Women Who Filed Assault Charges Again Trump
1.
I am the crazy adult female. The nutjob. The skank. The slut who won't shut up. I'one thousand the psycho liar paid by the Democratic Party. I'm the loony who deserves the death threats. I'1000 the kook who has it coming. I'thou so nasty that @BluMrln75 says Trump wouldn't exercise me "with Biden's wiener." And don't say you don't remember me, reader. I'm the batshit flaky bitch who warned you that Trump won't take "no" for an answer.
And did you lot listen? Did yous? Cuz at present Trump won't take "no" from America. Trump won't take "no" from the voters, the Electoral College, the Supreme Court, the United states of america Congress, @jack, Mitch McConnell, or the PGA golf game tour. He sulks, he incites, he shakes the Capitol downwards to the core of its spleen, and still he won't have "no." And then equally we approach January 20, when his foul body may or may not exist dragged from the White House, I idea I would merely remind everyone that all this could have been avoided if everybody had simply listened, and not just to me, simply to the start woman who publicly accused Trump of sexual set on two decades ago.
For six direct years she said "no" to Trump, she told me, and for six straight years Trump chased her, pulled her into rooms, unbuttoned his pants, phoned her, called her boyfriend a loser, and begged her to get on a plane and fly to New York, swearing over and over that he would "be the best lover she'd e'er take" and promising, "After me, baby, you're gonna be ruined for anyone else for the rest of your life."
2.
Reader, exhibit number one is a lawsuit filed on April thirty, 1997, in the U.S. District Courtroom for the Southern District of New York. The plaintiff: Jill Harth Houraney, a citizen of Boca Raton, Florida. The accused: Donald J. Trump, a citizen of New York, New York. Allegations: Sexual harassment, sexual set on, attempted rape, sexual subjugation, and defamation. Request for compensation: $125 million. Complaint: Jury trial demanded. And if any man in history deserves to be tried by a jury—of about 167 million women—it is Trump. So now permit the states find out how this happened.
Jill Harth grows upwardly in Massapequa Park, Long Island, a bunny-loving, Daughter Scout–cookie-selling, lightning-bug-catching lass who, by the age of 12, is stuffed to the gills with the romance magazines her grandmother feeds her.
At Berner Loftier Schoolhouse, home of the Fighting Baldwin Brothers (Jill and Danny Baldwin attend at the same time), she is not popular. She has acne. She does non make the softball team. Her favorite book is Designing Your Face, by Style Bandy. She begins mixing cosmetics to hide her pimples and experimenting with skin-care concoctions in the family unit kitchen. With her dad, a Rheingold Beer truck driver, yelling, What's all this oatmeal bottleneck the sink?, an entrepreneur is built-in.
Do Jill Harth Beauty Cosmetics & Skincare products work? I'd better tell you right away: I look similar Miss Havisham when I arrive at Jill's digs. These days, she owns a cozy flat in the quaint function of Queens, the office that looks so much like King Henry VIII'south England, all that'south missing is a cake for Anne Boleyn to put her caput on.
After we eat the guacamole that Jill makes, and after nosotros have a long jaw in her mauve boudoir, Jill—a hell of a makeup creative person with a bizarre customer list, everyone from Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michelle Pfeiffer to Bill de Blasio and George Conway—asks me to remove my COVID mask. She studies my mug for a few seconds, and then hands me a lipstick called "Natalie" (Jill names her lipsticks after movie stars), which I proceed to slather on. Jill's mother, the jaunty Grace Harth, a quondam omnibus driver who is defying doctors' predictions of being dead and gone on account of avant-garde Parkinson's disease, and who is, instead, propped up in freshly laundered sheets on a giant hospital bed in the heart of Jill'south living room, gazes at me and clasps her easily together. "Oh, Jill," she says with heavenly pride. "Jean looks soooo much amend!"
At present back to Jill's claims in that court document.
3.
Statement of facts: On or virtually December 11, 1992, the plaintiff accompanied George Houraney to make a business organisation presentation to the defendant, Donald J. Trump, with regard to the American Dream Festival.
Jill meets George Houraney when she applies for a waitress job at his family'south restaurant. She is 15. He is 31. He tells her he owns a mag. She tells him she'south 16. He says he takes pictures. She says she wants to be a model. His magazine is chosen National Motorsports Almanac. He puts it together himself, and, man, can George talk. He can also shop. And while he is buying new clothes for Jill, he showers her with every highfalutin line of movie dialogue yous ever heard—they're gonna beat it off of Long Isle! They're gonna be famous! They're gonna exist moguls!
Jill listens, her hot-green eyes every bit large as gongs.
It's all gonna happen soon, says George. Possibly non in the next five minutes, but soon, and, indeed, the outset lodge of business, he says, is to turn brunette Jill into blond Jill.
"In a lot of means, I feel like I raised myself," Jill tells me. "I nighttime, we'd be going to the Playboy Club—"
"And the side by side solar day," I say, finishing her judgement, "yous'd exist going to sophomore English."
Her parents are not happy when, at 17, Jill graduates from high school and leaves home the next day to run off with George, merely they do non try to stop her. "They tell me later that information technology would take been worse if they had tried to force me to stay home."
By 1992, George is president of American Dream Enterprises, Jill is vice president, and they're putting on motorcar shows, race automobile events, music competitions, and a Calendar Girl dazzler pageant, which Jill, in charge of the pageant division, describes every bit "Miss America, but hot girls."
Jill and George get hitched in 1995 at Disney World (in 1998 they divorce and George marries a Jill Jr. on the same spot "almost 12 minutes" subsequently, according to Jill Sr.). But in the start, "information technology'southward a fabled life!" Jill says. "I'm always dressed up, staying in hotels, eating great food, getting my pilus done past José Eber in California, wearing St. John gowns. A glamour life. And I am the mama carry of the pageant. I watch out for the girls. They're then young."
They begin talks with Trump in late 1992 virtually holding the Calendar Girl pageant at one of his properties in Atlantic City. "Nosotros desire Trump to sponsor the outcome and give u.s.a. a big fee," Jill says. "Trump says he wants to put information technology on prime-time boob tube and brand it bigger than Miss USA."
At the couple's first meeting with Trump, he tells George: "I'k very attracted to your girlfriend," and asks him if they're sleeping together.
Then Trump hears that the couple are staying at a hotel in Times Foursquare, and "he's on the phone," says Jill, arranging to motility her and George to the Plaza, all expenses paid. "I didn't take a nice wearing apparel, I went to Macy's."
"Do you call back the dress?" I say.
"It was black velvet with a pearl collar," says Jill. "We took pictures. This was a big deal. It was similar modeling in Turks and Caicos."
The post-obit nighttime Trump takes them to dinner at the Oak Room, and and so to a party for Lee Iacocca, where Jill says that Trump introduces her around as his girlfriend. Yet later, they go to a nightclub and, equally George is photographing Trump and Jill sitting together at a table, Jill says, the president-to-be puts his mitt nether the table, runs it upward her leg, and sticks his finger into her vagina—all the while smiling like a hyena for the camera.
Now, a adult female doing business organization with a man like Trump has two options. She can slap him, walk out, and say "to hell with it" (which, dorsum in my communication-columnist days, is what I commonly advised), or she can play patty-cake, laugh it off, paw him a pen, and get his signature on the contract.
Jill? She lives past her wits. Trump's got a thing for her. She'southward got a thing for the deal. She moves his hand, excuses herself, goes to the ladies' room, thinks Holy shit!, and pulls herself together. Past the fourth dimension she returns, Trump is at the bar trying to seduce models.
4.
Statement of facts: During the late evening of January 9, 1993, defendant Trump forcefully removed plaintiff from public areas of Mar-A-Lago in Florida and forced plaintiff into a sleeping accommodation belonging to defendant's daughter Ivanka.
"We've scheduled a coming together and a dinner with Trump at Mar-a-Lago," Jill says. "Nosotros believe Trump is finally going to sign the contract. Only he suddenly wants us to 'bring the girls.' And then we're scrambling to get the girls. We're bringing them in from all over the land; ane girl flies in from Texas, some other from Ohio. We're arranging to innovate them to Trump after the dinner. Some are staying the night. [Although it'due south usual for ex-husbands and wives to disagree, Jill and George actually agree on nearly details about Trump, though George remembers in that location being more young women at Mar-a-Lago to run into Trump than Jill does.]
"Just Trump dodges the contract signing: 'I desire you lot guys to prove yourselves outset before I sign this, because it's a multiyear deal.' And George is livid. We've been working on this heavy-duty all through the holidays, spending lots of money, spreading the news. If it doesn't come off, we're going to exist embarrassed.
"Nosotros're supposed to stay overnight at Mar-a-Lago. We alive in Boca Raton, only we pack a bag. It's the get-go fourth dimension I visit Mar-a-Lago. It's magnificent. I've never been in a abode like this before, and Trump's such a braggart. I hateful, he'due south going around, 'Look at this, look at that.'"
Let'due south support, reader. One more detail: Trump'south boyfriend bout guide is Jeffrey Epstein.
"Epstein is the just other homo there except for George," says Jill.
"And how many young women?" I say.
"Let me think…"
Jill counts. "I'm gonna say six girls."
"Oh, boy, Jill."
I am petrified with disgust.
"Yes," she says.
"Yous didn't know!" I say.
"I didn't know!" cries Jill. "And the thing is he," she says, referring to Trump, "wants to see the quality of the girls!"
"The quality!"
Nosotros both smirk at the same time.
"He's with Epstein," says Jill. "People ask me what's he's like. He's very polite to me. He'southward nice considering I'm the gatekeeper of the contest."
"Of course, he had no interest in me because I'm xxx!" she says, and bursts into a cascade of sarcastic snorts.
So here are Trump and Epstein, the Caligula and the De Sade of their generations, giving a private tour of Mar-a-Lago to George, Jill, and half-dozen young women. Epstein has been at Trump'due south place many times, Jill says, and lives simply down the road.
"Side by side thing I know," says Jill, "Donald is taking my hand, shuffling me off my feet, and pulling me into this room—'the children'due south room.' Now, this is Marjorie Merriweather Mail service's old firm, so information technology has beautiful murals and paintings. I am looking at everything, and so Donald pushes me upwards against a closet door—"
Nosotros are in Jill'southward mauve boudoir in Queens, and Jill stands upwardly, and, holding her margarita, pins herself against her closet door which bangs closed with a thud.
"And he starts to grind on me and try to kiss me. And he's maneuvering his way upwards my wearing apparel with his hand. And I push him off—I say, 'What the hell are y'all doing!' I mean I was flattered he was giving me all this attention, but what the hell? I'thousand shocked! George is correct exterior!"
"If that had happened today, Jill," I say, "what would you lot have washed?"
Jack the true cat is on Jill's bed, on his back, one hind leg raised in the air in the middle of i of his sprucing-and-sluicing sessions, and he stops and looks upward at Jill.
Jill closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her olfactory organ. Her turquoise superlative is sleeveless, and I tin run into her strong, well-developed arms. I think mayhap she is about to tell me she would paste Trump with a directly left, and and then as he begins teetering sideways, she would deliver a right jab to his double chin, tipping Trump over backward and causing the butler to ship him dorsum to New York in iii different planes.
"Look," says Jill, letting her hand fall. "Today I wouldn't be in that position with Donald."
And neither would the country, if the country had listened to Jill Harth.
5.
Statement of facts: [During that same evening at Mar-A-Lago, January 9, 1993] the defendant Trump also sexually accosted [a model], an invited guest of American Dream Festival.
"I guess Donald receives the message that he'due south non getting anywhere with me," Jill says, "so he's gonna movement on. And I'grand worried, because we are supposed to stay overnight. I recollect thinking, Damn, I gotta watch these girls."
"And Epstein?" I ask.
"We know Epstein from the [Agenda Daughter] pageants. He represents himself as a spotter for Victoria'due south Hugger-mugger, a big shot. The girls e'er clamor, considering it'southward a big affair at the time to exist a Victoria'due south Secret model—and i of my ambitions is getting the girls proficient modeling assignments. I had no idea what was actually going on with Jeffrey. He doesn't stay the nighttime."
George, besides, wants to split. "Just I feel like we're in the lion's den. I experience responsible. I'm thinking almost Donald, non Jeffrey! And I say, 'George, nosotros've got to stay,' merely he is pissed off. 'Become get your stuff; we're leaving.' So I run to the girls and say, 'Be careful! Lookout yourself here!' Two of them are, like, blitzed already, and they're all going out to the bars. We convince only 2 girls to come to our firm to stay.
"The adjacent solar day, we return to Mar-a-Lago for lunch. When George has a private coming together with Donald, I get together with the girls. And the one girl who I name in the lawsuit tells me what happens with Donald."
Dorsum in Queens, Jill and I have both taken off our masks. In the COVID-19 era, this is the new version of "letting down your hair." So before I go on, here might exist a expert place to mention, reader, that Trump, the man who has lied every twenty-four hour period for the terminal two months claiming that he won the 2020 election past a landslide, has repeatedly dismissed Jill's story near the girl named in the lawsuit every bit "total nonsense."
Just Jill insists information technology is truthful. "Donald hits on the young adult female that dark, and she tells him, 'Donald, I don't fool around with anybody the first night.' This is her way of putting him off. Just Trump sneaks back into her room at 5 o'clock through a surreptitious passageway in Mar-a-Lago, climbs into bed with her, and says, 'It'due south the adjacent day. How about information technology, can we practice it at present?'"
vi.
Reader, what are the odds that i woman who is suing Trump is sitting in a mauve boudoir drinking a margarita and interviewing another woman who has sued Trump? Pretty skillful, it turns out.
So I volition just nip in here a minute and shove in an update of my own Trump lawsuit, though I never know how much y'all want to hear—too many particulars and you lot wander off to snack in front end of the refrigerator, too few, and you lot're flummoxed.
Marshalling merely the highlights so: I talked about Trump raping me in a dressing room in Bergdorf's in my 2019 memoir, also as an excerpt that ran in New York mag which hit the internet on June 21 that year. Trump told the globe that he didn't know me, never met me (though at that place was a photo of united states of america together), the rape never happened, and claimed that I was an operative of the Democratic Party.
I sued him for defamation on November 4, 2019. All pretty clear then far, right?
Then on December 12, 2019, New York State Supreme Court Justice Doris Ling-Cohan set deadlines for discovery, and my attorneys served a request for a Deoxyribonucleic acid sample from Trump to compare confronting the unidentified male Deoxyribonucleic acid on the dress I was wearing when he attacked me.
Equally the deadline for giving his DNA sample neared, Trump hurled the instance to Pecker Barr and the DOJ. I wore my best Armani to federal court, and, on November 11, 2020, Judge Lewis Kaplan told the DOJ to barrel out. The DOJ and Trump are now appealing the decision to the Second Circuit.
So that's where we are, reader. When President-elect Joe Biden takes office, and if his choice for AG, Merrick Garland, takes over the DOJ, I and my vivid and courageous attorneys, Robbie Kaplan, cofounder of Time's Upwardly Legal Defence force Fund, and Joshua Matz, partner at Kaplan, Hecker & Fink, who served as counsel for the Business firm Judiciary Committee during the kickoff impeachment and trial of Trump last year, volition continue to pursue Trump; and the man who won't take "no" volition face a time to come where, at last, he may exist forced to say: "When Eastward. Jean Carroll said I raped her, she was telling the truth, YES."
seven.
Statement of facts: On or about January 24, 1993, plaintiff had no selection with regard to defendant Trump'due south demand that plaintiff attend a business organisation coming together at defendant's manor Mar-A-Lago in Palm Embankment, Fla. After Trump business organisation associates left, the defendant over plaintiff's objection forcibly prevented plaintiff from leaving and forcibly removed plaintiff to a bedroom, whereupon defendant subjected plaintiff to defendant'south unwanted sexual advances.
"This time I accept pants on!" Jill says. "I go to Mar-a-Lago armed with pants! I accept learned not to wear dresses around Donald. My mission is to get him to sign the bargain. George is angry that Donald will only talk to me, but I'grand scared to talk to him. Because whenever I call him about some detail, he'll always divert the thing back to me. ''When are you coming up to see me? I'll become a jet. I desire to see yous. Well, when are you gonna exist with me? What are you lot with that loser for? Oh, you're wasting your fourth dimension. You're better than this.' One time he calls and asks me to pick him up at the airport!
"I drive up to the house. I'k steeling myself. I'm all buttoned up. I'm gonna be firm with him, you know—prissy, but firm. So I go in, and the butler knows me by now, and he seats me in the parlor, and I am waiting and waiting and getting more than nervous, and out comes Donald in one of those golf shirts, very casually dressed. As soon as he sees me, he takes my mitt. 'Come on. Nosotros're gonna have our meeting in the bedchamber.'"
"What!?" I cry.
"He asks me if I want a drink. I say no, and he'south like, 'Come up on. Come on. I want to prevarication downwards.' He pulls me into a chamber and onto the bed with him. And I say, 'Donald! I did not come here for this. I'1000 here to accept a meeting with you lot.' He says, 'Well, permit's accept our meeting.'
"I'grand trying to get off the bed and he's trying to disengage my pants. I'1000 saying, 'STOP IT! I desire to talk business.' And I keep on maxim stop it, and he says, 'Oh, come up on, come on. What's the big bargain? I know you're not a prude.' And I say, 'I didn't come here for this.' And he says, 'Well, what practice you want to talk most?' And the first thing I wanted to talk about is settling arrangements with the guy in charge of Trump Castle. And so Donald says, 'I'll call Roger correct at present.' So he calls Roger, and says, 'Helloo, Roger. I have Jill Harth here in bed with me.'"
"I'd sue him but for that alone," I say.
"And he has his fly open. I'm saying, 'End.'"
"Await, he has his pants downwardly?"
"He has his pants open. And this makes me nauseous. I become to the bathroom and throw upward. This is really the start of my anxiety attacks. This is a guy who was raised on Penthouse magazine, where these scenarios are common fantasies."
"The business meeting in bed…"
"I say, 'That's it. I'chiliad leaving. And he keeps proverb he'southward gonna practise the deal."
"And he never does the bargain," I say.
"No," Jill says. "Never does the deal."
8.
George'south visitor sues Trump for $5 one thousand thousand in 1995, for costs incurred with pageant product. In 1997, during the degradation phase, by a weird quirk of Miss Fate, Jill and George and their attorneys go far at the court building at exactly the aforementioned time as Trump and one of his lawyers, and they all get into the elevator together. "I was a witness and I had to practice a deposition, which I was petrified to exercise," says Jill. "I was petrified, Okay? We're all in the lift. And Donald says to his lawyer, loud enough for everybody to hear: 'Meet. I told y'all she was a hot piece of ass.' It sounded like he was bragging that he had got me—which got me on burn!"
During the deposition, Jill ("I'k a Taurus! I take a temper!") began feeling angrier and angrier. "It was a lawsuit nearly a business deal," says Jill, "only Trump's smugness was unbelievable! Plus his saying that to me in the elevator, and the way he was looking at me, I just thought, Fuck you! Information technology pissed me off! I idea, I'll just sue him myself. And I blurted out that he grabbed me at Mar-a-Lago.
And so Jill sues Trump. A few weeks after she files the suit, she drops it on condition that Trump settle George's conform, which Trump does—"for peanuts," every bit Trump later tells Jill, $100,000 being a pea of the legume family to Trump.
In 1998, Trump invites Jill and George to his divorce party. And they all become friends again.
I will permit husbands and wives who own a business together judge whether Jill does the right thing. (Nosotros all know she does not practise the smart matter.) And although Jill turns downwardly interviews with practically everybody, practically all the time, she does ship an email to the Boston Globe in 2016, explaining why she dropped the suit. "It was withdrawn without prejudice at Trump'due south need every bit a precondition to settling a companion 1995 complaint by the company I worked for."
9.
Exhibit number two is a headline: Sectional: Inside the $125 Million Donald Trump Sexual Assault Lawsuit
Many years later, Jill is happily going along, earning a living as a makeup artist and running Jill Harth Beauty Cosmetics and Skincare (she parts ways, as y'all recall, with George in 1998). It is 2016 and Trump is well into his clown-like run for president, and Jill, never ane to dwell on the past or neglect a business opportunity, particularly when it comes in the shape of an old friend, makes a point of running into Trump at a January 2016 rally.
They hug.
"He introduces me to some hotsy-totsy guy," says Jill. "Trump goes, 'Meet this daughter? She used to be drop-expressionless gorgeous 20 years agone.' And I'chiliad similar—it'southward on the tip of my tongue to say, 'Oh, yeah? So did you!' But I don't say it because the guy's nice and says, 'She'southward still gorgeous.'
"Simply the thing is, [Trump] is such a jerk! And I say to him at the rally, 'Donald, you know, they're calling me, the press. Only I don't want to say anything. I'm not gonna say anything, information technology'southward in the past, we're all settled. Correct?' And he goes, 'Don't worry almost it,' and gives me a kiss on the forehead. I'm thinking that it'southward all, 'Don't worry most it.'"
"Because Trump said non to worry, Jill?"
"Yeah, and I believed him, stupid me."
Jill urges the entrada to let her practice Trump's makeup, because, equally she says, "he looked like crap." In a handful of emails she sends offer her services at the time—emails that the White House repeatedly says discredit Jill's claims that Trump assaulted her, but which to me audio like the texts of every makeup creative person I have ever met—she writes things to him and his staff like: "You are doing a tremendous job of shaking things up in the United States…. Nosotros both know y'all've always been a handsome guy…. Information technology kills me to see you looking as well orange and with white circles under the optics." She is not hired.
Then, in late February 2016, Jill sees a story nearly her 1997 lawsuit on LawAndCrime.com. To say she is caught off baby-sit is about 20 feet below an understatement.
"I went through this alone. I was lonely. It was similar, I got death threats. I was not prepared for the onslaught of press. I was getting a lot of criticism. I got no support. It was hard. Information technology was the worst time in my life—and I've gone through several worst times."
About those death threats: When the latest Trump accuser, Amy Dorris, joins our foreign sorority on one of our Zooms (Oh, yeah, reader, we gather, drink wine, and allow fiddling jets of flame shoot out our nostrils), she innocently asks if "anybody else ever gets death threats," and nosotros all practically whorl on our individual floors with laughter. Death threats? Is she kidding? We get decease threats on Twitter, nosotros get death threats on Instagram, we get a shitload of death threats on Facebook and YouTube and in our U.South. Mail Role boxes. Honey! I say, death threats are the reason I continue a loaded gun adjacent to my bed.
Meanwhile, as Jill is going through this menstruum of maximum torture, she loses her mainstay makeup job. The reason her employer gives, she says, is that the company is worried nigh the "security issues" she is facing. Lisa Flower, Phi Beta Kappa from UCLA, Yale Police force, attorney for Bill O'Reilly accusers and later—disastrously—a lead lawyer for Harvey Weinstein, a fact that will blacken her formally superb reputation, sees some of Jill's tweets and replies: "If you're interested, follow and DM me."
"I didn't know who Lisa Bloom was," says Jill.
Ms. Blossom devotes some of her time in 2016 to arranging for donors to back up women who come forward with accusations against Trump. Jill receives a sum of money—the amount is nearly what Trump deducts from his taxes for his pilus, according to Jill, and she uses the donation to settle her outstanding debts and pay off her mortgage.
I hate that Jill takes the money, not because it's incorrect—politicians and charities solicit "donations" around the clock, and the fact that Jill's getting death threats while at the aforementioned time receiving no salary would brand Superwoman herself a tad insecure—merely because taking the money makes Jill look bad. I don't know why, exactly. Is information technology because nosotros think accusers deserve to endure? Or because nosotros remember it looks like they are existence paid to talk?
"That was a godsend, that money!" Jill says. "At least I was sure of having a roof over my head while I was getting threats." She adds that the payment "had no bearing" on her choice to speak out. "I'd told my story well before the donation was offered. I did not accept a pick. Donald called me a liar, and I had to defend myself."
10.
Reader, exhibit number iii is a cat.
Ginger looks like an eggbeater with whiskers and is the oldest true cat I take ever beheld, and while Jill is cutting upward a roast chicken for her, she hears her mother'due south phone call. Jill darts to her bedside, and, leaning over the side track, she says, "Dear, did you lot call me? Do you want some ice foam? A sip of my margarita?"
Grace Harth, besides late-stage Parkinson'due south and metastatic breast cancer spreading to her lymph nodes, liver, and thyroid bones, as well now has peel cancer on her back. When Jill bends and holds her margarita to her mother'southward lips—how Mrs. Harth loves her tequila!—I curiosity that in this tiny apartment with the very former cat, the other cat, Jack, and Mrs. Harth taking her final walk, and Jill upwardly and downward all twenty-four hour period with Mrs. Harth's pills, her bathing, her changing, and her daily viewings of Two and a Half Men, all in the heart of a pandemic, I marvel that Jill does not go completely crazy.
I tell you almost the cat and the margarita to let yous know that on the night earlier New year's day's Eve, Grace Harth dies. Wearing her favorite mauve nail smooth and Jill's tulip blush and "Southern Belle" lipstick (discontinued), she is buried on January 7. A calendar week before Grace dies, Ginger, the cat, shuffles off this mortal coil.
Jill carries on. She loses the two creatures dearest to her in the earth, and does not collapse. She is planning a memorial for this summer. I hope this helps explain, at least a little bit, that dorsum when Jill moved on from the lawsuit, she says she forgot the groping and grabbing and became friends again with Trump: Jill is a adult female who rolls with the punches.
Is it then foreign so, that with her customary cheerfulness, Jill tells me she tin can't aid but wonder, when Trump starts calling her near every day in 1998 and telling her that he loves her and wants to see her, she can't help wondering if he actually means it? And perhaps, though she is not the kind of woman to be delivered to Trump Belfry for a tryst, maybe she is the type of woman to buy her own ticket, go on a aeroplane, and find out that if Trump doesn't mean "I love y'all," so perhaps he can give her a job running Miss Universe?
eleven.
Then Jill and Trump have sexual practice. They have sexual practice in New York. They have sex in Florida. Merely as this is a story about Trump not taking "no," and as I alive in the existent world where sexual assault and consensual sexual practice both be and coexist—sometimes within a single marriage, as was claimed in Ivana Trump'south divorce deposition, which she afterward repudiates—I volition say simply (ha! simply!) that Trump doesn't accept "no" to touching, rubbing, grinding against, or unbuttoning Jill in 1992, 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, or 1997. In 1998, withal, afterward his 40th or 50th phone phone call to her, she flies to New York, rides the Trump Tower elevator to the penthouse, rings the bell, and says "yes."
And, only as our fellow Americans who believe Trump's wild promises, keep voting for him and then are stunned when he drops his pants on democracy, the sex that Trump promises Jill volition be the "best" she'due south ever had is…the worst. It is, in fact, the to the lowest degree erotic, leaves-his-underwear-on sexual practice you ever heard of in your life. It is over very quickly—"How rapidly?" I enquire. "I'yard gonna say three minutes," Jill replies—and equally I don't desire to turn you lot off sex for the rest of your life, reader, I will remind you lot of but one fact. It's not that Trump is now the merely president to be impeached twice, or that he spent four years laying waste to the state, or that we tried to tell you he would never take "no" for an reply. It is something much more mundane, but something that gets at the eye of who he is:
The president of the United States has spent years disparaging or praising women solely on the size of their breasts. With that in heed, here is the final scene of Jill and Donald'due south starting time shaglet. It is the morning subsequently. The ii are in bed. Jill is watching Trump circling his name in the morn papers.
"So Donald says to me, 'I gotta get up and go to piece of work,' correct?" says Jill. "And I say"—and here comes a flare-up of Jill-esque chuckling shrieks—"I inquire, 'Aren't you gonna eat something?' For me it was all about breakfast! I enquire, 'Does somebody come and make nutrient?' 'Oh, no, no,' he says. 'I don't consume breakfast.'
"And then I go dressed, and this is when he says to me, 'Oh, y'all're really, you're gorgeous in every way. Just you're also skinny. You lot could employ a boob job,' and he adds, 'then I'm gonna make some calls. I have a great doctor in Miami.'"
"LORD!" I shout.
"That's what he tells me!" says Jill, sitting upwardly straight, in her mauve boudoir in Queens, with Grace sleeping soundly in the adjacent room, and Jack purring on the bed.
"He says, 'I'm gonna set it upwards for you.' And then I say, 'Donald, I don't need a puppet chore, but you demand—' I don't say it, just you know what I am thinking?"
I smiling. Every adult female in America can guess what Jill is thinking.
"I'k thinking," says Jill, "I don't need a puppet job. You need a penis enlargement."
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Source: https://www.vanityfair.com/news/2021/01/donald-trump-refused-to-take-no-from-women-and-then-from-america-itself
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