Leftist Chick Loves Hooking Up With Trump Supporters
I must say the titled intrigued me.
The Glamour article, Help, I Can’t Stop Hooking Up With Trump Supporters featured a girl who found herself attracted to Trump voters…sexually, at least.
She begins the article explaining that she was asked about her “worst hookup.”
When someone asks about my worst hookup, I have plenty of options to choose from, but I inevitably end up telling the same story. It’s the one where I started arguing with a Trump supporter at a bar and then before I knew it, I was waking up the next morning in his bedroom. There were flags everywhere: Ronald Reagan’s face was emblazoned on one of them, “Don’t Tread On Me” made an appearance on another. I say it was the “worst” not because the sex was bad, but because, well, see above.
So the sex was good, ergo, premise destroyed. However, there was more to her story
Liberals reluctantly admit the raw sexual power of Trump voters.
The issue never comes up for Never Trumpers b/c whining is not foreplay.???? https://t.co/DJhvUJISHK
— Kurt Schlichter (@KurtSchlichter) September 10, 2017
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The man whom she argued with about Trump before having casual sex, triggered her in that she awoke to a Gadsden flag and other Conservative political paraphernalia. Because as we all know, Conservatives decorate our abodes with political nonsense.
She goes on to bash Trump. But she proves that she can separate the future president from his dare I say hunky supporter.
This was in early 2016 and—while it doesn’t excuse my choice of partner—it was before Pussygate, before the suggestion of violence against his opponents, and before the realities of a Trump presidency really set in. So while I found a lot of his comments abhorrent, hooking up with one of his supporters wasn’t quite the moral conundrum to me that it would become a few months later.
Before I continue, I’d like to know if there were any metrosexual weenies, aka male Hillary Clinton supporters at the meat market? Why did Ms. Anti-Trump decide that a Trump supporter would be the lucky recipient of her feminine flower?
Spoiler alert: there is no such thing as a Leftist man. But I digress.
The Leftist vixen continues, explaining that she craved the man she’d met. Let’s call him Mr. Trump Love.
To my own surprise, we kept hooking up and—despite the fact that our political opinions were diametrically opposed—it didn’t feel weird. When we texted, we’d naturally argue about politics, but also about other things, like if corn or flour tortillas made for the best tacos, or whether Drake or Kendrick Lamar was the better rapper (I said Kendrick, of course). When we met up in person, that pent-up anger would turn into frustration, which would turn into a sort of competitive tension that resulted, inevitably, in sex.
Hmm. So this chick loves conflict. My bet is she starts the arguments, too.
Anyway, she explains that Mr. Trump Love is only good for one thing: sex.
I knew we’d never be anything more to each other than a hookup, but I didn’t care. The sex was hot, and it was uncomplicated in the sense that neither of us expected—or even really wanted—any strings attached. And since I was confident in my political convictions, all that witty banter about tax codes, emails, and border walls was the foreplay I never knew I needed.
I can’t wait for Ms. Sassy Pants to get with her “forever dude”. You know him as Metrosexual Man.
He will agree with her about her politics, and who which ingredient makes the best tacos. He will reveal to her that he believes Kendrick is a better rapper that Drake. The two will laugh at their agreement. They swear to their “connection”.
Eventually, they marry and create babies to ruin. When they aren’t watching their nanny parent, the two will lament the plight of black people. They will join BLM or equivalent at a march, if the event happens near the Starbucks in their neighborhood.
However, Mrs. Sassy Pants’ longing for Mr. Trump Love won’t go away. She misses something she can’t get in her marriage. However, at some point in their evolution, the couple grows apart. They sicken of each other.
In a fit of anger, Mrs. Sassy Pants reveals to her soon-to-be ex that he is not the father of their children, Maria and Javier. The light-skinned Mexican landscaper is.
He fights back.
He warns her to get tested for STDs, as he frequents street hookers, and not just the female persuasion. Then the punch to the throat: he informs her that he lost his job months ago and cashed in his 401(k) and raided the kids’ college fund.
They divorce. She keeps the home and contents, compliments of her father–a Leftist hippie-made-good with Apple and Facebook stock.
Later while shopping, she bumps into Mr. Trump Love while shopping at Neiman’s. A flood of memories will return, as she wonders what life would have been like with him.
His trophy wife will round the corner, and joyfully ask him, “Do you like this on me?”
He wryly smiles and replies, “Honey, I love that on you…but I’d love it better off you!”
She smiles sheepishly, pirouettes and walks away, not even acknowledging Ms. Sassy Pants.
Mr. Trump Love turns back to Ms. Sassy Pants and asks, “Excuse me…do I know you?”
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