Quote:
Originally Posted by maskedmelon
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He is a nasty man who brandishes hurtful words. He speaks contemptuously of the less fortunate and levies blame upon individuals for the outcomes of their decisions with no regard for the nefarious underpinnings of greater American society. He is insensitive to the motives of aggressors and the circumstances that may have lead them to lash out in desperation. He has bankrupted three (3) times, while stealing the wealth of ordinary Americans by exploiting government regulation. He seeks to divide and rain war upon the world.
He's dumb too, even if he is handsom, charming and super dominant ^^
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ok so here's the thing: I don't think you're looking at Don from a 4d-enough perspective here. Let's take a broader look at this guy, pre-orange and combover, rather than interpreting his surface and assuming it betrays his depths.
It's 1970-something, NYC. Here we have a sensitive, beautiful patrician boy, blonde and tall and lithe, raised in the ivory tower of his White and proud father's dirty, but profitable real estate empire. The young faerie's exquisite eyes gaze across the river at the gleaming facades of Manhattan real estate financed, owned and managed by the you-know-whoish. Yeah, despite his father's provincial and jealous outlook on the Manhattan tribesmen (very outmoded), the young Donald respects their mighty work ethic and accomplishment.
Indeed, he enjoys the affections of a number of you-know-whoish friends in his personal time, male and female. He goes to parties at their houses, drinking and not talking much. The you-know-whoish girls find excuses to touch him and ask to run their fingers through his hair in front of everybody, and the onlookers all fall silent watching -- or else join in, giggling madly -- his flushing, uncomfortable consent to be molested publicly and the ensuing circus of flattering humiliation. Even the male you-know-whos stare silently from the sideline. They stare jealously, Trump imagines, feeling a twinge of pride that energizes and comforts him socially in a way he has never felt before.
This young Donald is not sexually inexperienced, his position having attracted many to throw themselves at him, but those experiences had left him feeling the suffocating isolation of a life where most look at you with hungry eyes. But sitting here with these nice you-know-whoesses, all of them trying so sweetly to break him out of his shell, feels different. For the first time, Donald feels beautiful. The sensation is addictive and he socializes profusely with the you-know-whos, returning each weekend for a party.
After one such episode, our young beauty is leaving the premises, head spinning with drink, when he is approached by the son, Chaim Golewitz, of one of the you-know-whoish daimyo of Manhattan. The prince Golewitz is taller and more elegant than your average you-know-who, owing much appeal to the genes of his Aryan mother, but he is still 100% full you-know-who because it's a religion, not a race, and his father was able to afford the processing fees required to send his son's application to the rabbi Mendel Epstein who handled all such matters for New York's upper-crust.
"Don!" shouts Golewitz, and Trump stops in the empty hall of the Golewitz Building's 66th floor. Donald turns to reply, but one look at the prince's face and determined stride steals the slurred cameraderie he was to answer with from his tongue.
Golewitz steps close to Donald, then circles him and puts the wall of the hallway at the twink's back. His height and lifter's physique intimidate our young hero, and he steps predictably backward, perpendicular to the sexy you-know-who, backing himself against the wall with an emasculating thud. His breath catches in his throat as Golewitz preempts any protest, his ripped arms not needing to tap their strength as they easily pin the pliable Donald's wrists to the gold leaf wallpaper.
Golewitz stops here for a moment, giving his prey a moment to relish its capture before crossing his wrists together, pinning them now to the wall above Don's head with one hand. His free hand cups the boy's smooth chin, tilting his head up, and Chaim takes a long and passionate kiss from Don, whose jaw and lips, then tongue, yield readily.
The kiss is not Donald's first, yet even in his almost blacked-out state it sears into his memory, blotting out all the mechanical practicing with inferior female cattle-people that came before. Contained in this memory is not much detail about his partner, the prince Golewitz. No, what Trump remembers is the desire he created in the you-know-who; the passion his beauty inflamed in another of high status and similarly inflated sexual cachet. The intoxication of being so desired immediately, and permanently, cooks into his once-virtuous scholarly mind a vanity and egoism which will one day win him the world, but perhaps also cost him his soul.
Trump wriggles his arms free and pushes Chaim's hand from his chin, then ducks him and backs away down the hall. "I-I have to go," Trump says meekly, avoiding eye contact and walking out the door, leaving Golewitz's passions unfulfilled in the first power-play negotiation tactic of Trump's career.
when and why did our sweet Don take on his hypermasculine buffoon persona? why did he stop drinking? to be continued