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Apparently Donald "SexMonster" Trump forced himself on her at the U.S. Open Tournament in 1997:





In an exclusive interview with the Guardian, Amy Dorris alleged that Trump accosted her outside the bathroom in his VIP box at the tournament in New York on 5 September 1997.

Dorris, who was 24 at the time, accuses Trump of forcing his tongue down her throat, assaulting her all over her body and holding her in a grip she was unable to escape from.

“He just shoved his tongue down my throat and I was pushing him off. And then that’s when his grip became tighter and his hands were very gropey and all over my butt, my breasts, my back, everything.

“I was in his grip, and I couldn’t get out of it,” she said, adding: “I don’t know what you call that when you’re sticking your tongue just down someone’s throat. But I pushed it out with my teeth. I was pushing it. And I think I might have hurt his tongue.”




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Anything pre 2000 isn't worth worrying about imo. I mean, thinking back, I'm pretty sure I took part in quite a few sexual assaults throughout the 90s. Although back in the day I simply considered them to be extreme flirting. One example would be the scorching summer of 1991. I'd just started a new job in a tiny office on the outskirts of Stockport, selling vacuum cleaners through them shite sunday supplement magazines you would often get free with the papers. The women in the office knew all about my sexual potency from day one. I just had to flash my legendary smile, and point to the outline of my plonker in my pants, and they'd be frothing down below like a faulty Littlewoods washing machine in no time. All apart from one female, who acted like I didn't even exist. It required a less nuanced, more obvious approach to trap this lass. So one afternoon I cornered her in the kitchen, and simply began singing, “Ooooh oooh ooh oooh oooh ooh ooooh ooooh, I Wanna Sex You Up”. I made sure to point at her while singing the word “you” and upwards when singing the word “up”. Otherwise I'd have looked like a right twat. Then before you could say “Colour Me Badd”. I was kneading her knockers like a pair of sourdough loaves. I was sure this would do the trick. But once we'd finished our little ensemble together, the mardy cow just walked off. I suspected she was getting ready to report me to HR the following day, so I lied to everyone in the office and said that I'd caught her in the store cupboard with her knickers around her ankles, doing ungodly things to our newest range of dirt devils, and she never came back after that. Alas, this was a battle we were both destined to lose. Women, eh?

Edited by Albion
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