I think I’ve found the love of my life … and some shit about Trump.
I’ve met someone.
No, I’m just as surprised as you are. But this guy … there’s just something different about him.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit weirded out when I first saw his name pop up on my caller ID, but now just saying his name aloud makes me quiver.
What a man.
But I digress. President Trump’s personal lawyer. A queer twenty-something student journalist. I know you’re all probably wondering how this even happened. Well, allow me to spin you the whole sappy story.
It was a cold, wet Friday night and I had nothing else on my mind besides a steaming mug of tea and turning in early. But as fate would have it, an incoming call interrupted my quiet night in from none other than Mr. Rudolph William Louis Giuliani.
“Hello?” I answered tentatively.
A shuffling of cloth on cloth, muffled speech and then, clear as a summer’s day, he spoke:
“Hello? Is this Sara Serrano? Editor at the TU Collegian?”
“Yes … Yes it is,” I responded, confused but intrigued. It’s not everyday a celebrity attorney directly contacts a podunk newspaper editor. “Um, can I help you?”
“Oops, well … haha, I must have pocket-dialed you. But um, actually … while I’ve got you … would you, uh, like to go out on a date with me?”
Stunned, I could only stammer into the receiver.
“How about it?” Giuliani continued . “Dinner, drinks and maybe some dancing? And then … well, I guess we’ll see where the night take us.”
My mind began to wander. A romantic night out with Rudy Giuliani. To be honest, it didn’t sound half bad. I hadn’t been asked out in ages, and it felt nice be wanted.
And, hey, I’m not one to turn down a free meal.
“Sure.” I replied, trying not to betray my mingled hesitancy and excitement. “When?”
“Tonight. I’ll pick you up at nine,” he breathed. I swear I could hear him smile through the line. “Send me your address.”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
“See you then, babe,” he said, hanging up.
What followed was probably the best night of my entire life. To say Rudy swept me off my feet is an understatement. Metaphorically, he took me to the moon. And literally, he took me back to his place.
One private jet flight later and we’re cuddled up together in his Brooklyn apartment, his warm breath tickling my cheek, whispering sweet nothings into my ear.
“Oh Rudy, stop.” I giggled, teasing him playfully. “You had too much wine at dinner.”
“Nah …” He smiled into the side of my face. “You just didn’t have enough.”
He continued his soft, drunken whispers:
“Don-Donald’s being blackmailed by the Kremlin. But … the joke’s on them: he would’ve done it for free.”
I felt so safe in his arms, so loved.
“If Ukraine doesn’t dig up dirt on Biden, Donnie’s gonna fuck ‘em over soooooo hard.”
What a beautiful man.
“But I’ll keep him clean. Always do. Took care of the girls he got too friendly with when they complained. He gropes ‘em, I dope ‘em.”
What a beautiful soul, spilling such incriminating secrets to me.
And I know he’s since recanted all this, saying it was an accident, that didn’t mean to ask me out and tell me all that he did. But I’ll always know the truth.
I’ll always know that he loves me.