Election 2016

Who’s Grabbing Your Pussy Now?

I was raised to be a nice girl in New Jersey, which means, contrary to stereotype, I have standards of behavior. For example, I only have sex with someone I’m in love with, (which tends to exclude most of my husbands after the first seven years). It also means I don’t discuss religion or politics, especially when people are eating.

(Food, pussy, whatever they’re eating, I don’t mention religion or politics.)

That said, you should know that I will, however, freely discuss the following topics while people are eating: diarrhea, festering boils, the possibility of consciousness after beheading, and Donald Trump. Anyone with the stomach to dine with me will verify this truth. And the reason I can discuss two-hundred-and-thirty-six-pound tumors at the dinner table is because nice Jersey girls have to have strong stomachs. We have to take care of you when you’re vomiting bourbon and Sabrett hotdogs all over yourself, when you have a stroke because you stuffed yourself with cheesesteak hoagies for sixty-some years, or when you let yourself get rooked into voting against your own best interests in a national election.

So it would be bad manners to talk about Trump the So-Good-the-Best-President-the-World-Has-Ever-Known. Rather, I’m going to talk about Trump-the-Amazing-Lover. This is about sex, so pull up your TV tray and dig in.

statue-de-la-liberte-marylin2Most of us women already know this guy. We didn’t need a leaked tape to tell us who he was. Trump is the college professor who mimed grabbing my ass behind my back to amuse my classmates. He told me I had “unnaturally long legs” and “couldn’t possibly be the same person as Elisabeth.” See, Elisabeth had straight A’s. She penned the essays he read aloud to the class as the models of excellent composition they should emulate. Lisa was one with the ass he wanted to grab. “I’m Elisabeth,” I said. “Lisa’s my nickname.” For some reason, this revelation offended him deeply. I’d made a fool of him, so he was righteously nasty to me the rest of the semester. One day right before graduation, I was enjoying a relaxed chat with the department head, who was also male, in  his office, when this professor walked in, and I, invincible now that grades were in, spilled all with bemused bravery. Ambushed and stammering, the professor defended his behavior this way: “Just look at her legs! She’s a freak!”

Trump is the Penn State officemate who, one night, barred the door as I was leaving. He announced, unbidden, that he and his fiancé had an “open relationship.” He also felt driven to tell me right then and there and in that posture about how profoundly one of my short stories affected him. In it, he said, I’d described the male orgasm with uncanny accuracy. He was a very tall man, about six-four and strapping. He leaned over me, giving me what you should absolutely call “a penetrating gaze.” His eyes shimmered. He said, “How did you know?”

I said, “How do you know I was describing a male orgasm?” Startled, he stepped back. My pussy and I got away.

Sometimes I wasn’t so lucky. Trump is the guy who grabbed my crotch on the disco floor. I was wearing a short skirt and so, I guess, I was “asking for it.” I was twenty-one, and I can only say this now that I’m in my fifties: I was a fabulous creature. I wish I’d known how fabulous I was. At the time, I was confused about the worth of a girl-beast in the world, physically, intellectually, and professionally. Plus, as a nice girl from New Jersey, I was preoccupied to the point of exhaustion by relentless striving for the highest grades, the lowest weight, and the highest possible ranking on the hotness scale of one to ten that modesty would allow. After this particular disco pussy-grab, I was also confused about whether or not I had asked to be sexually assaulted (yes, it’s sexual assault, and no, I hadn’t asked). I’m not confused anymore. I know exactly what my short skirt and I were asking for: Admiration.

That’s it.

slorobotBy showing off my freakishly long legs, I was asking anybody who enjoyed the sight of freakishly long legs to enjoy the sight of them. I wasn’t asking any random asshole who enjoyed shoving his uninvited hand into this particular pair of panties that were, until that moment, moving rhythmically to the count 1-2-3-4 required to do “The Hustle.” In fact, I’m going to set the record straight on all that victim-blaming right now: if a woman’s showing off her body, she’s asking to be admired, not groped. The exposure is to your eyes, not your fingers, I promise you. The exposure says: look, don’t touch. There’s a big difference. In fact, if you even so much as excuse yourself to  jack off privately to the memory of her doing the Hustle and she finds out, she will vomit up her entire can of Coke Zero. That is NOT what she is asking for at all.

People say imitation is the highest form of flattery, but I gotta tell you, there’s an unspoken assumption among the billions of Trumps-the-Most-Amazing-Lovers-You-Ever-Had that sexual violation is the highest form of flattery. Women should be so lucky to be assaulted by such a Huge-I-Mean-HUGE ego.

Women like me recognized Trump-the-Thoughtfully-Tic-Tac-Perfumed-Assailant long before Billy Bush, Trump’s “hug pimp,” snickered, “How ‘bout a little hug for the Donald?” That tape was no surprise to us because we’ve learned the hard way to be hyper-aware of our rape-ability. Our radar tells us Trump is the poster boy for rape culture.

Trump is a just another sexual imperialist. When he defends himself by saying, “Look, this is the real world,” that’s what he’s talking about—America, Land of the Free and Home of the Rapists. Boys will be boys who grow up to be small-handed, mega-asshole pussy-grabbers who expect to get away with it.

If you’re wondering what’s wrong with grabbing the occasional pussy, think of it from the perspective of somebody who’s been carting a pussy around with her everywhere she goes her entire life. It’s not a clutch purse I can leave in my closet. I live here, right here, in this body boasting a factory-installed pussy. If you wouldn’t barge into my bedroom and root in my closet for my clutch purse, keep your hands off my pants. Let me simplify: If you wouldn’t trespass in my house, don’t trespass in my skirt.

dessin-statue-scanneeI know aphorisms won’t solve the problem. The “real world” is the animal kingdom. Our baser nature has low tolerance for any private property that isn’t ours. That’s why dogs pee on each other’s trees and we needed to include “forgive us our trespasses” in the Lord’s Prayer. Claiming another guy’s property by brute force is what football, basketball, and soccer are all about. Trump-sized egos need to believe that any time they want they can slam dunk into the pussy of their choice. SWISH! Hi-five, big guy! These sexual bullies, mouth-breathing gorillas, assume that if they have the guts and the Right Stuff, they have a Darwinian duty to colonize every square inch of female flesh they fancy. If she happened to be regarding herself as private property at the time, it’s cute, but it’s not relevant.

What might be more effective is to ask male pussy-grab defenders to imagine Donald Trump grabbing them by the dick. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. But the pussy-grab apologists always argue, “It’s not the same thing. It’s not the same thing at all.”

Isn’t it? If my office mate thought I was describing a male orgasm, how do you know I’m not describing how it feels to have unwanted physical intimacy forced on you by someone who thinks his desires override not only your desires, but your dignity and your basic needs too? Go ahead, big guy. Imagine Donald Trump popping a Tic-Tac in his mouth and cupping your junk.

If it’s still not the same, but you can’t quite express why, I’ll tell you why: you’re a sexist. Orgasms feel the same to our private parts—and so does violation of parts that are fundamentally private.

(I’m not sure what to say to female pussy-grab defenders, and I’m related to one. She actually said to me, “I know it’s not popular to blame the victim, but if a woman doesn’t want to be grabbed, she shouldn’t put herself in those situations.” At least, that was her argument until a superior at her workplace starting sexually harassing her. She didn’t know what to do or whom to trust and worried that speaking up might cost her her job. I said, “I know it’s not popular to blame the victim, but . . .” Now we’re on the same page.)

statue-de-la-liberte-cacheWhen I was in my early twenties and a teaching assistant at Penn State (that is, when I was a full-time, unqualified college professor living on a yearly salary of $6,000), one of my students used to call me at home and demand I go out with him (I was a nice girl, and we’d been encouraged to make ourselves “accessible” to our students by, among other things, giving them our home phone numbers (at that time our only numbers)). I explained I was his instructor, so no. (Never mind I also had zero romantic interest in or attraction to him–by then I was used to having my own desires discounted.) He started following me home. I explained I had a boyfriend. He kept popping up in my office, and if I wasn’t there outside my posted office hours, he’d harangue my office mates, claiming I should be where he wanted me when he wanted me. Penn State had protections for students abused by professors, but not the other way around, so it took some time to have him removed from my class. So he showed up in my other classes, that semester and several following. Finally the police granted me a restraining order, but he kept coming after me, semester after semester. He had a right to me, he said, because I had no ring on my finger.

I was up for grabs.

Where did he get such an idea? His father was an ambassador to the UN. Which gave them both diplomatic immunity. My cute little restraining order had no teeth.

We the Pussy People laughed when Trump, caught like a petulant teenager with his hand in the pussy jar, blurted, “But Bill Clinton has said far worse!” It’s not so bad, is it, if the other boys are doing it?

And it wasn’t lost on us that on the infamous tape, Trump-the-Man-With-Normal-Sized-Hands bragged twice that the woman he “moved on  . . . very heavily” was married at the time. He didn’t mention that he himself was also married (Melania may even have been pregnant at the time of the comments). That’s because marital status is only relevant insofar as it makes his target the property of another man. The moved-upon woman’s marital status was worth underscoring  because it meant he was claiming another man’s property. But my point is, her right to her own body isn’t irrelevant to him.

But so is the right of her husband to have a wife unfucked by Donald Trump. (The husband should thank him! He was trying to do him a HUGE Powerball favor! Trump jizz in the pussy is like money in the bank!)

The White House, the Senate, Congress, town halls, pulpits, schools, Boy Scout Troops, board rooms, and all the land and all of history are full of Trumps-the-Best-Lovers-You-Ever-Had-in-Your-Life.  The main difference, as I see it, between Trump and every other sexual imperialist is that Trump lacks the class to conceal his inner sexual predator under a strategic veil of decorum (or maybe he doesn’t need it, but I’ll get to that shortly). Ironically, such a veil of restraint and respect might gain him more pussy as well as more respect from other men, especially those who are manly enough not to need to grab and brag. He’s boorish. He’s a narcissist and may even qualify as a sociopath in that he lacks a conscience—he’ll be the first to tell you laws, rules, social order, the teachings of his own faith–none apply to him. He doesn’t even ask God for forgiveness.

Based on my experience with your run-of-the-mill Trump-Chumps is that the ones who brag about assaulting women are the ones who are afraid you’ll find out women don’t like them.

Sexual imperialists grab pussies because women aren’t giving them. Some women may let Trump-the-Insanely-Rich-and-Too-Smart-and-Selfish-for-Taxes-Billionaire grab them because they’re stunned, flattered, intimidated, hopeful, afraid. He’s free from the law because America is still a rapist’s haven and he’s a billionaire who buys his way out of the consequences. And Trump-the-Sexual-Imperialist doesn’t ask for anything. He takes.

Do any of you remember when we assumed silverback gorillas had fathered all the young gorillas in their troops? When we finally checked the DNA, boy, were we surprised! The way I remember it, while everyone in the troop, male and female, behaves submissively to the biggest chest-beater with the sagging lower lip, the females don’t necessarily like him. When he goes for the kiss, they turn their faces away. And then when he’s not looking, they sneak into the shrubbery for nookie with the nicer, gentler gorillas who write poetry and vote for Bernie Sanders.

Trump often says, “Nobody respects women more than I do. Nobody.”

As my daughter pointed out, “Nothing shows how much you respect women quite like dragging them onto national television to shake their abuser’s hand.”

It may be that Trump can shoot his mouth off about women’s bodies because he believes he has built a wall, The-Biggest-Most-Beautiful-Huge-Wall-You-Have-Ever-Seen, and women have paid for it. He built this wall, this I-Am-an-Irreproachable-Champion-of-Women-Ahead-of-My-Time wall, around himself to conceal his behavior from the world, maybe even from himself.

Trump can claim he respects women more than anyone else, having made it a company practice to give women career opportunities. However, you don’t have to look too far to see that adopting the mantle of trusted benefactor is exactly what sexual predators do. Bring your targets close, make them grateful, make the world think you’re their protector and champion. When pedophiles do it to children, it’s called “grooming.” Trump’s support of women in business, particularly the beauty-queen business, blurs the boundaries and makes them too dependent, grateful, bewildered, and entangled to fight him off or call the cops. It’s not as if ratting out your rapist is all that easy to begin with, especially if he’s famous for yelling “You’re fired!” and “I’ll sue you!” He doesn’t really need those threats, however, because all an abuser needs for compliance is a victim with “a significantly lower status than the perpetrator.”

russia-insiderMake no mistake: the nation has been conned into helping Trump make the biggest deal of his life—the grab not just of pussies, but of their push-over pussy-partners, brothers, fathers, sons, defenders. He doesn’t have to release his tax documents–sure, he was lying that an audit held back the release. So what? The truth is, he doesn’t want transparency. He doesn’t have to follow law or decorum and divest conflicts of interest. He loves his money and has zero respect for your traditions, interests, patriotism, or peace of mind. He doesn’t have to keep the promise to drain the swamp; he’s stocking it with snakes and gators, his like-minded billionaire cronies, donors, and lobbyists. He was just playing to your fears and desires and now you elected him. He got what he wanted, and if you call him on broken promises he’ll remind you you got what you wanted because you elected him. And after thinking about all this unpleasantness without eating (it spoiled my appetite—apparently, I don’t quite have the Jersey-girl stomach for it after all), it’s dawning on me that Trump is not a misogynist, or even a racist, for that matter. To me, Donald Trump sounds like an equal-opportunity hater, a run-of-the-mill imperialist who’s crotch-grabbing the whole nation. And I have to say, it makes a lot of us nice people with strong stomachs sick just thinking about it.

42 replies »

  1. Wow. Hilarious in the way you executed it(just for the insults against him) but still sad. Wise too. I don’t know if I should be commenting because I know literally nothing about politics – but I do have a bad feeling about him. Clinton too.

  2. Was spending the day reading humour on Trump, lucky I stumbled onto this blog. <3 I somewhat got a sense of reading some David Rothkopf kind of article, known for cold-blooded upfront sarcasms. Loved reading this!

  3. That was the kind of righteous, furious intelligence I needed to actually face my day in this election cycle. And I would totally have dinner with you, diarrhea and tumor talk included.

  4. Very well said, but I have to admit, some of your terminology turned me on. The terms you used to call women were exactly true and factual, but I don’t think I could be that brave.

    Thank you for writing this piece.

    PS, the part where you said, “I’m going to set the record straight on all that victim-blaming right now: if a woman’s showing off her body, she’s asking to be admired, not groped.” I agree with that thought process totally.

  5. Reblogged this on Lisa Lanser Rose and commented:

    Friends, I wrote a raw, racy response to the infamous p*ssy-grab tape. I dared myself to be honest and amusing. Although the “locker-room” language makes me squirm [strong language warning!], I’m proud of the piece and humbled by the praise from men and women in equal numbers: “Smart, bawdy, brutal, and brave. Well done!” Would not and could not have written it without my Siren sisters.

  6. There is not much left to say after this perfect post! Well said…
    I was smiling of course, because of the accuracy of your ways to call Trump. But i was also asking to myself how can’t some people see how pathetic this man is?
    There is one thing i will keep in my mind, because it is exactly what i feel about him: “He’s a narcissist and may even qualify as a sociopath…”.
    I hope the world won’t have to deal with Trump after the elections.
    Thank you for writing this.

We're listening--tell us what you think!