I Was Having Sex With An Old Hookup. Midway Through, I Discovered He Was A Trump Supporter.

When comedians Billy Eichner and Will Ferrell hit the streets in a video released last week repping “loud white men for Kamala Harris,” I was delighted. I was even happier when three women they approached had similar answers to slightly different versions of the same question: “Would you have sex with a Trump voter?” The responses were, in order, “absolutely not,” “no!” and “[puking sound].”

You see, reader, I had been there — actually, literally, geographically there, faced with the same question, in the bed of (someone who turned out to be) a Donald Trump voter. I had only myself to blame, because there had been signs. I suppose somewhere in the back of my brain I told myself, I’d rather just not know.

It was 2020, fall. Like everyone else in New York, I was a nervous wreck. Every day had the same soundtrack: Gov. Andrew Cuomo’s voice telling me how many people had died the day before, sirens, the 7 p.m. catharsis/shock of banging pots and pans. As Nov. 3, Election Day, crept closer, the noise in the streets and noise in my head bled into one cacophonous blob of fuuuuuuuuck. A pandemic and the possibility of a second Trump term? I couldn’t bear it. You deserve something nice, I told myself.

I forget how we got back in touch, but a guy I’d slept with on and off for years — usually with long absent stretches — resurfaced. I asked him if he’d been following COVID-19 rules as strictly as I had, and when he said yes, I decided that he was the something nice I deserved.

This man and I had met on a dating site years before. It became apparent quickly that we were not compatible for loads of reasons. But as incompatible as we were ideologically, we were very compatible chemistry-o-logically. Also, I was comfortable with him. Protectiveness of my body and discomfort with strangers has made me cautious when it comes to sleeping around — it has no moral charge for me; strangers just don’t rev my engine in that way — so his perpetually being in the background was nice. It was like I had him on layaway. 

You see, I have a history of terrible men. I have dated all manner of narcissist, idiot, douchebag and misogynist. (Occasionally I’d hit a grand slam and get all of the above in one person.) I buried my head in the sand when men I was attracted to showed signs of extreme anger; I looked the other way when guys said things I wouldn’t have tolerated in friends but did tolerate in objects of my affection because I really, really wanted to smoosh my face against their dumb faces.

Over our years of knowing each other, Layaway Man had waved the occasional red flag. We met in the lead-up to the 2016 election, and I knew he did not like Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump. He said something vaguely about probably voting for Gary Johnson, and I must have dissociated, because I kept seeing him. One time, he was very aggressive with someone standing too close to him on the subway as we commuted after one of our nights together, and it frightened me. He also posted to his Instagram a photo of an apparently unhoused man sleeping on the subway, which to me seemed pointlessly cruel — Patrick Bateman–esque, maybe, or even Trumpian. (Yes, I did just put them in order of scariness.)

He tended to complain a lot in the way that straight white men do more and more these days. He was, in many ways, the diametrical opposite of the kind of people I value. It didn’t matter, I told myself, because I wasn’t trying to date him; I was only trying to bone him.

This sort of character vivisection is not at all on brand for me. I am and have always been a proud liberal. I treat my body as if it were a (fuel-efficient) car and wear my political beliefs like bumper stickers, to draw close people who are like me and ward off (and agitate) those who are not.

I grew up with parents who boycotted or abstained from many things for many reasons, from Nestlé to Chanel. As an adult, I became an emphatic supporter of cancel (or rather “consequence”) culture, axing people for all manner of misdeed, whether a simple political difference or a onetime gaffe that to me showed a rooted moral deficiency. For a long time I was unforgiving in a way I now consider a little too rigid, nihilistic and needlessly exhausting. (One of my more joyous recent surprises has been seeing people I thought would be forever on my no-go list — Paris Hilton, Eminem— revealing themselves to have grown into inspiring, beneficent adults who are, it turns out, humans who have made mistakes and reckoned with them, or at least some of them. Other people — Mel Gibson, Harvey Weinstein, anyone who attended Donald Trump’s recent Madison Square Garden rally, on the stage or in the audience — have close to zero chance of ever redeeming themselves.)

At Layaway Man’s Bushwick apartment in fall 2020, we got straight to business, as usual, and it was fun, as usual. Then we sort of … took an intermission. (We’re in our 40s, not 20s.) He asked if I wanted to see his YouTube channel. “Not really” is what I thought, but “sure” is what I said, for I am a lifelong people pleaser. I pulled on my undies, and when I moved to grab the rest of my clothes, he urged me not to. Now, in addition to watching a vlog I had no interest in, I was going to do it while feeling like I was on a French beach. Fantastic.

I honestly can’t remember what the video was about specifically. I just know it was composed of snarky, derisive, sexist to-camera commentary about Kamala Harris, who wasn’t even the Democratic nominee. He (the naked Layaway Man sitting next to me, not the grating, men’s rights-y video projection I was being forced to endure) watched me watching him, and he seemed like a little kid proud of what he’d brought for show-and-tell.

In a way, it felt like he was trying to impress me. In another, it felt like he was baiting me. Our pairing had always been incongruous — I had a more successful career and could tell that it bothered him, and he often made snide remarks about the nice apartment I lived in alone while he was in a cramped triple with roommates — but it was the first time I felt like he was trying to needle me.

I finally asked, “You’re not voting for Donald Trump, are you?” A smile spread across his face. He shrugged coyly, pursed his lips together as if to say, “I dunno, mayyyyyyyyybe,” meaning, definitely, yes, he was voting for Donald Trump. Was he flirting? Did he think he was flirting? Was this the ideological equivalent of pulling my hair on the playground (or in the bedroom)?

In that moment, I didn’t understand how we had ever tolerated each other long enough to even findout that we had chemistry. “I can’t have sex with someone who’s voting for Donald Trump,” I heard myself say, and next thing I knew I was grabbing my Isabel Marant dress off the floor. He seemed dumbfounded, and in a way I sort of was too. But I knew on a cellular level, before the words had even formed, that there was no way I could knowingly let a Trump supporter touch me.

As I flung pieces of clothing onto my body, I heard myself muttering other things, like “You’re super great” and “Take care, good luck!” (With what? Oh, my God, Carla, stop talking.) He protested, dejected — “I haven’t come yet” — and I said, “Oops, sorry, Uber’s here, gotta run!” I flew down the stairs of his building and never saw him again.

I was proud of my body, which had chosen “flight” out of all the available options (and I guess a little bit of “fawn” — because, again, people pleaser). I told the story to anyone who would listen, waving it around as proof of my commitment to democracy and feminism and humanity. (Withholding his orgasm wasn’t purposeful, but it did give me a sadistic little thrill.) 

Of course, deciding to sleep with him (or not sleep with him) based on how he was voting was relatively low stakes for me. I am a fair-skinned, cis-femme, self-supporting New York Jewess, so unlike for many others, this man and his ideals posed little actual threat to me. (My Jewishness is something I can hide, though I don’t. I do the opposite, draping myself in a Mr. T level of Judaica-themed jewelry.) His presence didn’t call mine into question, because I live in relative safety, unlike people who are marginalized and targeted, like those in the transgender and Black communities. The revelation of Layaway Man’s voting intentions was a true lady-boner killer — but it was my inherent privilege that kept me from needing to know earlier.

In a post–Jan. 6 world, I won’t make that mistake again. Like those women on the street with Billy Eichner and Will Ferrell, I can tell you, “Absolutely not, ew, [puking sound] — I would not have sex with a Trump voter.” And I mean it. Instead, I’m hoping to come across a guy who gives me the feelings in my body Layaway Man once did, but the feelings in my heart and my brain that only a Kamala supporter could.

Our bodies are battlegrounds, now more than ever, and gaining access to mine has always been a privilege to be earned. Now I have an even stricter door policy, one based on doing no harm. If my body is a wonderland you want to experience, then to even be considered for entry, you better fucking vote to protect all bodies. Otherwise, you may not ride. Those are the rules.

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.