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Part 4: The new Missus Trump settles in


She became Missus Trump with a vengeance. The first thing she did was to fire staff: maids, butlers, secretaries, and other functionaries. Donald was furious.

“Why did you fire Margarita? She’s been head housekeeper at Mar-a-Lago for six years!”

“I don’t like the way” [Melania pronounced it “vay”] she look at me, Donald. It not respectful.”

Melania became the Dragon Lady of the various houses she presided over: Trump Tower, Mar-a-Lago, and places elsewhere. Even Trump was afraid of her.

Melania gave birth to her only child with Trump, Barron, in 2006.  She stopped having sex with her husband shortly afterwards. “Not now, darling,” she would say whenever he approached her. “I have a headache.” Trump soon got the message. He had a very high sexual drive, and turned to other women for relief, primarily porn stars. He’d been introduced to the world of porn in the 1970s, when he’d been friends with Steve Rubell, the co-proprietor of Studio 54.

Trump liked the world of porn, with its faux glamor, danger and illicit excitement. Pecker would procure the porn stars for him; all the arrangements would be made by Trump’s personal lawyer, Michael Cohen: meeting places, payment, contractual obligations. The girl would simply show up at a pre-arranged location, spend a few hours with the client, and then unceremoniously leave. Most of them never saw Mister Trump again.

Melania, meanwhile, had her own sexual needs. She had never forgotten Hercule, the lean, wiry, dark-eyed Gypsy who’d been her pimp in Slovenia. At first, Melania trusted no one. She would wear a disguise—sunglasses, a blond wig—and cruise Times Square around midnight, a time when the streets were literally crawling with shiftless, dangerous-looking young male hustlers. Melania took a pied-a-terre of her own, on East 42nd Street, a block from the United Nations. She brought her young men there. She hired a security guard to stand watch outside the door “just in case,” but there were never any incidents. She did not know or care if her husband knew of her extra-curricular amorous activities.

Over the years this became their arrangement. Melania showed up beside Trump for necessary social engagements. She knew she looked the part of the beautiful trophy wife of the aging billionaire. Trump asked little else of her, with the one demand being: don’t ever embarrass me in public. She never did. Her affairs—and they were numerous—were models of discretion.

By 2015, Trump was obviously interested in running for president. Melania watched from the sidelines, with mounting interest. She’d never had any desire to be First Lady; indeed, she was perfectly content to live her private life on the $150,000 per month allowance Trump gave her. It kept her in fashionable style, and she was able to lunch with her girlfriends at discrete restaurants in Biarritz, Cabo, Majorca or Los Angeles. Her modeling career was long over, but Melania still kept in top physical condition, with the help of her personal trainer, Arturo, a 33-year old Italian in impeccable shape, with whom, naturally, she had an affair.

And then came the unexpected: her husband was elected President of the United States.

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