Welcome back to London Calling. How were your breaks? Did a relative get a bit too sloppy when they were knocking back bottom shelf whiskey? Did an ex text you “HNY” out of the blue at 4 a.m. on Jan. 1? Did you take advantage of the extern program? I did, and it was a wild ride. From the moment I stepped into the office I was given one assignment: watching footage of Kellyanne Conway.
This special kind of hell came as a surprise to me. I had expected to spend the week perfecting my sexy intern act, pushing out my ass as I lean against a copy machine, bend-and-snapping to pick up paperclips, trying to be helpful for my employer — “Is there anything else I can do for you? Bring you coffee? Suck your dick? Send you my resume?” Unfortunately, my boss and most of my coworkers were happily married, so I buckled down with America’s newest sweetheart. I learned to recognize her by the pattern of her crow’s feet, the angle of her crooked smile and the pitch of her nasal squeak as she pivoted away from a direct question. As I grew familiar with her mannerisms and habits, I became more and more convinced that I recognized her from somewhere, and it wasn’t the stand-up routine she performed in the 90s (look it up). There was nothing original about Kellyanne, nothing surprising about the way she spun lies with a beaming smile. A few days into our relationship, it dawned on me: Kellyanne and I had dated.
Of course I don’t mean this literally. I would say Trump’s senior advisor isn’t exactly my type, but that’s exactly my point: could I in all honesty claim that I’ve never been interested in polished, compulsive liars? That I would never fall for a snake in a blond wig? I can imagine sitting down with Kellyanne on either side of the kitchen table, each of us clasping a brimming glass of Pinot Grigio that’d we’d drink in tiny, fast-paced sips. She’d stare at me intently with the half-squinted eyes and soft smile she saves for performances of true empathy. Then, I’d start:
“Kellyanne, you need to be honest with me. Was Rachel saying the truth? Did you really go fuck Jasper?”
“Now listen Tom I don’t think that’s fair, I don’t think that’s fair because she clearly didn’t mean that, and beyond that I think it ignores the real question, which is why are you still bringing Jasper up, a month after that night? Nobody else is talking about it! It’s unfair that you’re not giving me the chance to show you how well we can work together for this relationship.”
“But Kellyanne, you still haven’t answered the question. Did you fuck him? He told Cheryl you did, you’ve got to explain what’s happening here.”
“Tom you need to understand the difference between what offends you and what affects you. Maybe you’re offended by what Cheryl said — and why would you trust that sore loser, she never forgave me for getting my job — but that doesn’t mean you’re affected by it.”
“But Kelly—”
“Get over it, sweetie.”
For those of you more unfamiliar than me with Kellyanne’s track record, apart from the context this whole interaction is a pretty close paraphrase of things she’s said to the media since the election. It may sound obsessive to draw such a close parallel between this politician and my ex (still hate you babe!), but I think the connection informs our relationships with both of them.
Back when we were dating, our biggest issue was trust. I’ve never been crazy about monogamy, and have always valued the freedom of sucking a stranger’s dick in an alley if I so please, but it’s always been important to me that my partner would inform me of his sexual whereabouts, for reasons of both sexual health and intimacy. When I learned he’d been flat out lying to me, before I could even think of ruining his life I was overwhelmed by a feeling of profound stupidity: how come I didn’t notice him being vague, covering up the holes in his alibi? Kellyanne reminded me that great liars are so earnest that they make you want to believe them. There’s nothing shameful or daft about deciding to give people the benefit of the doubt. What matters is how you behave once you learn the truth.
Speaking of which, I think that seeing Kellyane as an ex really helps put into perspective how one should deal with her “alternative facts.” When you catch a partner clearly betraying your trust, is your reaction to write a stern thinkpiece debunking them with a mildly inflammatory headline? No! You scream, burn pictures of them, and spread informational flyers about just how scummy they are throughout their neighborhood (or dorm, or dining hall). We’ve got to stop engaging with her and taking her seriously, point blank.
This doesn’t read much like a sex and relationships column, but I don’t think that sex and relationships are on anybody’s mind today. Here’s a story though: when I told the guy I’ve been seeing about my foray into the world of Kellyanne, he held my stare and asked:
“If you put on a blond wig and a nasal voice, do you think you could sustain an impression of her when I fuck you?”
And you know what? I think I might do it, just so that I can imagine that through the vessel of my body we could dislodge the massive stick that’s stuck up her ass. And regardless, angry sex is hot.
Help! I dated Kellyanne Conway, get me out of here
