Trumperotica: Lust for the Gun
He kisses the nape of my neck, moving his fingertips to the exposed skin inside my collar. “Don’t, darling,” I whisper, pushing against his enormous hands. “What if the journalists see us together?”
He pulls me closer, ripping at my suit. “I want you, Wayne,” he growls, pressing against me. “God, I want you.”
“Why me?” I say breathlessly, clinging to his enormous orange shoulders with trembling hands. “I’m just a silly little director at the NRA.” He mutters into my chest, stripping the buttons with one expert hand.
“Whenever I see you in that suit, I know you have a big hard gun in your pocket.” He answers, not bothering to look up. “I know how many lives you’ve destroyed in the name of gun profits, and that’s so damned hot.” He kisses me again, and I taste the acrylic of his fake tan lingering on my tongue. “Let’s give gun rights to toddlers, right here. Right now.”
“Mr Trump-” I say, trying to cover myself before his burgeoning lust. “Please, I don’t- I can’t be just another trigger happy sociopath to you!” He stares at me, his peroxide hair glimmering. “You could have any balding evil narcissist, I know that-”
He pauses, then nods, gruffly. I ache with love for him, the desire to whip out a bill for gun rights for dogs burning inside me. I want to slam my gun on the table and beg him to say something deplorable. But I turn, and straighten my tie. “Goodbye, Mr Trump.” I say weakly.
“Listen, baby,” he says softly. “Whenever I pass a ridiculous bill, I’ll be thinking of you. Whenever I watch a mass shooting, I’ll think of you. When I read the NRA’s stock interests going up, I’ll think of you.”
And with that, he kissed my exposed shotgun, and left.