As his eyes met hers across the debate stage, he couldn’t help but think: She was old. She looked old, she had wrinkles, so many wrinkles. Ugly things, wrinkles.
She was worn out, tired from fighting and winning the same battles he had fought and won. Hurried talks over tables, the money, having children out of narcissism. But he couldn’t hold back from asking himself one question: Could he make her orgasm? Could he achieve a Full Donald? Did her lady parts even work anymore, or had they been dried out for years? Could she be turned on by him? By anyone? She had so much power… could she become moist at the thought of sharing some of mine? These questions plagued him, almost to the point of forgetting to bellow Build the wall! in his immigration mini-speech.
He was consumed, now, by the thought of tearing down her walls.
He began to fantasize. Not specific situations, but the idea that he could “accidentally” expose himself to her, and then wink and slyly mouth “That’s my trump card.” Her expression upon seeing the Full Donald would be silent abject horror, of course. But only at first, until she found herself gazing at his enormous hands as he zipped up, her face betraying someone who had seen something so beautiful that she had have no other choice but to feel mouth-watering desire.
By the second debate, he was prepared. He placed a tack under his right big toe. If he had any more sexual delusions about her, he would shift his weight onto it, and the pain would bring back into the present.
As she began embarrassing him by using facts and knowledge, his ego began to collapse under the punishment. And, to his surprise, he found that he liked it. The punishment. His mind wandered… he imagined her dominating him in a sex dungeon. Talking down to him with the same words she had just used on the debate stage.
He placed his weight further and further down onto the tack; he could feel blood gushing around his foot, seeping into his sock. The pain only made the daydream more vivid. He was now imagining himself tied to a wall by his hands, wearing a ball gag and leather thong, bent over, her wearing a leather pant suit and flashing a whip over his flabby orange body from his neck down to his legs, raising welts, beading blood.
His mind disappeared into a haze, until he found himself fading back into reality. On the debate stage, the crowd staring at him, the woman across the floor silent. He tried to think of words to say, an insult to hurl, a narcissistic trope, but he was overwhelmed with the feeling in his trousers. He found himself with a very rare Half Donald, a physiological response that he only usually experienced around his beautiful daughter. And it was at that moment that moment he realized that he might never experience a Full Donald again.
Unless he beat her.