Donald Trump has his tiny little hands in a lot of different ventures, not just real estate: there’s Trump Steaks, Trump Wine, Trump University, and now, fortunately for us, Trump Erotica. Perhaps an odd choice for a president
ial candidate, but when has Trump ever done the done thing? In the hopes of winning over the vast “mommy porn” demographic which made E.L. James’s Fifty Shades of Grey a runaway best seller, Trump has now penned what is, in his words, “the best erotica, I mean, really the best, it’s fantastic, plenty of people have said so.” And so without further ado, we are proud to present the official book trailer and an exclusive excerpt from “1000s and 1000s of Shades of Grey” by Donald J. Drumpf…we mean Trump.
As I stare past the many, many gold-framed magazine covers that I’ve graced hanging on the walls of my Trump Tower executive office, and look out the window at the New York skyline, a familiar ennui seeps unwelcome into my consciousness (because I know words…I have the best words). My mood is as grey and low energy as Jeb Bush. I need some kind of diversion.
But damn, I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kelly for the FOX student newspaper. Why the hell did I agree to this? I loathe interviews — inane gotcha questions from envious people that I don’t know how to answer, like “Should a woman be punished for having an abortion?” and “Would you rule out using nukes in Europe?” Stupid!
There’s a knock on my office door. Ivanka, the Executive Vice President of Damage Control at the Trump Organization and also my secretary, pops her head in. She has a very nice figure. If she weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her.
“Miss Anastasia Steele is here to see you, Da– I mean, Mr. Trump.”
“Steele? I was expecting Miss Kelly.”
“It’s Miss Anastasia Steele who’s here, sir.”
I hate the unexpected. “Show her in.”
A whirl of long chestnut hair and pale limbs dives headfirst into my office. Repressing my natural annoyance at such clumsiness, I hurry over to the girl who has landed on her hands and knees on the floor and help her to her feet.
“It’s a pretty picture. You dropping to your knees.” She blushes — it’s a rose color that reminds me of my own complexion when I’m whipping up angry mobs into a racist, frothing frenzy. I wonder if all her skin is like that — flawless — and what it would look like pink and warmed from me yelling xenophobic things at it for an hour.
I stop my wayward thoughts, alarmed at their direction. What the hell are you thinking, Trump? This girl is much too old: she’s about to graduate college! She gapes at me, and I resist rolling my eyes. Yeah, baby, I really am this good looking. And the hair is real; it’s all mine. I resist the urge to have her tug on it.
“Miss Steele. I’m Donald J. Trump.” We shake hands. Her skin is cool and soft, but her handshake is surprisingly firm and her hand is unusually large. I squeeze back harder, to show her who’s boss, and she winces.
Back in command, I study her. She’s quite attractive. And let me tell you, I really understand beauty. I own Miss Universe and Miss USA. I know beauty, and she is beautiful. Unlike Angelina Jolie.
“Would you like to sit?” I point to the pair of gold-encrusted chairs I got for a very good price after the looting of Saddam Hussein’s palace. A bad guy, to be sure, but really good at killing terrorists, and blessed with impeccable taste.
As we approach the chairs, I notice her discerning gaze appraising my office. “It must be very expensive to have things look this meretricious,” she says dreamily. Miss Steele is bright.
As I sit down opposite her, I try to bridle my thoughts. She fishes out her notes and a recorder. She’s all thumbs, dropping the damned thing twice. Never send a woman to do a man’s job. I could save her from a life of work, forbidding her to follow her own career dreams and having her prepare hot dinners for me every night. I do need a new sub.
She presses record and asks, “To what do you owe your success?”
“Maybe you’re just lucky.”
Lucky? A frisson of annoyance runs through me. Lucky? How dare she! I consider asking for her Twitter handle so I can launch one of my famous social media strikes against her:
She purses her lips in what most would consider disdain, but which I alone can decipher correctly as pure, unadulterated lust. She’s flirting with me, just like all of the women on “The Apprentice” flirted with me, consciously or unconsciously. It’s to be expected. And for some reason I can’t fathom, I want to flirt back with this one.
“Excuse me, luck has nothing to do with it. Next question.” Resistance to my charm is futile.
“Do you have a philosophy? And if so, what is it?”
“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle: ‘It is better to live one day as a lion than 100 years as a sheep.”
“You do realize you just quoted Mussolini, don’t you?”
This girl has me flustered. In my defense, I say, “First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.” Top that!
“Now you’ve just quoted Hitler.”
This one is feisty. She purses her lips again. Fuck! How did I not notice how inviting that mouth is? I ramble on, trying to distract myself from her mouth:
“Mussolini, Hitler, what difference does it make? They’re interesting quotes. And I want to be associated with interesting quotes. And people can talk about them. You, Miss Steele, can talk about them.”
“Oh, I will,” she says in a soft, soothing voice, but she arches a delicate brow in a look that conveys censure. “What sacrifices have you made along the way?”
Is she deliberately trying to goad me? Is it her questions, her attitude, or the fact that I find her attractive that’s pissing me off? My bronzer can barely hide the red rage of my face.
She knows I’m pissed, and yet for some inexplicable reason this pleases me.
“And do you have any interests outside of your work?” she continues hastily.
“I have varied interests, Miss Steele. Very varied. They’re the best interests. Many people have said so.” Images of her in assorted positions flash through my mind: shackled on the cross, spread-eagled on the four-poster bed, splayed over the whipping bench, cooking me dinner naked, begging me for her allowance, fetching me a Perrier from the fridge, pregnant with my glorious seed, bearing my next heir whom we’ll name Marquess or Viscount…but never, ever breastfeeding — that’s disgusting.
“Are you a narcissist, Mr. Trump?”
What the hell!
I cannot believe she said that out loud. Ironically, the question even my own family will not ask. How dare she! I have a sudden urge to drag her out of her seat, bend her over my knee, and spank her cute little rear end — what I call a “Chris Christie Special.” But one of the current lawsuits I’m embroiled in — my 3501st — over this very kind of approach with an uppity woman is not going well (I have a female judge who cannot be impartial because she, too, has a whatever-you-call-it), so I take another tack:
She reaches for her recorder. Shit, she’s going. Mentally I run through my schedule for that afternoon — just debate prep, which I can totally skip. “Would you like me to show you around?”
“Nope.” She wants out of my office, and to my surprise, I don’t want her to go.
“Did you get everything you need?” I ask in a transparent effort to prolong her stay.
“More than enough,” she says with that smart mouth.
“Here, take a ‘Make America Great Again’ hat.”
“I’m good.” Oh, yes, you are Miss Steele. She stands and I extend my hand, eager to touch her.
“Until we meet again, Miss Steele.” My voice is low as she places her enormous yet somehow sexy hand in mine. Yes, I want to demean and degrade this girl in the Oval Office. Have her bound and gagged…unable to make decisions about her own body. I swallow.
It ain’t going to happen, Trump.