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Donald Trump is a Secret Virgin

By 

Miracle Jones

D

onald Trump is a secret virgin.  His giant hand never plunders the sodden honeysweet hormone folds of woman or man. No sex germs ever leap from the perfect angel penis of Donald Trump, bumblebee, into the electric rosebud of a beautiful lady who is singing while astride a crescent-moon, lowered from above. He never deposits a check for fixed semen assets into the asshole of a broad-shouldered middle-class knowledge worker nor does he dump a gallon of warm-but-not-expired sex milk down the pants of a woman that he "merely" meets on the street and takes a shine to on account of her Gumption and Stride.

Because he is a virgin.

Me and Donald Trump were chowing down on a hambone together, kicking back in our overalls and passing back and forth a thermos full of black coffee after a hard shift of Work Bizness, sitting on a steel beam inside a skyscraper, legs dangling.

“Hey there, my favorite man,” I tell him in a ribald fashion.  “How do you like your sex? What is your preferred sex situation during an intimate time?”

But he does not answer.  Instead I can see the bashful computer in his perfect mind clicking away.  He is red with exertion, perhaps embarrassment.  Am I mocking him?  Do I know his shame?

“Sex is quite the act,” he tells me, growing arch but morose.  “I enjoy it and it feels like singing straight from your heart directly into the heart of another...it is like punching, but punching with love.”

“You are exactly right,” I tell him, putting him at ease.  There is brown skyscraper grease on both of our faces from another day of hard labor.  “You have hit the nail on the head about sex, thus proving that you are not a virgin.”

I prefer to lie to Donald Trump.  He is a painted eggshell tumbling along a conveyor belt into the smashing machine, and his pain is my pain.

He relaxes, but it is not the tranquil unknotting of concubitus supreme.  It is barely relaxation at all, sans spurts, sans triumph, sans attainment of loosened repose. His face retains its angelic rictus.

For he is a virgin.  He is a secret virgin.  No one knows about his unravished flanks and glands. He must hide his non-crime from sinister America. But there is no shame in such a man!  He is a soaring vestal, a sexless raptor, circling imperiously over unplowed fields, spying defenseless quivering prey from afar, which he must ignore, instead soaring majestically in the opposite direction to avoid being soiled by the false fluids of Another.

One time his butler tried to console him: "All heroes are virgins," he said, offering him a plate of summer sausage and yellow cheese.  "To be strong, one must never come of age.  It is not shame!  It is a badge of merit to be so pure and to be made of so much white light that other people want to bathe in your very name the way that native women might bathe beneath a waterfall."

But Donald Trump could not be so easily consoled.

He cried forlornly, weeping secret tears of secret shame, because his mighty heart was hurting. His heart is the loneliest of his organs but not the least used. That distinction belongs to his pristine penis, which might as well still be in its original packaging: unblemished, untasted, unhandled.

He eats his husk of summer sausage while staring at yet another beautiful woman he has purchased but who must be made to stand in another room behind a sheet of one-way glass and disrobe for him in what amounts to a self-created mockery, a temptation, a woman he can never touch and who must never see or know him. She does not know why she is being paid to "remove her top" and to "smile like she is in love." He must remain continent as the pressure mounts inside him, must not reach out, smash the glass, try to grasp her long hair as his gift bubbles forth. His abstinence is not necessarily a choice, but it is his by unshakable disposition. When he is finished, his gift is scraped from the smooth one-way window by his butler and deposited with the others, and the woman is taken to the "old elevator" and given kindhearted advice about investments by his strategic manager.

He is a virgin in an identity way.  It is as much a part of him as his perfect face. And yet it is a secret.  No one can know.

His stubby, snuffling penis, like the wet nose of a blind hound, has never burrowed into a vagina to get out of the cold world, digging and digging a shallow hole and then collapsing into it, only just penetrating the surface membrane of alien flesh, paws over eyes, too timid and too stumpy to nuzzle any further.

He has never even done this. He has never even nuzzled his knuckle of a peesnout into a woman or man for even one instant of neritic relief.

The closest Donald Trump has ever come to completing a sex act inside a person is the time he accidentally ejaculated in his sports car while rounding a deadly curve (he was not driving, but his eyes were closed and he Forgot) and a woman tried to Own his semen from where it dried against his wide leg (it was a pleasant day and he wore a man's cargo shorts), wiping it with her camisole and then attempting to take it into herself by dabs and thrusts. Never again does he ride in cars with women who might try such a thing.  Now he only rides alone.

Normally, his gifts are kept in jade jars that he purchases directly from trusted antiquities traders in modern Qatar, filling one a month and storing these emoluments away in his family vault, the way that other members of his proud family have stored treasures taken from the sea and trophies of war.  The gifts harden into a smooth paste in the jars, and then a glassy calculus.  Does Donald Trump make jewelry for his friends and admirers from this smooth, frosted shale?

His children were made in America.  They are not imports, as has been whispered.  They were made by powerful and strong American artistry and science, ripening in office buildings standing proud and alone on suburban greenswards.  His children are native to this land.  No one must question this.  They gestated inside the bellies of American breeding cows, cows that had all four legs amputated so they might be comfortable laying on giant purple silk mats, being fed grapes and fine finger sandwiches and delicious brie.  These wombcows gave his big, lumbering fetal Trumps room to grow and play. No women were harmed, and Donald Trump remained chaste and unruint.  

Would his Trumps be like him? Would they look like him?  Would they have his grace and intelligence?

His Trumps were manifested from special gifts he created for the specific purpose of passing on his best traits, squeezed forth while staring into his own eyes by way of a video machine. He chose the women who would combine with these gifts lovingly and purposefully, manfully, using real executive vigor and decisiveness.  

He never ceased inspecting these prospective Mothers. He was unsparing with the calipers, seeking perfection, knowing that to combine his gift with a woman's gift...her Blood Clot full of Frail Humors and Sensitive Touches... would be a dangerous thing, and yet he knew he must not hoard his essence, his excellence, his light.

Alone, away from the vicious throng, he is free to be as simple and honest and innocent and full of virtue as any other virgin.  Alone, in his tower, he removes his suit and puts on a simple sailor's frock, an honest shirt with modest shorts. He pulls up his knee socks and puts on a humble cap with a special ribbon and he dances and sings and practices learning new facts about the world.  He tells the world how he feels...brain to brain...finger to phone...watching the television and speaking to the television.

He has a virgin's simple trust.  He loves the world and the world loves him.

He watches himself on the television and he sees something more than even you or I might see.  His butler gives him rubs and tests his blood and skin to make sure he is still perfect.  He is still perfect.  

Does he wonder, wistfully, what he might become if he gives in to his darkest longings? If he risks infection and injury to slake his unholy passions inside a woman or man the same way you or I might do?

Me and Donald Trump are eating fried oysters from a red pail while laying on our backs on a raft made of logs and floating lazily down the mighty Mississippi river, our nation's hardest-pumping muddy artery.

He tells me his hopes and fears, telling me of his noble purpose in fulfilling the destiny of our great land, of protecting us from infection and disease, from being penetrated by outside penises, from accidentally lowering ourselves by commingling the skin dirt of the high people with the skin dirt of low people.

I am listening, but I cannot stop staring into his perfect ice blue eyes.  I am lost in them.  How has he avoided the probing of a glistening mons pubis by his muscular and swarthy cock nubbin, a nugget the size and hardness of an American quarter dollar (I have felt it against me when he has become too excited, discussing his plans for our country, and has fallen over with delirium and I have steadied him)? How has he avoided concupiscence for so long?  I feel myself drawn toward him, hypnotized, opening to him, and I can sense his discipline, how hard he must work to stay celibate, to keep away from the needs of admirers like me.

He pays the women prime wages to tell the television that he is not a virgin.  He pays them better than celebrities are paid to pretend to be real.

"Oh yes, Donald Trump has definitely done the business," they say, averting their eyes.

"He has definitely mounted me and I have definitely felt the sweat from his jowls fleck my backbones as he grunts his way to victory in my belly, in my hand, in my anus, in my mouth. I have definitely had his penis and I am definitely not the only one."

He has watched others mate, of course, many times, even encouraging this, urging his wives to express themselves; to explore.  But he can never join in such a way; never, never, never.  He would lose everything...himself, his maidenhead, his answers, his virtue, his light. Build the wall.  Build it high.

When he is with a woman in public, he must pretend to dominate her, to be above her, to prove that he "could have her" to the People. His wife must be of such attractiveness that it is "obvious" that he has had sex with her and will do so again. No one must question this.  There must never be a Time of Testing.  He will never pit his fantasies against the reality of her body, and so the sport is good and the People cheer. But it is exhausting to wonder, to know if his domination is correct, if the sham of his brutality is done with the proper rhythm and anger.  

He is a secret virgin.  He doesn't have to be a virgin and it doesn't have to be a secret. But he wills it so with his enormous soul.

It is his shame, but he should not be ashamed about the one thing that makes him Great, that makes him different, that makes him strong, that keeps him compelling in a world full of flaws and weakness and boring withered skeptics who have been drained by their own vices.

There is one holy truth that his fans and acolytes and servants whisper to each other in the furtive penumbra of his glowing heat as they orbit around him, basking in his healing radiation.  

They whisper to each other, proudly and in awe.

They whisper:

Donald Trump is a secret virgin.

Quiz question:

Which is true about Donald Trump's children?

They are called the "Trumpettes" by The Donald himself

They are called the "Trumpettes" by The Donald himself

They were made by powerful American artistry and science

They were made by powerful American artistry and science

There are actually 20 of them working in conjunction with each other

There are actually 20 of them working in conjunction with each other

They were birthed from washed up Miss America contestants

They were birthed from washed up Miss America contestants

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Issue 4

published 

September 22, 2017

Donald Trump is a Secret Virgin was written by Miracle Jones. It even has its own dedicated URL. Miracle Jones is from Texas. He is a Sagittarius. He is a very private person. Read more of his work at his website

The beautiful painting of Donald Trump at the top was done by Illma Gore. Prints are available here.

i dont feel like fininishing this website right now and i am sorry

There's military

with machine guns at the bus

stations every day.

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Issue 4

This writing was originally published in Opium Magazine, and is not listed in the Lit.cat archives.
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