Your bag is empty.
Laverne Cox spent four years fucking a blond, blue-eyed MAGA Republican NYPD officer who was 22 years her junior. When it came out, the comment section passed the bar overnight and went straight to sentencing. Traitor. Fascist apologist. Give back the Emmy, demanded people who didn’t know she’d only ever been nominated. Thousands of strangers, certain and furious and not getting laid like that.
My friend Delilah is named for the woman who fucked Samson for the other side. Some names are a prophecy.
Delilah is a liberal in Los Angeles who would not be caught dead with a Republican. They’re everywhere here, double-parked outside Erewhon in their G-Wagons, and she has never once been tempted. Not because of virtue, but because her friends would find out, and her friends have never forgiven anyone for anything.
But Delilah wasn’t in Los Angeles. She was in Miami, alone, with a king bed, blackout curtains, a minibar of tiny bad ideas, and one dress that basically unzips itself. Solo trip.
Room service takes 40 minutes and the app took four. Trucker hat with a flag on it, Carhartt in a city with no winter. He was either in blue collar cosplay or the real thing—and he turned out to be the real thing.
At dinner he mentioned the Diary of a CEO podcast. There it is, she thought. The tell. She ordered another drink and let him talk.
He talked about wanting a family someday, traditional values. She half listened. He was presenting the résumé and she wanted the criminal record. He was six foot three, blond, blue-eyed, and built like the guy who plays the Navy SEAL in a movie where the flag never stops waving. Laverne, yours had a brother.
He paid the check and asked if she wanted to go to a shooting range.
She laughed. He didn’t. “I shoot guns,” he said. “I own a gun.”
At his apartment she asked where he kept it. “Under the bed,” he said. The apartment was spotless, protein powder lined up like ammunition, and the bed was king-sized with a weighted blanket, because even the second amendment needs to be held at night.
Cool, she said, sitting on the bed slowly, the way you sit down after your first Brazilian wax. Gun below, Republican above, and Delilah in the middle, bipartisan at last. Her politics waited in the hallway with her shoes, while she went slow and came four times. He was honest, and pretending is for relationships. This was appetite, and appetite doesn’t check the registration, it checks out your ass on the way to the bedroom. She owed him nothing, nothing to build, nothing to protect, nothing to declare at customs.
Women put the rule in their bios now. Swipe left if you voted for him, no conservatives, don’t even try. That’s a real politic and a sexual ethic. I will not sleep with the enemy.
But so what if you just fuck the enemy and tell no one? The thrill of the hate fuck, someone hot as hell, one night only, no witnesses.
Laverne’s officer lied about his job from the first date. Delilah’s Republican told her where the gun was before she took off her dress. Laverne did four years. Delilah came four times.
I asked Delilah if she’d do it again. She thought about it for less time than she’d spend choosing a restaurant. Yes, she said. Same city, same man, same gun. Just never at home, never in proximity of her unforgiving friends.
Danger and sex run like a greasy wheel. True with a political enemy, true with your dildo in the fast lane of the 101.