subscribe: Posts | Comments      Facebook      Email Steve

Part 2: Melania meets The Donald


The Trump Model Management Co. had arranged for Melanija to stay at the local Young Woman’s Christian Association. They had a Yellow Cab pick her up at the airport and take her there. But Melanija didn’t know a thing about New York, so when the taxi driver took her to Manhattan via The Bronx and Hoboken, she had no idea she was being given the run-around that unscrupulous taxi drivers give to foreigners who clearly don’t have a clue.

Melanija woke up early the next morning for her 9:30 appointment. She spent two hours getting ready. The agency was on the third floor of an old brick building in the Garment District. While she waited in an outer office, she closed her eyes and tried to meditate, a technique Hercule had taught her to relax. Suddenly a secretary announced that Mister Trump would see her now.

Mister Trump was seated at a big desk, in a room filled with potted palms. The first thing that struck Melanija was his hair-do. It was the most ridiculous she had ever seen, a gigantic poufy comb-over, died an unnatural orange color. It hovered over a huge head that contained squinty, almost oriental eyes that made her uncomfortable, and a fat, recessed chin with jowls hanging down to the neck. Melanija knew such men. Mister Trump’s fat fingers—she’d had fingers like that crawl on her body. A shiver went up her spine.

“Come in, sweetheart.” Mister Trump seemed nice enough. Melanija smiled and extended her hand for a shake, but Mister Trump refused to take it. He indicated a seat and Melanija sat down. Holding her legs demurely together, hands folded in her lap, she waited.

“Well, I must say I was impressed by your portfolio. You’re a very attractive young woman, Miss”—and here, he glanced down at a dossier on his desk—“Miss Knavs.”

Melanija felt a blush spread across her cheeks. “Thank you, Mister Trump.” He examined the photos again and said, “I’d like to have my photographer take additional pictures of you. Au natural, if you know what I mean. Would you mind that?”

Melanija, at this point, was willing to do anything, if it meant being hired as a model and making money. “I will do anything you want, Mister Trump. Anything…”

And so it began. Mister Trump had a pied-a-terre in Grammercy Park. She would go there when summoned. She gradually became used to his sexual peculiarities—and they were peculiar, even for an experienced street walker like her. It was Melanija’s first encounter with golden showers, for instance. She also found it odd that he wanted her to tickle him with a tassled leather harness. But Melanija understood men and what drove them, and she understood how to play the role of the driver. This Mister Trump clearly liked her and what she did to him. It wasn’t long before Melanija envisioned being, not simply Mister Trump’s plaything, but his wife.

Leave a Reply


Recent Comments

Recent Posts