I Was Melania Trump’s Body Double

by Bob Ross

The colonel called me into the office on a Tuesday. I’d just started my shift, hadn’t had my coffee yet, so I wasn’t expecting anything. To be honest, I was barely awake.

“Ever put on women’s clothes, Baker?” he asked. “Come on, you can tell me the truth. This is job-related, will go no further than this office.”

“Well–” A hot sip from my Styrofoam cup went down the wrong way, and I had to cough, giving me a minute to think. “Not since I was fourteen, sir. My sister caught me wearing her prom dress. She beat the snot out of me.”

“I’ll tell you what this is about. Top, top secret. Mrs. Trump’s body double has disappeared. We think maybe she was picked up by the Russians. Or the Chinese. North Koreans. Israelis? I doubt it, but you never know about those people. In any case, she’s gone. We don’t expect to see her again.”

“What’s this got to do with me?”

“We need a replacement fast. You’re about her size, and the best-looking officer in the Service. What’s your inseam?”

“Thirty-seven inches, sir. But–”

“Perfect. It’s settled, then. We’ll get you some tits. And some clothes.” He punched a button on his desk. “Alexa, get me Captain Scott,” he said. “Tell her to bring a tape measure.”

I was expecting someone beautiful and petite, you know, the usual Washington babe-of-all-work, maybe a former intern. Instead, Captain Scott turned out to be the same height as me, fluffy orangeish-yellow hair, weighing about two fifty. Red face, restless dishonest eyes. I was interested immediately. “What do we have here?” she asked the colonel. She had the angry look of an ER nurse who wanted to get back to watching her news channel.

“This bozohead is going to be Melania for a while,” he said. “I want you to find him some equipment. You know. Rutabagas.” They both looked at me, not in a friendly way. “And you,” he said. “I want you to get yourself some depilatory cream. Twice a day. No more shaving. If it happens to burn your face off, we’ll make you a plastic one.”

“Armpits, too?” I asked.

“Hell, yes, armpits,” he snarled. “What is the matter with you? Get out of here.”

It was the beginning of a new career for me. I learned how to hold a fork, how to walk like a runway model, how to fart noiselessly. I wore clothes that cost more than my car. Professional makeup artists did my hair. The heels gave me trouble at first, but I mastered them with ankle exercises. It helped that I hold a purple belt in Gung Whaa, a secret martial art that gives you complete control of your body. Captain Scott coached me along the way, and I became more and more enamored. I loved following her ample rear down the hallway. She wore a perfume that smelled like a cross between Old Spice and chicken salad.

My first big test came when Melania herself asked me to take a message to her husband (the Secretary of State was unavailable). I entered the Oval Office without knocking, and was surprised to find the President bent over Hope Hicks, who was bent over his desk. “Oh, Melania,” he said, looking around. “John Bolton and I were just discussing—”

“That’s not John Bolton,” I said, “and I’m not Melania.”

“Who are you then? You look like her, or maybe I’m thinking of Ivana.”

“Pete Baker, the body double. Mrs. Trump says she’s going to Paris until April. She plans to spend a lot of your money.”

“Well, good riddance. To her, not the money. I can’t talk right now. Ms. Hicks is about to have a terrific orgasm. It’ll be the best orgasm in a hundred years. Ten times better than any Michelle Obama had.”

The sight of his trembling pink behind made me long for Captain Scott, my unrequited love. “Yes, sir,” I said. “Good luck to you.” Whom should I meet upon leaving the Oval Office but that very person, Captain Scott, who was evidently keeping an eye on me.

“How did it go?” she asked, clipboard in hand.

“Fine,” I said. “What is your first name?”

“Captain, to you,” she said. “A few of my friends call me Dondi. It’s short for Madonna.”

“Oh, Madonna,” I sobbed, as I melted into her arms. “Grab me by the pussy.”

Melania’s absence gave me the run of the place, and for the next three months Captain Scott and I did it everywhere in the White House, in the library, the Oval Office, even in the President’s bedroom when he was visiting someone else’s. It was a time I will remember as the high point of my life. However, like all honeymoons, it had to end. The turning point came on a trans-Pacific flight to Pyongyang. The President, Captain Scott, and I were in his private suite in Air Force One (he was used to me by then, in fact he said he preferred my company to Melania’s) when the President must have had the urge to use the rest room. As was his habit, he grabbed the nearest handle and gave it a yank. “Damn it,” he said, “why is this door locked? Nobody is supposed to use this shitter but me.”

“That’s not the rest room, sir,” I started to say, but before I could get it out he had pulled the handle of the emergency exit. All the air left the compartment with a whoosh, taking the President with it. It would’ve taken me too but for the strength of Captain Scott, who held onto me with one hand while clutching a seat belt with the other. The pilot put the plane into a dive, repressurizing the compartment, and once the crisis was over he came to us on the intercom.

“What the hell is happening back there?”

“We lost the President,” I reported. “He got sucked out over Hawaii.”

“Shit. There goes my performance bonus. Can you find a substitute? Somebody to fool the North Koreans?”

“Maybe,” I said, looking at Captain Scott.

“Well, think of something quick,” the pilot said. “The reporters in the back will be asking questions.”

“It’ll be OK,” I said to her, taking the initiative for once. “Put on one of his jackets and a topcoat. I’ll open the door, you’ll say something preposterous, and I’ll slam it shut. They won’t know the difference. Use the same voice you use when you talk to your Rottweiler.”

By the time our plane reached North Korea, she had already settled into the role. She walked with confidence, spouted gibberish as if it made sense, promised Kim Jung Un everything and everyone else something, and ordered a cheeseburger. She praised Kim’s efficiency and insulted the press, and announced a new era in foreign relations.

“I don’t like the way this is going,” I said to her when we had some privacy.

“Tough beanie weenie,” she said. “If you don’t like it you can kiss my ass. And I don’t mean literally.”

That was the end of our relationship. I quit my job with the Secret Service. They soon got another double, or manufactured one. Or maybe Melania regained her affection for the White House and its tacky cutlery. However it was, I took a construction job in Oslo and tried hard to forget the past. Captain Scott was President Trump from then on, and was re-elected for another four-year term, becoming the first female President of the United States, though unacknowledged. I met a lady bricklayer in Oslo who soothed my bruised ego with cocoa butter, and the world went on as before, except that North Korea and China got into a nuclear war. South Korea is now an island.

Melania Trump is now the President, the Republicans in Congress having passed an amendment so that she would no longer have to be “native born,” whatever that means. Everyone says she does a far better job than her husband, who has entered a care facility. People often comment on my resemblance to her, which I take in stride.

“Ah, if only,” I say. “Who wouldn’t want to wear those clothes? But she has to fart silently.”

“That’s not true,” someone always says. “She can toot if she wants to. She’s the President.”

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