MAGA Man Chapter 2: What Happened in Vegas
Untangle your politics from your identity and you can have quite a bit of fun.
Well, this is awkward. People have emailed me, asking for updates about my sexy (very sexy) days in Vegas with MAGA Man (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, read this story first). And I want to update you, I really do — but he follows me on Medium. (Hi, Cowboy). So how am I supposed to write about this honestly?
How am I supposed to convey that our sex was so good that it cured my chronic, nightly headaches, without giving him a dangerous boost of self-confidence? In a world where Linda Evangelista paid good money to disfigure herself with cosmetic procedures to meet the unreachable ideal of female beauty, it seems like the men have the lion’s share of self-confidence these days — so should I really be waxing poetic about how hot his biceps are? Does that help anyone? (Note: his biceps are so hot that an Uber driver commented on them).
Then there’s the modern dating rule that requires me to pretend that I don’t like him, even though I do. Instead, I’m supposed to pretend that he’s basically irrelevant, that other men are banging down my door. This, at least, is the advice of all the so-called dating experts who make a living off of telling single women they’re doing it all wrong…
