Make America Late Again
The past several weeks had been the busiest of Monica’s life. Each was like finals week in college, with a senior thesis due that she hadn’t yet started, and with every day beginning with an SAT exam. That’s how mentally strenuous it felt to work in the office of the President of the United States… and she was loving every second of it.
Her day would begin at five in the morning, unglamorously making five large pots of coffee for everyone in her office. While that was brewing, she’d quickly write a single-page legislative daily brief for her new boss, Doug Band, who served as the president’s personal assistant and “body man,” with background information on all of the bills President Clinton might be talking about that day, and to help Doug understand what was happening over on Capitol Hill. Next, she’d review the President’s daily schedule for Doug’s team and call the White House scheduling coordinator to find out what changed overnight. By the time lunch rolled around, she’d have written nine other reports, always involving heavy research or a bit of communication juggling. And that was just the first half of each day.
This Wednesday morning was starting out the same as every other morning. She made the coffee, and she was nearly done with Doug’s legislative daily brief, slightly ahead of schedule, as she usually was. That’s when Leon Panetta showed up, his heartwarming smile wrapped beneath his big, adorable nose.
“Uncle Leon!” Monica shouted, not realizing just how quiet the West Wing was at this early hour.
“Little Monica!” Leon came in to give her a hug, and she rose to meet him. “I have a treat for you today. You’re going to get out of this office for a whole afternoon!”
“Oh?” Their hug came to an end, and Monica took Leon’s hands in hers. “Watcha need me to do, Uncle Leon?”
“The President is supposed to be meeting with a group of foreign dignitaries later today. It’s very, very, very important that we get him to that meeting on time. There’s one small problem, though… he’s scheduled to play golf today with a friend, and whenever those two guys get together, the President ends up late to whatever we had planned for him.”
“Who is his friend? Is it somebody famous?”
Leon grimaced and shook his head. “Yes, he’s famous. But he’s also one of the sleaziest people in this country, Little Monica. You know I would never say anything like this unless it was important, but please, keep your distance from this guy. Don’t get swept up in how famous he is. You make sure you stick to Doug like glue, and for the love of God, don’t let him get you alone anywhere, okay?”
“Okay, Uncle Leon, I promise to keep away from him,” Monica said, still not knowing whom the President would be meeting. With this, Leon hugged her again, seemingly sniffing her neck before pulling away. Did she smell strange? Was it her new perfume? Maybe it was time to go back to her old brand?
“The President cannot be late, Little Monica. They’ll ignore Doug when he asks them to speed things up, but with how innocent you are, and how friendly and nice you’ve been to the President, he won’t be able to refuse you.”
“I won’t let you down, Uncle Leon.”
That afternoon, Monica found herself riding in the Presidential Motorcade for the first time in her life, which she may have been able to enjoy had Doug not left her working in the car for the entire ride, proofreading some personal correspondence from the President to some campaign donor from his ’92 campaign, written in the hopes of courting their donation toward his reelection bid. That was the gist of it, anyway. Her job was to find grammar mistakes and spelling errors, not review the actual content.
Just as Monica finished her proofreading task, the motorcade slowed abruptly, the brakes in the second limousine unexpectedly squealing as the heavily-armored Cadillac came to a halt. In the blink of an eye, Secret Service appeared all around the vehicles, and one opened her car door for her, his stone, emotionless face showing no indication that he acknowledged her existence in the slightest. Once she was out, she looked to the front car, and there was President Bill Clinton, flanked by Doug Band and Paul Begala, the latter of whom was engaged in what looked to be a very serious conversation with the leader of the free world. Monica had never met Mr. Begala, but she assumed it had something to do with the President’s reelection campaign.
Monica hustled to catch up with them as the large group made its way toward the golf course’s club house, finding herself following behind Doug, unable to hear the conversation ahead of them, and with so many tall men surrounding her, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever see the celebrity President Clinton was meeting. But when the group came to a halt again, the Secret Service began to spread throughout the room, taking up their various tactical positions through the club house, and like a parting sea, the room cleared to the point where she could see President Clinton laughing and shaking hands with none other than Donald Trump, a wealthy real estate magnate and casino tycoon.
“… It’s the best cigar you’ll ever have, Bill. It’s beautiful. The classiest thing you could ever put in your mouth.” Those were the first words spoken by Donald Trump that Monica had ever heard that weren’t over a television. He sounded exactly the same in real life as he did on TV. “They’re yuge, aren’t they? Yuge and delicious. I won’t smoke anything other than the absolute best, and neither should you.”
“Well, shoot. Thanks, Donny,” President Clinton responded, slapping Trump on the back as the two men started walking toward the course. “How’s Marla?”
“She’s getting old,” Trump responded, laughing. “I might need to trade her in for a new one soon, you know? Women get so ugly once they stop having their periods. She’s thirty-two now, can you believe it? I’m not going to be around when her man-on-pause kicks in.” Trump shrugged awkwardly and mushed his face into a frown. “No thank you. Couple more years and she’s outta the picture.”
“I think the word is ‘menopause,’ Donny,” President Clinton explained. “And I don’t think Marla is going to experience that for…”
“Excuse me, but I know words, okay? I know all of the words,” Trump interrupted, taking an angry tone that Monica didn’t think anyone was allowed to take with the President. “I know the word is meno… men… what you just said, okay Bill? I say it like ‘man-on-pause’ though, because c’mon, she’s hitting the pause button, you know? And it’s like, woah, you don’t wanna sleep with me anymore? Forget that! All of the women want to get with The Donald, okay? I mean, look at me, who could resist me?”
President Clinton laughed and shook his head as they continued on toward the first hole of the course. Monica stopped paying attention to their conversation, doing everything she could to tune it out. She’d heard enough of Donald Trump to last her for eight lifetimes. No one with a triple-digit IQ could ever possibly find this man interesting or worth listening to. And while Monica was no fan of blue humor, and never made jokes of a sexual or anatomical nature, she did find herself thinking Donald Trump’s mouth looks exactly like a butthole, and then she laughed out loud, stopping herself abruptly as President Clinton and Donald Trump turned to look at her, writing off her outburst before going back into whatever depraved thing Trump was talking about.
“I know he seems like a ridiculous man, but they’ve been friends for a long time,” Doug half-whispered to Monica as the entourage continued along the club grounds. “Mister Trump and the First Lady are old friends, so Bill is friends with him by association, but they get along. Mister Trump made a considerable contribution to President Clinton’s 1992 campaign. The First Lady scheduled this golf game so the two of them could connect, with the hopes that Mister Trump might contribute to the 1996 reelection campaign as well.”
“I don’t understand how anyone could be friends with a man like that,” Monica quietly replied, watching as Trump extracted a shiny golden driver from the fancy leather bag his caddy was toting. “I barely heard a few sentences from him, and I already dislike him.”
Doug and Monica turned to look at President Clinton and Donald Trump, and watched in horror for a few seconds as Trump pretended his golf club was his penis, and grotesquely gyrated his pelvis with his tongue sticking out, loudly emitting a sound Monica imagined was supposed to emulate sexual congress, but more closely resembled that of a llama getting castrated.
“Why don’t you head back to the club house for now, Miss Lewinsky. Try to catch up with us by four o’clock. I’ll need you to help wrangle in the President around then.”
Monica glanced back over. Trump was now pointing the handle of the golf club at his face and stroking its shaft, his tongue now pushed even further out from his mouth, while President Clinton’s face transformed from shock into sadness. “Thanks Doug, I’ll go do that.”
With this, Monica headed back toward the club, grateful that Doug Band had saved her from watching Donald Trump make an ass out of himself any further. Once there, she sat at the club’s bar, ordered a turkey sandwich and a Diet Coke, and enjoyed the quietest weekday lunch she’d experienced since coming to the White House, watching CNN and generally relaxing. She then walked around the grounds for a while, chatted with a friendly gardener about how lovely the summer had been, smelled some flowers, and then casually made her way back to the club house. Two hours were gone, and she still had two more to go. Getting paid to waste time felt wrong, but this was precisely the break she needed nonetheless.
Monica made her way up to the second floor of the club house, browsing through the gift shop, trying to find a gift to send home to her Dad. But as she searched the racks of polo shirts, she came to realize there weren’t any employees around. Was this area closed? Had she wandered into an area she wasn’t authorized to be in? The room was lit up and the door was open. Maybe she was meant to pay downstairs?
“Can I help you find something extra long?” Monica turned around, the sudden appearance of a man’s voice startling her. It was Donald Trump. There was no sign of President Clinton, or Doug Band, or Paul Begala, or any of the President’s Secret Service detail. They were alone. Monica was alone with Donald Trump. And that’s exactly what Leon Panetta had warned her to avoid that same morning.
“I… I need to get going, I have an important…”
“Hey, relax baby! I’m not gonna bite! Not unless you want me to.” Trump slithered toward her, the building’s AC ruffling his shell-shocked hair. His orange skin glistened under the fluorescent lighting. He was close enough now that she could smell him. The smell of cigars, spray tan, and an older man’s musk, faintly hidden beneath a heavy dose of Old Spice cologne… her stomach turned as she took a step back. “What’s your name?”
“Mon… Monica. I’m Monica.”
“Well, nice to meet you Monica.” Trump pushed his fingers through his ragged hair, his efforts to look sexy making him look even more mentally disturbed. “You know, I don’t normally bang fat chicks, but I’m willing to make an exception.”
“Fat? I’m not… Mister Trump, I’m not interested. I need to go, I have an important meeting…”
Trump laughed. “A meeting? What… like, how a man has? Don’t be stupid.”
“I need to go. I need to go…”
“You don’t need to be shy, Monica. I’m an excellent lover. The best. No complaints. You’re going to leave here with the best smile, the biggest and best smile. Let me show you something.” Trump reached down and began to unzip his pants.
“No… no! I need to go, Mister Trump! I need to go right now!”
It was no use. Donald Trump exposed himself.
His member was maybe two inches long, as skinny as its skin was flakey, and buried in a scraggly field of ginger pubic hair, resting atop sagging testes maybe an inch longer than his penis. At first she thought he wasn’t yet erect, and turned away in horror. But another moment later, she found herself looking at it again, for all the same reasons a driver slows down to examine a bus crash. He was fully erect. That was the largest his penis could become. It was the first penis she had ever seen in real life, and it was as underwhelming a phenomenon as such an experience could possibly be.
“How bad do you want this?” Donald stepped closer. Monica stepped back. She walked into a clothes rack she didn’t know was behind her. Where could she go from here? “Tell me. Tell me how bad you want me.”
“I absolutely, positively do not want you,” Monica said, cringing as he continued his crotch-exposed advance. “Please leave me alone!”
“Look at this beast! You want it inside you, I know it!”
She glanced down. There were freckles on his penis that she hadn’t spotted before, and a few red bumps. “No… no…”
“I’ll just put the tip in. I don’t want to hurt you, okay? This ding-dong his yuge. I don’t want to break you in half.”
Monica looked down again at his exposed family jewels, then looked up at Trump, the seriousness oozing from every pore of his orange face starkly contradicting what was below his belt line. She looked back down, then back up, and then she laughed. She laughed hard. It was the hardest, loudest, heartiest laugh she had ever let out. Trump retreated back. She laughed even harder. He stepped back more, and he was far enough away that she could bend over to her knees, laughing hysterically until her eyes were drenched and her voice had gone coarse. Trump stepped back even more, and she stopped laughing long enough to look up at Trump’s face. He was still trying to be stoic. She looked down at his exposed member, and it had shrunk to a single inch. She laughed even more.
“Stop it! Stop laughing!” Trump angrily shouted. She collapsed to the ground, laughing twice as loud as she had before. “Stop it! Stop it now!”
“Break… break me in… break me in half! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!” She was worried she might wet herself, but she couldn’t stop laughing. And then she looked up at him again. another half-inch was gone. “When you pee, it goes all over your balls! HA-HA-HA-HA!”
“That’s not… stop… you don’t know what you’re… STOP LAUGHING!”
“Just… just the tip?! THE WHOLE THING IS THE TIP!” She started coughing. She had never laughed this hard before. It was all too much. She felt like she could die at any moment, but she couldn’t stop herself. The laughter was coming one way or the other.
Trump put himself away, angrily zipping up his trousers. He’d gone too fast, though, and had caught a bit of testicle skin in the zipper. Monica was dead. This was too much for any human being to watch. “Son of a… a little help? Can you help me here, please?”
“Little! BAH-HA-HA! A little help for your little… HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!”
She closed her eyes, the laughter utterly seizing control over her. A moment later, she wiped the tears from her face and opened her eyes again. Donald Trump was gone. Only his putrid odor remained. And the mental image of his genitals… those would be with her forever. She laughed some more.
It took Monica another full hour to finally regain her composure. She fixed her makeup in the bathroom, her mascara having run all down her face from all of the laughing. That made her giggle some more, but she did her best to clear her mind. She had never appreciated potty humor before that day. Thinking of his mouth as a butthole was tame compared to everything she had just experienced. Was this who she was now? Was she going to go home and start watching The Tom Green Show on MTV? No, she thought to herself, that’s just who Donald Trump is. I’ll never act this way around anyone else. He’s that ridiculous.
Monica spent the last hour of her free time trying to get to the sixteenth hole, where she found President Clinton and a visibly shaken Donald Trump. Monica had prepared a whole speech in her mind, and was ready to tell President Clinton it was time to leave, but as soon as she made her presence known, Trump glanced up at her, fear washing over his face.
“Sorry Bill, I need to get going. I don’t wanna cut this short, but, you know, real estate.”
“Aww, darn Donny! This is such a close game, I really wanted to see it through to the end!”
“Yeah, well… Sorry. Casinos… you know how it is.”
“Casinos? I thought you said this had something to do with real estate?”
“It’s… whatever, I have to go. See you next time, Bill.”
Donald Trump gave the President a brief handshake, nodded at Paul Begala, and then stormed off to his golf cart, trying his best to seem oblivious to Monica Lewinsky and Doug Band as his caddy chased after him.
“Well, that was unexpected,” Doug said to Monica as they began to follow their disappointed president back to his cart. “It turns out Mister Panetta was wrong, and we didn’t actually need you to help corral the president. It looks like you got yourself a small break this afternoon.” Monica stifled back a giggle upon hearing the word small. “And don’t worry, you probably won’t see Donald Trump again. He isn’t around all the time or anything.”
“That’s good,” Monica replied, looking off in the distance to see that Trump was driving his golf cart as hard and as fast as a golf cart could be driven. “I’ve seen more than enough of him today.”