Year 1998:
okay wait, this is a pretty creepy and generally a not okay story so I guess this is the warning that I probably need.
It was late, I could tell because I was on my 4th glass of whatever expensive wine I favored that night. The lights in the room were dimmed but the raised voices and drunken chatter of the guests still gave me a headache. I needed to find my husband. I would pull him out the door if I had to (and although it seems comical, I really might). I'm defending myself because I am not at all young anymore, but when my friends read my writing, they say I sound like a teenager. Is it too dramatic to say you wanted to scream, if it you really did? Or it is just a desperate stab at relatability for the wrong generation. I'm sure trying to drink away ones problems, even subconsciously, however, is an occurrence in most generations eventually.
By this time I was more drunk than I expected to be, which made finding Bill difficult. The crowds of people, admittedly, all over 40, (so much for relatability) also seemed a bit tipsy. People were leaning on each other and talking animatedly, but with no real intent. Some were just laughing at nothing in particular or something as small as meeting eyes with a friend. It was very unprofessional but I can't say that I behaved any better. I walked slowly through the chatty groups, being careful to focus all my attention on saying "excuse me" as I passed by. However, my head was throbbing and my motivations soon changed to finding a glass of water and an empty space. I was so preoccupied that when I heard the voice of a man standing behind me, I almost thought it was Bill.
"You were too submissive," the man said.
"What?"
"That's why he liked her," the he smirked.
"Well - I - I uh, I don't know what you're talking about?" I stammered. The man I faced was definitely not my husband. He looked as frightening as ever in the partial light which was casting shadows across his face. His orange, American face. "That's all you want to talk about?!" I asked forcefully after I realized my thoughts were proving his point. I couldn't be afraid of him, because I wasn't. I hated him that was all.
"What do you think?" He asked condescendingly. "You're trying to drink so you stop thinking about it. Hillary, you shouldn't let it get to you." Although his words were kind, he spoke in whisper, and as thought he was talking to a child.
"It's none- none of your business." I said. But my voice gave me away. I didn't sound confident. I sounded surprised and unsure.
"You are still a little too submissive," he teased.
"I don't want to hear anything from you about my marriage."
"You will soon find out I don't give a damn about how married you are," he said smiling.
"Your not making any sense, I need to get some fresh air," I said quickly. He grabbed my hand and pulled me through the room. We reached a door and he lead us out into an empty hallway. I couldn't keep from going over what he had said about our marriage. I couldn't keep from wondering what he even knew about it, other than what the public knew (and would never forget); all that "I did not have sexual relations with that woman" bs.
"Did you ask him about the underwear?" Donald prompted. This caught me off guard. He knew more than I had thought and he didn't intend to shut up. Alone in the hallway with Donald Trump I felt more trapped than I had at the party.
"Stop it."
"Make me. Did you ask about the dress?" He stepped closer to me.
"Donald, fuck off." I whispered harshly, making the no attempt at politeness. He didn't respond but it was then I realised he was inches from my face.
"You regret trusting him." He whispered back angrily, trying to convince me of something that I already knew. "And..." he stalled. "You want a second chance."
I couldn't respond before he kissed me.
When I managed to push him off me I gasped something about how he shouldn't kiss me out in the hallway. I wanted to keep on hating him, but the other side of me needed someone with an equally messed up life to confide in, or at least to hug a bit. But my thoughts were cut short again. My drunk brain couldn't take the stress and I felt myself slipping out of consciousness.
Then, I blacked out. Falling into Donald's arms, I felt the soft silkiness of his suit brush against my face.
I felt as if I had woken up scarcely more than five minutes later. When I fell, I guessed my shoes had flown off. Because the first thing I felt was Donald's tongue slowly linking my toes. His tongue was softer and longer than I had expected, and it explored the spaces between my toes easily. However, he started when I opened my eyes. His eyes met mine and he pulled his tongue back into his mouth, leaving saliva at the corner of his lips. He slowly smiled at me.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, keeping his voice low. I was lying down somewhere comfortable with him kneeling in front of me. It was kind of nice, even though I didn't want to admit it. Lying down had cleared my head and my headache had lessened.
"Donald, where are we?" I asked, disoriented and just as angry. I pulled my feet back but I still didn't want to lift my head.
"The hotel," he answered vaguely. I didn't care enough to wonder if he was correct. All I could see was his predatory stare and stunning blue eyes, staring right at me.
"How long have I been out," I moaned, sitting up slightly. I sat up the rest of the way and attempted to gain back my composure. "I need to find Bill, it's too late at night for the both of us." I would have to ignore the feet.
"You don't want to find him."
"Why's that?" I asked directly.
"Because as I was taking you to this hotel, he was laughing, walking off with a different woman." I wanted to believe that he was lying, (he had a habit of doing it without a second thought) but I couldn't get all the things Bill had done to me out of my head. In the moment, I was filled with something between rage and envy. My head was clouded with an awful sadness, cold emptiness that held me tightly, in a vice-like grip. It made me want to do something reckless and break the cycle of my marriage. Something else then took up my headspace: memory of Donald's tongue. I scowled at him.
"Don't give me that look," he said.
"You aren't answering any of my questions." I said.
"Maybe you need one more drink."
"What are you trying to do to me?" I asked, only a little teasingly. I made to sit up further but in a swift movement, Donald moved to sit on the bed beside me. He firmly pushed his hand onto the space just below my collar bone, forcing me to lie back again.
"Your dress is a mess," he said absentmindedly. His eyes raked down my body. His hand remained heavy on my chest. Some people say that Donald has small hands, but they felt like they were weighing me down.
"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked.
"Take it off."
"What!" My incredulous voice came out as a croak. "No!" I exclaimed, a little helplessly.
"I can do it for you," he said softly. He had moved and was now pinning me down on the mattress. His hands left my chest and both rested on either side of my head. His hair fell into his face.
"No. No, don't." I insisted. But I could already feel his hands tracing down by figure. I had imagined this was what he was like, the kind of person who doesn't go slowly with this type of thing. The dominance was in his stare. I knew he wouldn't wait for me to say yes. But I don't think I really cared. Maybe I thought Donald could take away the pain Bill kept leaving me.
"Stop, Donald, stop!" My mouth kept protesting even though I knew there was nothing I could do. His lips met mine again and I let myself forget about Bill. I kissed him back. As he touched me I decided that I would give in. He was right, I was too submissive.
