Images via, Shutterstock. Illustration by Bobby Finger.

Buried within the apparel section of the still-very-active are a number of men modeling Trump apparel. These men are a total mystery, aside from the fact that they all appear vaguely threatening and don’t seem to actually be models.

In honor of Valentine’s Day, please enjoy a selection of original romantic fiction inspired by the men who were chosen to sell official Trump-Pence 2016 apparel.

The TV is flickering, a sickly hue dancing across the low ceiling of Travis’s basement. The air between your bodies emits a heady mix of Axe and macaroni & cheese, and you’ve finally mustered up the courage to ask why he still wears a Livestrong bracelet when you notice something hard underneath you, sticking into your exposed leg. Slowly, you finger the jagged edges of an old tortilla chip. “Oh shit,” he murmurs. “Gimme that.”


“I’ve got a question,” a guy yells, lurching towards you from his tailgate in the next parking spot over. His furry arms dangle; his eyes are unfocused. In his hands are two Fireball shots—one for him, one for you. Sweat pools on his upper lip.

“Yes?” you reply, clutching your phone.

“Did you vote for Killary?”


Brian stares at the computer screen, googling “IDF babes.” He feels nothing. Is it day or night? How long ago was that Papa Johns pizza? Should he order another? Plain cheese? Pineapple?

His phone buzzes. A notification: @ScottBaio retweeted your tweet. @ScottBaio retweeted your tweet. Brian exhales slowly. Pleasure cuts through him like an electric current, melting his torso into a soft, swirling vat of buttery satisfaction, a familiar hardening down below. Finally, after 9,000 optimized tweets, @YouAreFakeNewsNotMeMAGA has cracked the system. All it took was “NORDSTROM you will NEVER cuck America again w ur LIB TEARS #boycottnordstrom #MAGA #ivanka #radicalislamicterrorism #snowflakes.”


By day, he works on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange as a trader. By night, he sends emails to women writers demanding they be less vulgar. He loves Labrador puppies, snowboarding, burgers and Hervé Leger dresses, and he thinks Jared [Kushner] is a genius. Feminists should ask themselves why they don’t support Ivanka. His friends make fun of his sleeve tattoos, but he can’t stop—maybe his next one will be of you, if you play your cards right.

“This date is going really well,” he tells you, leaning across the table.


Lee’s arm brushes against yours, sticky with perspiration. The warm classroom is packed, providing cover for your shy flirtation. You barely know him, you think sternly to yourself. And he said that weird thing about open carry last week... Despite your reservations, you can feel something budding. His eyes flick over you, mouth breaking into a dimpled grin. “Watch this,” he whispers, turning towards your history professor and standing up.

“Why are you spreading fake news?” Lee shrieks, flinging his notebook across the room. “The Civil War was over state’s rights!”