Trump's "Little Blue Dress" Moment?

It was a semen stain on Monica Lewinsky's little blue dress that Ken Star used to skewer Bill Clinton. DNA don't lie.

Now Elle magazine columnist E. Jean Carrol, who alleges she was raped by Donald Trump, wants her own little dress tested against  Trump's DNA.

The statute of limitations for the alleged rape by Trump has expired. Carroll is currently suing Trump for defamation after he denied her allegation, saying that he had never met her. Since that time at least one photo has been unearthed showing the two together with their spouses at a social event, talking and laughing years prior to the alleged rape. 

Trump’s attempts to have the case dismissed were rebuffed earlier this month by a Manhattan Judge. Accordingly, the case is proceeding into the discovery phase. 

The dress Carroll was wearing when Trump allegedly attacked her was never washed and hung in Carroll’s closet for years. In connection with her defamation suit, Carroll had the dress tested. A lab report found four DNA samples on the dress, at least one of them male. Carroll’s attorneys have now formally requested a sample of Trump’s DNA to determine whether it matches the sample on the dress.

Oh dear. They've got the DNA tested. Now all they need is a sample from Trump. What's that I hear? It's the sound of a scalded cat.  Here is Carrol's account of the alleged assault.

The moment the dressing-room door is closed, he lunges at me, pushes me against the wall, hitting my head quite badly, and puts his mouth against my lips. I am so shocked I shove him back and start laughing again. He seizes both my arms and pushes me up against the wall a second time, and, as I become aware of how large he is, he holds me against the wall with his shoulder and jams his hand under my coat dress and pulls down my tights. 

I am astonished by what I’m about to write: I keep laughing. The next moment, still wearing correct business attire, shirt, tie, suit jacket, overcoat, he opens the overcoat, unzips his pants, and, forcing his fingers around my private area, thrusts his penis halfway — or completely, I’m not certain — inside me. It turns into a colossal struggle. I am wearing a pair of sturdy black patent-leather four-inch Barneys high heels, which puts my height around six-one, and I try to stomp his foot. I try to push him off with my one free hand — for some reason, I keep holding my purse with the other — and I finally get a knee up high enough to push him out and off and I turn, open the door, and run out of the dressing room. 

The whole episode lasts no more than three minutes. I do not believe he ejaculates. I don’t remember if any person or attendant is now in the lingerie department. I don’t remember if I run for the elevator or if I take the slow ride down on the escalator. As soon as I land on the main floor, I run through the store and out the door — I don’t recall which door — and find myself outside on Fifth Avenue. 

And that was my last hideous man. The Donna Karan coatdress still hangs on the back of my closet door, unworn and unlaundered since that evening. And whether it’s my age, the fact that I haven’t met anyone fascinating enough over the past couple of decades to feel “the sap rising,” as Tom Wolfe put it, or if it’s the blot of the real-estate tycoon, I can’t say. But I have never had sex with anybody ever again.