Make America Great Again is trending, as it should be 11 days before the 2016 election.
A friend and I cross paths in our hometown and I give him a ride to where he’s staying and meet his host. There’s an instant shock of chemistry between me and the host. He’s a healthy looking, robust (not fat), balding guy just a little younger than I am. He exudes confidence, and I soon see why. He invites me to the screening of his documentary on demolitions, which he produced and directed in 23 countries. I show up.
Demo Man has a packed theater, and the movie is excellent. It’s compelling, moving, and expertly crafted. I’m impressed and tell him so afterwards. He invites me to the Q+A, but I decline.
“Maybe we can have coffee then, before you leave town?” he asks.
“Day after tomorrow? Any place with organic beans. Get my number from Bjorn.” I say, smiling.
When we meet for coffee we pay for our own drinks and we talk mostly about travel. He’s lived overseas in Asia for years and in New York for a chunk of his life. Now he lives outside of our hometown in the sticks, in the cute little house that his family used to own. I’m not quite sure this is a date until he invites me over the next night.
We agree I’ll pick up a bottle of Mezcal and some snacks, and he will provide a crackling fire in a fireplace and various forms of entertainment.
Driving eagerly to the store I pick up an assortment of cheese, olives, some vegetables, some fruit, some cassava flour crackers. After a moment of hesitation, I shoplift a very dusty bottle of Chichicapa figuring no one would have bought it anyway…
I put on a tiny bit of makeup and my nicest underwear, and dress in an off the shoulder shirt and a short skirt.
And then I drive out to his place, gather all my snacks and treats, and I get out of the car, and I walk up to his door… and there is a Trump/Pence bumper sticker on it. Below this, there is another sticker bearing the white on red slogan “Make America Great Again.”
If both of the stickers weren’t there I might question what I am seeing. I might question whether it is a joke. Somehow the presence of two makes me know that Demo Man does want to make America great again. That it’s not a joke.
My heart sinks and my stomach is in my throat. I’m shocked, in my world thus far Trump supporters met a stereotype. In this moment, I must decide what politics mean to me. I hold the stolen bottle of liquor to my chest and think about it. I feel into it. Curiosity killed the cat.
I knock on the door.
Demo Man answers it.
“You’re on the Trump Train.” I say immediately.
“Come in,” he says, turning the conversation more gracefully, and taking the grocery bag from my hand and letting me carry the liquor. It is one of many small, intentional gestures I note throughout the evening.
“Yes, I am. I am tired of the endless wars and the same establishment government. Anything to get away from that.”
We talk for hours. He shows me the yard, we get firewood, build a fire together in the fireplace. We eat and drink together. He pours me more liquor every time my glass is empty, to the point at which it is as full as his.
He shows me his studio, where he makes his films. I am trained in filmmaking. It is very impressive for a home studio. It is impressive that he has made the films he has made on a home studio. He shows me some of his work in progress using extra footage from the documentary to create episodes about demolitions.
I have been obsessed with demolitions since learning about the Loizeaux family and their lineage in demolition, and how there have been eras when solely women operated the business.
I have watched almost every major demolition on YouTube for the last 20 years.
Demo man lovingly displays his house to me. It’s during this that I realize that Trump will win the election. I realize that so many people that don’t at all fit the demographic, or any other demographic, will be drawn to Trump. Suddenly I see the silent minority of my liberal, sanctuary city friend group, all the ones escaping ridicule by keeping quiet about their choices. And moreover – Demo Man is genuinely a good person who cares about the world, and that has me question the narrative deeply.
He shows me his basement, where he keeps his chemistry lab, which is meticulously clean. Our mutual friend had remarked on the rumors of Demo Man being “OCD”:
“Where’s the D? There’s no disorder”
It is true. He is meticulous, but not in ways that hurt him or anyone else. It makes him an excellent person to have around demolitions and chemistry….
When he shows me his grandfather’s rifle, I think of Foryst. He shows me a nice little collection that is just small enough that I would not refer to it as an arsenal, as well as a home security system including cameras mounted… everywhere. He shows me he has the one in the bedroom off. I believe him.
We’re good and drunk by now and he shows me his pride and joy.
And this is how I find myself posing naked, wearing a red “Make America Great Again” hat while holding a New York SAFE Act compliant AR-15.
It’s too cold to go outside and shoot it, and given it is ten days before the election and I’m not sure how things will go with the whole “Make America Great Again” thing – I don’t capture a photo of this. The last thing I need is to be slaughtered for this when the revolution comes.
“What makes this gun SAFE Act compliant?” I ask.
“It’s cosmetic.” he answers, and shows me the grip “They’re not supposed to have a protruding grip” while he grabs me by the pussy.
I mull the gun while enjoying his massage that is 100% focused on my pleasure. He’s a giver. The grip makes the gun harder to use and hold, less efficient, which doesn’t seem like a quality you’d want mandated in a gun. It also means that it looks less “terrorist insurgent” and more “sci-fi drone warrior”. I marvel at the way that policy can influence design, and how that can include features that can end human life.
“Do you think letting people have AR-15’s with no limitations will make America great again?” I ask. It’s a loaded question (no pun intended). It’s clear to me that this AR-15 has not been made safer for anyone through the regulations.
“No.” he says without further explanation.
But before this we are sitting on the couch talking about travel and prostitution. He openly admits visiting sex workers when he lived in Asia. It cues a nice safer sex conversation, and of course he is regularly tested for everything. He asks if he can get closer. I put down my mezcal and he kisses me.
His kisses are sloppy, wet, and broad. They’re not what I expect from him. Immediately he’s hands all over me lustily, expertly.
“Can we move to the bedroom?” he asks. I simply get up and he takes my cue and leads the way. I crawl into his bed, knowing that my short skirt and cute underwear are giving him a view he wants.
I’m not wrong. He dives into the bed behind me and slides his hands up the sides of my hips under my skirt, tugging my underwear down to my knees. He laps me. From the cleft of my cunt to the crack of my ass. He gives me a broad tongue like a dog and on feeling him have absolutely no squeamishness about licking my clit, pussy, and ass I am gushing.
In bed he goes against what he displays in the rest of his life. He is passionate, imprecise, dirty, broad. He is still charming, vocal, and confident. He’s fucking hot. I forget entirely about his “Make America Great Again” sticker and hat. He’s a human being. Warm, present, strong, and fun.
He doesn’t stop licking me until I’ve come five times and am a blubbering, oversensitive mess begging him to stop. I’m face down on the bed, he’s been eating me out this way and that for over an hour. I’ve lost consciousness a couple times.
“I’m going to put a condom on and fuck you if that’s okay?” he asks.
“Yessssssssss. Make America Great Again!” is all I’m able to say.
The man knows he has earned his keep. He fucks me every way he wants to. I enjoy how he loves bending me every way I go as far as I can go. Demo Man loves testing my flexibility and strength and seeing what I’m made of physically while he fucks me. He loves seeing me look at him, and he loves when I stop him when he’s gone too far. Only three times does he, and immediately backs off when I say “too much”.
“When you say that it turns me on so much. You’re so fucking expressed.” he says, pumping me, diving his hard cock in me. Then he is on his knees and has my hips on pillows, supporting me gracefully and solidly as he makes the transition.
“I love that you don’t hold back. Fuck me til I see fireworks.” I say.
He obliges. His face is serious, intense, as he works me in shallow, quick strokes, holding me at that just right angle, staring at me, smiling with a hint of pride.
“Oh God I’m going to come.” he shouts, surprised, as he pounds into me for the last five strokes before shaking head to toe as he moans, collapsing in a heap on top of me for a moment before taking care of the condom and coming back to bed.
He offers me to stay, but therein lie my boundaries. I will let a Trump supporter eat my pussy, and I’ll get expertly fucked by the Trump Train – but I won’t sleep with Make America Great Again.
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