{"id":136082,"date":"2019-05-03T13:06:04","date_gmt":"2019-05-03T17:06:04","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=136082"},"modified":"2019-05-05T13:06:23","modified_gmt":"2019-05-05T17:06:23","slug":"love-in-the-time-of-trump","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/05\/03\/love-in-the-time-of-trump\/","title":{"rendered":"Love in the Time of Trump"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

A few months before the election, when eleven six-foot-five effigies of a naked Donald Trump, then the 2016 Republican presidential nominee\u2014bulging paunch, saggy ass, mottled limbs, constipated visage, and puny dick\u2014popped up around the country, I briefly liked being an American. We were tragic absurdists, a nation of disgusted pranksters. The statue had no balls. Like most women, I\u2019ve never been entirely clear on what balls are for, or why they\u2019re meant to symbolize traits like courage and daring. Aren\u2019t they actually the most vulnerable spot on a man\u2014is that how men conquered the world, by costuming their vulnerabilities as mettle? (Something I wish I were better capable of, for the record.)<\/p>\n

The country\u2019s disgusted fascination with Trump\u2019s body united us, or so I briefly thought. We were riveted: by the shameless comb-over, the Orangina skin, the stubby fingers, the clown-car neckties. It was a sick pleasure\u2014you couldn\u2019t take your eyes off him, no matter how much you despised him. Trump made it seem right-minded to despise him for his aged, saggy ass, and by extension all male bodies, aged and saggy or not, because that\u2019s where their privilege resides\u2014in their anus mouths and the gross stuff that came out of them, and where their sweaty hands traveled, and making every last thing about their all-important dicks. At some level, you sort of knew that bodily aesthetics shouldn\u2019t bear the burden of moral judgments or political animus, but as far as Trump, we were going to hand him his saggy ass and send him on his way.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

That didn\u2019t exactly happen, as the history books will forever record. What won\u2019t be preserved\u2014and what you might not ordinarily think would even be the case\u2014is how seemingly extramarital events, like an election, seep into your actual marriage like runoff from a backed-up sewer and stop you from wanting to touch your husband\u2019s body (except when extremely drunk). Or how the imperiled condition of liberal democracy could mean that if it were ever possible to sustain a deep human connection between a man and a woman (a balancing act between intimacy and disgust in the best of times), it was now largely a thing of the past.<\/p>\n

After the election, I located and ordered a smaller replica of the naked Trump effigy online, fabricated by the same anarchist collective that made the big ones, and which now resides on a shelf above my desk, looming over me, throttling my imagination. Sometimes I can practically feel its hot, foul breath on my neck. The keyboard is like a hostile psychoanalyst, I avoid it at all costs. Everything I write feels like an infected wound, for instance the book I\u2019m supposed to be finishing (now a year late).\u00a0Everything I write feels like it\u2019s secretly about my marriage. For all of this, I blame my husband. I\u2019m a blamer, obviously, but it\u2019s not as though he\u2019s blameless.<\/p>\n

To wit: the dinner party, the Sunday before Election Day, where J., the supposed \u201cleftist,\u201d announced that Trump being elected, reprehensible as he was, would be better for the country than Hillary being elected if you cared about radical social change and not just preserving the status quo. The chaos of a Trump presidency and the political realignments it would force would at least open up the chances for a more radical left, not to mention the end of the Republican Party. It was time to stop voting for \u201cthe lesser evil.\u201d Anyone voting for another establishment centrist like Hillary was just voting for inertia.<\/p>\n

There ensued a lot of yelling about the Supreme Court and Trump\u2019s racism and J. being a ruling-class stooge. Hitler was a \u201cchange agent\u201d too, spluttered one of the other guests, making violent air quotes. \u201cCan\u2019t pull the lever for a woman,\u201d sneered a drunken woman friend of the couple whose apartment we were in, an old-school feminist filmmaker who\u2019d had a brief spurt of acclaim decades ago with the movie about hooker-assassins. People looked at me like, What the fuck? I shrugged like, What are you going to do? \u201cSave your liberal outrage,\u201d J. was saying, never happier than when setting people off with his contrarianism, which at the beginning I liked about him (not boring), although it had recently occurred to me that him moving through the world playing the Big Id forced the rest of us (i.e., me) into the role of superegos and scolding parents, since how many ids can there be in one room? At the moment, it was irritating me. For one thing, I never wanted to be anyone\u2019s parent, I\u2019m a committed maternity-dodger. Also the fact that he\u2019d managed to upend a glass while gesticulating and the woman next to him was blotting the resulting puddle with her napkin\u2014J. has a way of getting other people to clean up his messes. It crossed my mind that my husband covertly related to, or even envied, Trump\u2019s bulldozer of an id more than he cared about reinventing the left, about which, sure\u2014that\u2019s going to happen.<\/p>\n

In the cab going home, I said, trying to keep it light. \u201cWhat the fuck was that about voting for Trump? Are you insane?\u201d He answered with a twitch of his eyebrows (which needed trimming, I noted). If I didn\u2019t remind him to trim them they\u2019d sprout across his forehead like pubic hair (will women ever stop trying to rein in men?). I was feeling more aggrieved than I reasonably should have\u2014at the moment Clinton seemed to have a solid-enough lead\u2014but being unreasonably aggrieved is pretty much marriage-degree zero, as I\u2019ve learned over the last five years (it was my first marriage, his second). Trump\u2019s pussy-grabbing tape had been released the month before; just locker-room talk he\u2019d pooh-poohed like he was a linebacker for the Giants. Something was bristling in the political firmament as far as the male-female thing went. Even I was feeling it, despite having no vast investment in electoral politics (I\u2019m a registered political fatalist). \u201cThere are no atheists in foxholes\u201d kept going through my head, though I wasn\u2019t sure it applied.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not really voting for him,\u201d I either asked or declared as the cab bounced up Sixth. \u201cWe live in a blue state,\u201d he said faux-equably, \u201cwhat does it matter?\u201d To which I replied, \u201cIt matters to me. I would consider it a betrayal.\u201d \u201cVoting is something we do in private,\u201d he said. \u201cBehind a curtain. It\u2019s not subject to spousal review.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t think we\u2019re ever having sex again if you vote for Trump,\u201d I mock-threatened.<\/p>\n

Was he serious? Was I? We didn\u2019t have sex that night\u2014I\u2019d drunk too much and was a little queasy. Then came the election. At one level things went on, unthinkable as that was. At another level everything turned to shit, then died\u2014my optimism, for instance. The world smelled foul. Some ineffable thread or continuity that I hadn\u2019t realized was actually holding everything together had given way.<\/p>\n

One version of marriage is that it provides a refuge from the world, or at least keeps it at bay, but the world has become way too encroaching.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Laura Kipnis is the author of <\/em>Unwanted Advances: Sexual Paranoia Comes to Campus and <\/em>Against Love: A Polemic.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Laura Kipnis on how Trump\u2019s saggy body wreaked havoc on her marriage. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1756,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-136082","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nLove in the Time of Trump by Laura Kipnis<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"May 3, 2019 \u2013 Laura Kipnis on how Trump\u2019s saggy body wreaked havoc on her marriage.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/05\/03\/love-in-the-time-of-trump\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta 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