By Ángel Saxon
I’m watching a grainy video tape. A man stands alone in a room. He is naked. A woman joins him. She too is naked – yet I find myself drawn to the man.
That man is Donald Trump. I’m watching the sex tape between President Trump and Stormy Daniels that was leaked this Tuesday by the FBI. When I was assigned to watch it by my higher ups at The Plantain, I sighed. “Great, I have to watch the world’s worst human have the world’s worst sex, and then write about it. Why is this my profession? How did I get to this stage in my life? Am I going to die knowing that the highlight of my career was reviewing a mediocre sex tape?” I then proceeded to have a full blown existential crisis.
After thirty minutes of shaking and crying under my desk, I came out (because my boss made me) and reluctantly got to the task at hand. What I saw shocked me to my core.
There is a quiet dignity in the fold of his testicles
I saw the inner workings of a man who is universally decried as a monster. I expected to see the same person I had learned to hate so much reflected in his every move as a lover – but as the third Hobbit movie taught us all, even the toughest monsters have a soft, fleshy core.
You see, I am drawn to Trump not out of some revulsion, or ardent dislike, or any other negative emotion, but because there is a quiet dignity in the fold of his testicles; there is an understated poise in the way his buttocks lovingly press together; there is a silent scream in the fall of his nipples.
When he makes love to Stormy Daniels – and yes, by god does he make love to her – I am struck that this is a man who I assumed so much of and yet knew so little about. Maybe his spidery way with words and snaky attitude towards the truth is all just a plot to hide the beauty of the man beneath the suit: a vulnerable, delicate human, one who is comfortable softly crying into the arms of the woman he just made love to.
It would almost be crass at this stage to mention Trump’s member, but it is something that defies silence. I consider myself to be mostly straight (except for a five-minute timespan when I was 12) but our President’s cock is a thing that disregards all traditional logic. It’s the kind of cock that you know is going places when you see it. That cock, you will whisper to your friends, that’s a cock to look out for. Sure, it is huge, sure, it has the kind of girth you couldn’t tame with two hands, but more than that it is beautiful. It’s a stunning penis.
The interplay of shades and pigments along its shaft puts all but the finest watercolors to shame. When erect, it twitches slowly up and down with the measured breath of someone who finds comfort, rather than fear, in the concept of mortality. A glorious, kingly vein runs its length, resplendent in the most royal of purples, bridging the gap to the most aesthetically pleasing head I have ever seen on another man’s tool.
I could go on, but I would be wasting your time. My words cannot do justice to what you will see, and what you will feel, if you watch the Trump sex tape. Perhaps that would be something worth aspiring to: to one day be the kind of writer who could commit to electronic paper some manner of material that could adequately convey the majesty of our President in all his naked animal glory.
Deep down, however, I know that I could never transmit such splendor with only the limited contents of a human dictionary. All I could ever hope to do is to convince you to watch it with an open mind, to see the man all over again for the first time. It might just change your perspective on life. You see, I know the truth now: I know that the next time I see him speaking on television I will no longer be listening angrily to the words tumbling out his mouth – I will be staring wistfully at the bulge in his pants.
Ángel Saxon is a staff writer for The Plantain.