrously—a lead lawyer for Harvey Weinstein, a fact that will blacken her formally superb reputation, sees some of Jill's tweets and replies: "If you're interested, follow and DM me."
"I didn't know who Lisa Bloom was," says Jill.
Ms. Bloom devotes some of her time in 2016 to arranging for donors to support women who come forward with accusations against Trump. Jill receives a sum of money—the amount is about what Trump deducts from his taxes for his hair, according to Jill, and she uses the donation to settle her outstanding debts and pay off her mortgage.
I hate that Jill takes the money, not because it's wrong—politicians and charities solicit "donations" around the clock, and the fact that Jill's getting death threats while at the same time receiving no salary would make Superwoman herself a tad insecure—but because taking the money makes Jill look bad. I don't know why, exactly. Is it because we think accusers deserve to suffer? Or because we think it looks like they are being paid to talk?
"That was a godsend, that money!" Jill says. "At least I was sure of having a roof over my head while I was getting threats." She adds that the payment "had no bearing" on her choice to speak out. "I'd told my story well before the donation was offered. I did not have a choice. Donald called me a liar, and I had to defend myself."
10.
Reader, exhibit number three is a cat.
Ginger looks like an eggbeater with whiskers and is the oldest cat I have ever beheld, and while Jill is cutting up a roast chicken for her, she hears her mother's call. Jill darts to her bedside, and, leaning over the side rail, she says, "Dear, did you call me? Do you want some ice cream? A sip of my margarita?"
Grace Harth, besides late-stage Parkinson's and metastatic breast cancer spreading to her lymph nodes, liver, and thyroid bones, also now has skin cancer on her back. When Jill bends and holds her margarita to her mother's lips—how Mrs. Harth loves her tequila!—I marvel that in this tiny apartment with the very old cat, the other cat, Jack, and Mrs. Harth taking her final walk, and Jill up and down all day with Mrs. Harth's pills, her bathing, her changing, and her daily viewings of Two and a Half Men, all in the middle of a pandemic, I marvel that Jill does not go completely crazy.
I tell you about the cat and the margarita to let you know that on the night before New Year's Eve, Grace Harth dies. Wearing her favorite mauve nail polish and Jill's tulip blush and "Southern Belle" lipstick (discontinued), she is buried on January 7. A week before Grace dies, Ginger, the cat, shuffles off this mortal coil.
Jill carries on. She loses the two creatures dearest to her in the world, and does not collapse. She is planning a memorial for this summer. I hope this helps explain, at least a little bit, that back when Jill moved on from the lawsuit, she says she forgot the groping and grabbing and became friends again with Trump: Jill is a woman who rolls with the punches.
Is it so strange then, that with her customary cheerfulness, Jill tells me she can't help but wonder, when Trump starts calling her nearly every day in 1998 and telling her that he loves her and wants to see her, she can't help wondering if he actually means it? And perhaps, though she is not the kind of woman to be delivered to Trump Tower for a tryst, maybe she is the type of woman to buy her own ticket, get on a plane, and find out that if Trump doesn't mean "I love you," then perhaps he can give her a job running Miss Universe?
11.
And so Jill and Trump have sex. They have sex in New York. They have sex in Florida. But as this is a story about Trump not taking "no," and as I live in the real world where sexual assault and consensual sex both exist and coexist—sometimes within a single marriage, as was claimed in Ivana Trump's divorce deposition, which she later repudiates—I will say simply (ha! simply!) that Trump doesn't take "no" to touching, rubbing, grinding against, or unbuttoning Jill in 1992, 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, or 1997. In 1998, however, after his 40th or 50th phone call to her, she flies to New York, rides the Trump Tower elevator to the penthouse, rings the bell, and says "yes."
And, just as our fellow Americans who believe Trump's wild promises, keep voting for him and then are stunned when he drops his pants on democracy, the sex that Trump promises Jill will be the "best" she's ever had is…the worst. It is, in fact, the least erotic, leaves-his-underwear-on sex you ever heard of in your life. It is over very quickly—"How quickly?" I ask. "I'm gonna say three minutes," Jill replies—and as I don't want to turn you off sex for the rest of your life, reader, I will remind you of just one fact. It's not that Trump is now the only president to be impeached twice, or that he spent four years laying waste to the country, or that we tried to tell you he would never take "no" for an answer. It is something much more mundane, but something that gets at the heart of who he is:
The president of the United States has spent years disparaging or praising women solely on the size of their breasts. With that in mind, here is the final scene of Jill and Donald's first shaglet. It is the morning after. The two are in bed. Jill is watching Trump circling his name in the morning papers.
"So Donald says to me, 'I gotta get up and go to work,' right?" says Jill. "And I say"—and here comes a burst of Jill-esque chuckling shrieks—"I ask, 'Aren't you gonna eat something?' For me it was all about breakfast! I ask, 'Does somebody come and make food?' 'Oh, no, no,' he says. 'I don't eat breakfast.'
"So I get dressed, and this is when he says to me, 'Oh, you're really, you're gorgeous in every way. But you're too skinny. You could use a boob job,' and he adds, 'so I'm gonna make some calls. I have a great doctor in Miami.'"
"LORD!" I shout.
"That's what he tells me!" says Jill, sitting up straight, in her mauve boudoir in Queens, with Grace sleeping soundly in the next room, and Jack purring on the bed.
"He says, 'I'm gonna set it up for you.' So I say, 'Donald, I don't need a boob job, but you need—' I don't say it, but you know what I am thinking?"
I smile. Every woman in America can guess what Jill is thinking.
"I'm thinking," says Jill, "I don't need a boob job. You need a penis enlargement."
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Source: https://www.vanityfair.com/news/2021/01/donald-trump-refused-to-take-no-from-women-and-then-from-america-itself
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