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The Huffington Post will probably publish this later in the day, or over the weekend, so I see no reason to continue denying it. I and Vice President Pence — who, given Mr. Trump’s accelerating impeachability, may well be president before your next birthday, or my own — were lovers on and off (and, to be fair, in and out) from the late 1980s, when we were both enrolled at Judgment Day Seminary College in Sanctimony, Indiana, Mike’s home state, until 2009. 


We met at one of his fraternity’s “keggers”, where, fueled by O’Doul’s non-alcoholic beer, things could get pretty darned crazy — and almost invariably did! During a spirited game of Pin the Tail On the Donkey, Mike pinned the tail on me. I hadn’t seen him coming because I was discussing abstinence with one of the pastor chaperones. A lot of onlookers suspect Mike might have been able to see through his blindfold, and pinned me just as an excuse to "hit" on me, though of course at JD, we wouldn’t have put it that crudely. 


At that time, Mike had no political ambitions. He wanted only to go to Africa to convert African homosexuals, and then, on returning, probably to work at one of his fiancee’s father’s golf supplies stores in greater Indianapolis, to whatever extent “greater Indianapolis” isn’t an oxymoron. 


At first, based on my understanding of Scripture, I resisted erotic intimacy with Mike, but he, a year ahead of me in his studies, explained that Leviticus 18:22 — “You shall not lie with a male as with a woman” — applied only to nonbelievers, and pointed out that in any event we were going to be doing a lot more than just lying there LOL. 


I am not one to kiss and tell, but will tell you that there is no superlative effusive enough to describe our sexual relationship. Not even spectacular, much less the overused amazing and awesome, does it justice. If you think of two men enjoying each other sexually in baseball terms —one as a pitcher, the other as a catcher — you will understand what I mean when I say that Mike preferred the latter role. As we became ever more profoundly acquainted, Mike began urging me, in the heat of the moment, if you will, to shout, “Who’s the son of God now, bitch?” I was of course very uncomfortable with the idea, which I worried at the beginning might be blasphemous, but Mike’s sputtering, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s just play!” won me over. I would do anything for Our Lord and Saviour, as I know He would do anything for me.


After graduation, Mike became a talk radio personality and began dating the lovely, attractively portly Christian woman he would later marry and call Mother, while I moved to the United Kingdom and became involved in human trafficking. Mike and I reguarly enjoyed phone sex with each other on Skype, until the “handlers” the Koch brothers had assigned to him forbade further contact with any of his former male sweethearts. 


And here I’d imagined I’d been the only one! I won’t pretend I wasn’t hurt, or that the hurt made me vengeful. When President Trump’s brief romance with the actress Stormi Daniels was revealed, I contacted several literary agents to ask if they could interest anyone in a book on my and Mike’s affair, which I expected to entitle Who’s the Son of God Now? But the only one who troubled herself to respond ttold me she’d been inundated by offers of tell-all books about Mike, and that maybe I should go back to human trafficking, as I indeed have. 

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