EXTRACT FOR
Trump
(Kristan X)

On the four-poster bed there is a man. He is perched on the edge, inches away from a massive television set mounted on a wheeled base. In his hands is a wireless Xbox controller. I glance at the screen. He's in the middle of a game of Call of Duty.



The woman leans in close to me. "He thinks he's playing online, but he's not. All the other players? Staffers. It keeps him happy to win. Just... remember that, okay?"



And as we watch that's exactly what happens. The screen judders and glows red as he leaps from cover and blasts away one enemy combatant after another. VICTORY. That familiar logo. I can tell just from watching that he's not a brilliant player. I could beat him one-handed, if you want my honest opinion.



"This is the... uh... lady you requested, Mr Trump," says the woman, still gripping my arm. She thrusts me forwards. I had begun to feel some small sense of camaraderie with her, but this evaporates now. The little pause before she decided on "lady" annoys me so much that, for a moment, it obscures the realization about where I am and who I'm looking at that's slowly crystallizing in my brain.



As if to confirm things further the man throws aside the controller and stands. He's short. Squat. A kind of orangey troll. He has almost no hair in real life ??" perhaps the makeup team works wonders for his appearances on camera. Perhaps it's a wig. But he's basically bald, his forehead heavy as a wedge of melted cheese. He's wearing a set of striped pajamas with a little bear on the breast pocket.



"Fantastic," he says. "Oh she just looks fantastic. Go on and get us some champagne. And some chocolate." The staffer scurries away to fetch the things he demands, and it's just him and me. And sure enough it is him. There's no mistaking that face. He comes right up to me and peers close. "Very pretty," he says. "Very pretty. You want a drink?"



He turns around and stumps over to the bed, which he falls back onto with a solid plop. I take a moment to glance around the room. Everything in pale yellows and rich walnut tones. The TV and the Xbox are about the only new things in sight. This cannot be real. This cannot possibly be happening. And yet, there he is. And here I am, having been frisked and dragged across town and separated from my cellphone for an indecent amount of money for one night only. My stomach lurches; perhaps I should have read that contract before I signed.



"Say, you want a drink or not? I can get you one if you do. All I got to do is say." I focus back on him. He's lying on the bed, propped up on his elbow. I have a moment where I think I can't do this. Where it's just too much. Where I feel as though I've fallen to the bottom of a very deep hole and am only now just starting to realize it. You know the feeling? Then professionalism takes over. Snap. Just like that. I lower myself onto the bed beside him.



"I would love a drink," I say, laying one hand solicitously on his leg. He grunts, reaches for the bedside table and smacks a little silver switch there. A moment later the door opens and the woman pokes her head around, eyes wide.



"Get her some wine!" screams Trump. The vehemence in his tone makes me jump. It makes the woman jump too, and she scuttles away to do his bidding. As soon as she's gone and the door is shut Trump giggles like a little boy. "Hey, did you see that! She pee'd herself!"



Of course, I laugh. He laughs too. I feel as though I'm dreaming. A few moments later the chocolate arrives ??" a whole silver trolley of it, along with the champagne and three different wines in separate ice buckets, each of them ferried in by one of the suits. As soon as they're gone Trump sits up and waves me towards the wine. Then he starts cramming chocolates into his mouth, one after the other like he's afraid that they'll evaporate if he doesn't get them all down quick enough. 



"You know," he says, "I have my own chef here. Cooks me up anything I want. Anything at all. You name it, he'll make it. Even does KFC for me sometimes." He pauses, glancing towards me to see if I'm impressed. It's such a naked, boyish gesture that my anger softens a little. I remember the money. And I remember that this is a job. Like Marlou says: you're fucking them as much as they're fucking you. 



"That's so cool!" I say. Unconsciously I've dropped into the same voice I use with my nephew, and I hate using that here, but it seems to fit and I've got nothing else. "Can you have KFC any time you want?"



"Any time," says Trump through a mouthful of chocolate. "Day or night. Any day of the week." He glances around as if to check we're alone, and then leans closer. "They say I can't when I'm on TV," he says. "But I just tell them to have a bucket waiting for me as soon as I'm done." He giggles again, as if he can't believe what he's getting away with.



"I've never met anyone who could have it any time they wanted," I say. Which isn't true, but you try improvising when you've just found out you're speaking to the most powerful moron on earth. Trump swallows thickly, glances at the chocolates and then pushes them away.



"I want to have some fun now," he says sharply, standing up. And then he starts undoing his pajama top. "Come here and help me," he says. "You're so pretty."



So I go over to the bed and I settle myself down beside him. Normally there's a way of moving that I use when I'm with a client. You don't walk so much as slink. And you have to seem slightly tentative in everything you do. It drives them wild. That mix of carnal and innocent. You reach for their dick but stop yourself before you touch and turn your big wet wide eyes up to them for permission. But I don't think that's necessary here. I don't think he would honestly even notice.



We get off his pajamas and he lies down on the bed and points at his dick. I cup the soft little thing in my hand and wrap my fingers around. I stroke and squeeze. I put my other hand on his chest, which is soft too ??" covered with a layer of puffy fat and wisps of greying hair. For a while there is silence in the room. I am stroking and stroking him but he's not getting hard. I watch him wriggle back into the sheets. The little movements of his jowls. I think about using my mouth, but decide against it. If he wants it, he'll ask. I have no doubt about that.



"Tell me I'm famous," he says.



The request isn't one I've ever had before. Not one that I was expecting. It surprises me so much that for a moment I drop back into my regular voice. "What?"



"You know. Tell me I'm famous. Tell me how all the people know me. How they do big signs with my name on. Big parades. Go on, tell me."



I pause for a moment, his limp dick still in my fist. You get strange requests in this job. The CEO who hired me to share a bath with him and listen to him bitch about his underlings for hours at a time. The senator who wanted me to feed and dress him and kiss him on the nose. This is nothing. This is tame. But still it takes a moment to find the words.



"You... you are famous. I mean, everyone knows your name. I bet there's nobody in this whole country who hasn't heard of you. You know how many people there are in this country?"



"Loads," he grunts. He's lying back, eyes shut, a wide grin stretching his jowls.



"Loads," I say. I'm getting into it now, my voice dropping into the soft, bedroom purr that I always use around clients. Intimate. Quiet. Like I want only them to hear. "And they'd all go crazy just to see you. You know that? If you walked into a room they wouldn't be able to believe their eyes. Matter of fact, I feel lucky to even be here."



Trump groans and rolls his head against the pillow. "Clever too. I'm clever."



"Of course you are," I say. I'm stroking him still, and now there's something there. A tension. A little hardness in the bowl of my hand. I grip tighter. "You're the smartest man in the world. That's how you got here. Not just anybody gets to be the president. You have to be the smartest and the quickest and the best."



"Keep going," he moans. "I'm rich too, aren't I?"



"You're so rich. You've got everything. You've got a big house and loads of cars and a hotel named after you. You're it. You've made it. You're what everyone wants to be." And I go on like that. Telling him how great and rich and powerful and famous he is. Telling him how lucky I am, how much everyone must want to be him. And as I talk his dick hardens in my hand until it's standing erect. I squeeze it tight. 



"Okay," he mumbles, "okay, I'm ready now. You can... yeah..." He sits up and we shuffle around on the bed. "I like it... like... um... doggy... yeah." And so I get on all fours and spread my legs and arch my back and I can feel him behind me, the weight of him denting the mattress. He fumbles with my skirt and my underwear, thick fingers pulling. He's clumsy as a virgin who's never watched any porn. I let him struggle for a minute and then reach back and pull my panties down for him.