Is it Noonan or is it Not?

America’s Stormy Week

My hands, like mangroves, are tangled, my breasts heave, my inner Peg — all I was and am and will be — scream a thousand quiet screams, as I weep, hard. My smile is wry, though. The tears come like — and this is so hard to say, literally, because my face jerks and contorts and cries big ugly tears from the sobbing — a train. A Trump Train, if you will, but not one of those sleek Japanese or German trains that break wind with ease and elan; rather, this train chugs and grunts like an old man full of Propecia and rosacea and Omeprazole, straining to leave an impression, huffing and puffing on top of a woman half his age who is covered in sweat and hubris and promises. Yes, let’s call her that, a woman, for before she was Stormy and men and their manhoods entered her with alacrity, she had a name, she had a life. Her skin, her womanness, her herness was hers.

Virginal.

The moment takes my breath away.

I weep for her, for all prostitutes who flail about, offering themselves, their bodies, their souls to these MEN!

#metoo indeed.

America is lost in negotiation and crudeness. I am lost, too, as is my muse.

My pussy purrs in my lap. I stroke her. She is quiet.

The storm came before the election, allegedly. The sex from a previous decade. She was paid for the deed, the tryst, the friction, the ... the betrayal of Melania, who projects heat but not warmth, fashion but not style, stoicism but not soul. Stormy was the cool spray that afternoon in Vegas on a hot back nine, the ball girl in the hat and the cutoffs with zinc oxide on her nose and the bounce in her step who drove the electric golf cart. Zip, zip! She was the girl at the function who wanted Fred and Mary’s boy because she could have him, and he wanted her because she was there for the taking and he wanted to tell us he had her. Conquest. Victory. In Trump’s America, the boy always takes her. In Trump’s America, the boy must. And Trump was good with her, to her, her screams of satisfaction rather Trumpian in their depth and appreciation and immodesty. If he was satisfied, how could she not be? But what of the boy, his boy — the lad, Barron, the younger, who was only 4 months old at the time, still sucking at his mother’s distant and full Slovenian breasts. One thinks of him as Jeffrey in LION IN WINTER, the forgotten one, as John and Richard (read Don Jr. and Eric) fight for the kingdom, the Trump kingdom.

Who will think of Jeffrey?

Who will think of Barron, the cocksman’s boy?

I will. We all will, lad.

Worry not.

The American Aquitaine will be yours.

I rest from my imagery.

I think — how can YOU not? — of Reagan at this point. A strong man, from weights not medication. His arms and legs aching with the power of sinews and sobriety and soul and strength. A man who never strayed, never paid for — forgive me, gentle reader — sex or succumbed to the wild charms of women with weather warnings for names. He was, if you forget momentarily about his first wife, a one-man woman. And what a woman this was. Nancy. Coy, demur, petite, her breasts like lasers, her legs and skin like harbingers of a nirvana to come, a California nirvana, at home at a ranch with fence posts that needed fixing and horses that needed stroking and the cool Pacific that needed … them, side by side, as they they would one day lie, in death, looking west, hand in hand.

Ah, but in the day, she was there, waiting, delectable and seductive. Reagan came.

Reagan was smit.

The horses whinnied.

America applauded.

Who wouldn’t be? I was. I saw it at the Revolution, a kinder, gentler seduction he had with America.

He bought us dinner. Trump got us a room.

But what of Trump, the older brother of the dead brother, what — what — could it be, why must he taste the forbidden fruit at golf tournaments and tour busses with a little know Bush, and, perhaps — just perhaps — Russian hotel rooms? His need for love, lust, for those acts at which many of us would recoil, are insatiable and manly. America is not hard in its condemnation of such a man, for America is his all-you-can-eat buffet. And he is there early. He, the one who winks but does not connect, the one who smiles, but doesn’t show his teeth, moves forth like that train, lumbering, belching, bellowing.

Get him a new plate. He is not done.

This president, this product of Queens and Atlantic City, places he transfixed, uses women and language gluttonously.

Reagan had a light touch, a small appetite. I used to watch him eat.

He caressed his food. He caressed America.

He caressed me.

I still feel touched, his metaphorical hands left an impression on my soul as if I was a Tempur-Pedic at a Mattress Firm.

But what of this man Trump who knows only himself, a man who only knows and is only comfortable in and with his own disgusting Trumpness?

To end sentences, thoughts, columns … so tough for me some times.

I weep for I care too much. I always have. I weep for touch that is no longer possible. Maybe because the men have gone from me like thieves in the night, maybe because America is on that golf cart, maybe because I … I …

I am still Peg, dammit! I. AM. PEG. But is Peg still me?

It is the winter of shitholes, whores, tax cuts, Arizona sheriffs running for senate, and Belichickian genius.

It is a sober winter.

We must stay sober.

We must stay …

I weep.

My pussy jumps off.

The squirrels fly. If you listen closely to the air sacs behind the dolphin’s blowhole, they rumble.

I hear them. I see them. We are one, the squirrels and I, the dolphins and I.

The blowholes call my name.

That’s America.

I weep for the shining seas. I hope they weep for me.

I feel they do.

I have given so much.

I, Peg. I shall write and be forever.

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