I have a confession to make. I’ve been carrying this burden for so long that just the thought of reliving it makes me very, very anxious. My heart is racing as I reach back, 25 years ago to a dark and gloomy night in Chicago. I’m not sure I can do this, but I need to find my voice so that I can be strong, and so that others don’t suffer my fate.
Let me take you back to the fateful night when I was just a 16 year old boy, excited and in awe of being chosen as the representative from South Dakota in the Ms Universe competition. It was 1993. Miley Cyrus had just burst onto the scene as a pop singer and the big hit tv show of the summer was Game of Thrones. It was a great time to be a teenage girl. I was loving my life and incredibly excited for what lay ahead.
But that dream was ruined as hope and joy turned to ashes. I was on the road to finding my voice as a young man when it was abruptly and severely taken from me.
At the Ms Universe pageant, Hillary Clinton fondled me.
It happened as I was changing for the swimwear part of the competition. I was alone in the dressing room, surrounded by hairdressers, make-up artists, and wardrobe specialists. I felt the room grow cold, and I remember it specifically because my favorite song was playing over the speakers; Rhianna’s heartbreaking ballad ‘Stay.’ I turned to walk onto the stage and she was just there. I don’t know how to explain it other than she just appeared as if dropped from the sky in front of me.
I immediately broke into a huge smile because I’m a huge girl power fan. Hillary Clinton smiled back, and I will never forget this, she shifted her dentures as older people tend to do. A broad smile broke over her face as she started to explain how important she is. How she’s famous and powerful. How she can make all of my dreams come true. I instinctively knew something was wrong noticing that the smile never really touched her eyes and tentatively reached out to shake her hand. As I did, she closed the distance and was suddenly reaching into my bikini top, fondling my breasts. I pulled back in horror, wondering how someone I admired so much could violate a young boy. I was scared, cold, and alone.
I didn’t think to run because of the fear coursing through me. Eventually she was back on me, letting her hands roam all over my body. I froze, which often happens to rape victims that are in no way making up anything that happened to them. With the lightening speed of a 67 year old, she ripped off my bottoms and touched my mangina inappropriately, whispering, ‘stay’ in my ear.
I relive the horror of that day, everyday, that is considered a day. It haunts me.
I haven’t spoken about this because of the pain, both literal, spiritual, and mental. The scars have prevented me from brining light to this dark, dark memory, although three weeks before a presidential election seemed as good as any. Please don’t vote for Mrs Clinton and if you have questions, please contact me at Donald Trump’s campaign office, although that’s purely a coincidence.
Mrs Clinton, I gave no consent. I. Gave. No. Consent.
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