Melania Trump recently posed with a very shiny ceremonial shovel, breaking ground on a new tennis pavilion at the White House—an essential piece of the legacy of the Trump presidency, which is mostly about being evil and extremely rich.
According to CNN, the pavilion is funded by “private donors” and was “fueled by” Melania’s “passion to provide a functional recreational area for all first families to enjoy.” The pavilion will ostensibly provide shelter and serve as “a unifying element for the tennis court, the Children’s Garden and the Kitchen Garden.” Per a press release, Melania’s hope is that the pavilion will provide a leisure space for first families in the future.
While I would argue that there are plenty of spaces within the White House for first families to enjoy their private time, I respect Melania’s decision to erect this pavilion—not because I think the White House needed it, but because I see it for what it really is: a subtle but pointed erotic exercise aimed square at the front undercarriage of her husband, Donald Trump.
Tennis is among the sports that Trump pays attention to, likely because it is traditionally a sport for the wealthy. It is also a sport that the president has played in front of a camera, in a series of visually arresting photos that display the breadth of the president’s physical prowess and individual assets. It is difficult to look at these photographs of the president in sheer white polyester, but I can only imagine that it is not the case for Melania. As his lawful wife, she perhaps loves to gaze at these photos.
So I have to imagine that the tennis pavilion is not just a building—it is the first act in a subtle erotic exercise meant to lure the shy Vienna sausage that lives in the president’s “basement” out of the dark and into the light.
It is difficult to look closely at this photo because the eye is immediately drawn to the swath of ruddy thigh, punctuated by the strange bunching in the crotchal zone. Hard to imagine that anyone wants this in any shape or form, but Melania’s clear desire for it has languished, a juicy, fecund grape, withering on the vine.
It is also possible that it is the rear shot that Melania loves so—the poly shorts made sheer by perspiration, revealing a bikini brief that clings to the buttocks like matrimonial love or the Saran warp covering a half-eaten Easter ham. The contours of the president’s bottom are not erotic to me, but for Melania? Who can say.
But if you build the pavilion, it will come, as they say. Easter ham time looms. That much I know for sure.