Full Disclosure

THREE

Okay, so did you just skip to this chapter? Quick recap for those just joining us: my life is a lot more interesting than an encounter with Donald Trump. But I get it. Still, of all the people who I had sex with, why couldn’t the world obsess over one of the hot ones?

So, let’s go back to July 13, 2006.

It was really hot for Lake Tahoe, even for July. I was sitting in the back of a golf cart at the Edgewood Tahoe Golf Course, seeking shade and relief from the prattling of Jessica Drake. She and I were still contract stars for Wicked Pictures. As you know, we had history. For those of you just joining us, she slept with my boyfriend Brad behind my back, and I wanted to murder her. Little things.

Wicked had recently had a PR guy come in who was talking big about getting into some things that normally weren’t available to an adult company. One of those opportunities was sponsoring a hole at the American Century Celebrity Golf Championship at Lake Tahoe. It’s like Vegas in the Sierras, and the American Century is the casino town’s biggest event of the summer. It has a bachelor party weekend feel, except there’s no sucker getting married. Wicked’s founder, Steve Orenstein, brought me, Jessica, and another contract girl—a brunette, to keep us blondes from throttling each other. Steve was sitting in the front of the golf cart, which showed what an important trip this was for Wicked. I can count on one hand how many work events he went to.

Our job for the day was simple: Celebrities would come through, and we’d say hello and offer them water or a snack. They could take a photo if they wanted. The brunette was in the process of separating from her husband and fighting with her then boyfriend, so we had lots to talk about to pass the time. Meanwhile, Jessica went method, standing around wearing a golf glove as if she spent every weekend on the links. She was all over everyone coming through like some kind of golf geisha.

She really turned on the act when Donald Trump came through. She did everything but pull out a lace handkerchief from her bra and drop it, like, “Oh!” The rest of us got out of the cart to join them, and we rolled our eyes at Jessica so hard you’d think we were having a collective seizure. Trump was wearing a yellow polo that clung to his stomach where it tucked into his khakis. He had a red cap, a Trump crest as a placeholder for the MAGA slogan not one of us could see coming.

Back then, Trump was just a charismatic businessman and Apprentice reality star. Playing the part, he came over to shake our hands. “I’m Donald Trump,” he said, acting like he was hosting the event. “Thank you for coming today.”

Steve introduced himself as the owner of Wicked. “These are my girls,” he said, introducing Jessica and the brunette as contract stars. “And this is Stormy Daniels, contract star and contract director.”

Trump cocked his head to look at me. “Oh,” he said. “You direct? That’s very interesting.” I noticed he was looking at my face and not my breasts.

“I enjoy it,” I said, before Jessica cut in.

“Do you want me to escort you to your next hole, Mr. Trump?” Jessica said, already taking his arm to drag him off. He took a look back at me, and I could tell he was curious.

When the tournament was done for the day, Wicked had a booth set up in a gifting suite. It was a similar thing to the course, with celebrities coming through getting free stuff. The funny thing about becoming rich and famous is that that’s when people start giving you everything for free. We were giving out Wicked-branded bags with DVDs, alongside all the other sponsors handing out sunglasses and golf clubs. So, we were popular. There were lots of people there, but I was most excited to see Anthony Anderson and especially Kevin Nealon. My dream job was to be a writer for Saturday Night Live, and Tina Fey and Amy Poehler were my best friends in my head.

Trump came through with a bodyguard and once again, Jessica was all over him. I hung back, but he zeroed in on me. “Ohh, it’s the director,” he said. “That’s really fascinating.” We took a photo, and I know everyone has made a big deal of that picture, but I have that same one with twenty other celebrities that day. Trump kept going and I didn’t think anything of it.

And then his bodyguard came back. He was in his late forties, mostly bald except for a wisp of close-cropped light hair up top. “Mr. Trump wants to know if you can have dinner with him tonight,” he said.

I wasn’t sure what to say. Steve, my boss, overheard and stepped over. “Here’s my card,” Steve said.

The bodyguard took it, but he kept looking at me. “My name is Keith Schiller,” he said, and he gave me his number before asking for mine. “I’ll be in touch later if you are interested.”

I wasn’t. Back in my room, I called the guy I was casually dating, Mike Moz. He was working as a publicist at the time.

“You’ll never guess what happened,” I said.

“You killed Jessica and threw her in Lake Tahoe,” Moz said, deadpan.

“No, but I want to. Donald Trump wants to have dinner with me.”

That got Moz’s attention. “Well, are you gonna go?”

“No,” I said. This wasn’t for Mike’s benefit. It really didn’t even seem like an option.

“What’s wrong with you?” he said. “You have to go.” Moz was very career focused and was always telling me about the importance of relationships in business and how it’s all about who you know. “It’s a great opportunity for you. Just think of it as a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

“I’m supposed to have dinner with Steve and Jessica,” I said. Steve was taking us out to eat, and then we were all going to a silent auction.

“You don’t want to go to that.”

“Well, I’ll see if he calls,” I said, “because I don’t care if I do or not.”

What’s funny is that sex never once entered my mind. Call me naïve, but he was one of the few straight guys—hell, any guy—who didn’t immediately stare at my tits. Plus, he seemed really struck by the fact that I was a director. And I certainly didn’t think he was asking me there as an escort. I never thought in that frame of mind because I wasn’t an escort. And the girls that did it hid it, because Wicked had a strong policy against escorting.

I was hoping there would be no call and I would just have the decision made for me. But then Keith called.

“Mr. Trump wants to know,” he said, so polite, “if you are interested in dinner tonight.”

“Okay,” I said.

He said we’d meet where Trump was staying, the Harrah’s Lake Tahoe Hotel and Casino. “Do you want me to send a car?”

“I’m okay,” I said. I’d been stuck on the golf course and in the gifting suite. It would be nice to walk. I had only brought one dress for the trip, my favorite. It was a little gold dress, and I loved it because I looked good in it and it was comfy like a T-shirt, with no straps to dig in. I called Steve as I put on a pair of gold strappy heels.

“I’m not going to go to dinner with you guys tonight,” I said.

“Oh, really,” he said, with something lascivious in his voice. “Why is that?”

“I’m having dinner with Donald Trump.”

“Okay,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he said it that way because it sounded absurd or if he anticipated something I didn’t.

The sun was starting to set as I started the walk over to the Harrah’s hotel. As I passed a tattoo parlor, I heard a voice yell from inside.

“Stormy?”

“What the…,” I said, reeling. Alana Evans, who is also an adult actress, came running out of the tattoo parlor. I didn’t know her well, but she was my downstairs neighbor in L.A. It was weird for both of us to see each other out of context.

“Are you here for the golf tournament?” I asked.

“No,” she said, brushing back her long blond hair. “I’m actually just babysitting Cindy right now.” Cindy Crawford—the adult actress, not the supermodel—was inside getting a new tattoo on her back. She looked at my gold dress and asked in her flat California accent, “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to have dinner,” I said, “with Donald Trump.”

“Oh, sure you are.”

Looking back on the conversation, I realize she 100 percent thought that I was meeting a client and that she had busted me. Having dinner with Donald Trump sounded that far-fetched.

“No, I really am,” I said. “Wicked is at the celebrity golf tournament. I met him and he wants to have dinner.”

“I bet he does.”

“Come with me,” I said.

“Well, I can’t,” Alana said, looking back at Cindy.

“Maybe if I call you, you can get out of it.”

“Oh, yeah, have Mr. Trump call me.”

She totally didn’t believe me, I thought as I walked on into the sunset. Little Red Riding Hood in strappy gold heels.

I called Keith’s number when I got to Harrah’s, assuming Trump would come down to the lobby and then we would go to dinner wherever he had chosen.

“Come on up,” said Keith. “It’s the penthouse.”

This wasn’t a red flag. I had been around enough celebrities to know sometimes they liked to show off and pull out the whole butler-and-personal-chef routine. Maybe dinner would just be upstairs.

When the elevator opened on the top floor, the penthouse was the only room on the floor. There was a huge marble foyer with a checkerboard pattern of black and white. Keith was there, guarding a giant set of double doors, with one slightly cracked.

“It’s so nice to see you,” he said. He waved a hand at the door for me to enter, and I paused.

“Go on in,” he said.

I tentatively pushed open the doors, and I remember my heels clacking on the marble. Inside the doors was a smaller foyer with a heavy wood table with a beautiful flower arrangement. And no Donald Trump.

“Helllllllooo?” I called out.

And Trump came swooping in, wearing black silk pajamas and slippers.

“Hi there,” he said.

Look at this motherfucker, I thought. I was just so mad.

“Excuse me, I have the wrong room,” I said, adding a southern edge of polite malice to my voice. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Hefner. I’m looking for Mr. Trump.”

His jaw went slack, and his eyes bugged.

“What are you doing?” I yelled. “Go put some fucking clothes on.”

Like some sort of cartoon, he whizzed out of the foyer. I continued on into the room, which looked like an apartment. There was a long sideboard table with wineglasses and a complete living room setup and dining room table. I threw my purse on the couch and sat down, resigned to waiting for this idiot to get dressed.

I think he was scared I was going to leave, because he was back almost instantly. It was like he went in the phone booth and leapt out in a full suit. It was a nice one, dark navy, which he’d paired with a tie.

“That’s more appropriate,” I said. I was still mad.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, reflexively walking over to the wineglasses.

“Oh, I don’t drink,” I said.

He paused. “And you’re…” He stopped himself. I know he really wanted to say, “You’re a porn star and you don’t drink?”

“No,” I said.

“At all?”

“No.”

It was true, back then I had at most two glasses of champagne a year.

He looked at me with the same face he made when he found out I was a director. “That’s interesting,” he said. “I don’t drink, either.”

“Not at all?” I said, taking my turn to be surprised.

“I don’t like the taste of alcohol,” he said. “And I find people make poor financial decisions when they’ve been drinking.”

“I know! That’s one of the reasons I don’t drink. I’ve been stripping since I was seventeen, and I can’t tell you how many clubs I’ve been in where girls get drunk and lose their money. I was like, ‘Not for me.’ I totally get it.”

He smiled. “Our businesses,” he said, “are kind of a lot alike, but different.”

“Yeah!” We laughed.

“Well, can I get you a water?”

“Sure.”

We started talking, which meant he proceeded to go on and on without asking me anything about myself. It was one pretentious brag after another. I will spare you. I found myself getting more and more offended. My Louisiana roots were showing, and this was just socially inappropriate. When you’ve invited someone to meet, it can’t be a one-sided conversation. I’m not his therapist, and this was not a job interview.

Plus, I was freaking hungry. I needed a bowl of pretzels, at least, if I was going to sit through this. You said there’d be dinner, I thought. His monologue went on for a good ten or fifteen minutes, which is an eternity when your stomach’s growling and you’re alone with a bore.

“Have you seen my magazine?”

Wow, he actually asked me a question. I shook my head no.

“It’s not out yet, but I have an advance copy,” he said. “Would you like to see it?”

It didn’t matter, he was already up. He grabbed a satchel sitting on the side table and pulled out the magazine to flash it in front of me. I know it was some kind of money magazine with him on the cover, and a lot of people assume it was Forbes because of the timing, but I didn’t even look at it.

“Really?” I snapped, looking up at him. “Does this work for you normally?”

He looked perplexed. Like I’d asked a dog an algebra problem. Reader, I was hangry—the volatile mix of hunger and anger.

“Are you so insecure that you have to brag about yourself,” I continued, “or are you just a fucking asshole? Which is it?”

He was so stunned, he just stood there. I lowered my voice to growl, “Someone should take that magazine and spank you with it.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said in a quiet voice.

I held out my hand, palm up. “Hand it over,” I said. When he didn’t immediately give the magazine to me, I snatched it from him and rolled it up. “Turn around and fucking drop ’em,” I said.

It was a power moment, not at all sexual. It wasn’t dirty play or even foreplay. It was me being pissed off and him being shocked and neither of us wanting to back down from a challenge. He went to take it back and I wouldn’t let him.

“I’m serious!” I said. For a second, I almost lost my nerve. He was still “The Donald,” and he was much older than me. I was twenty-seven, and this guy was more than twice my age—an elder who should be respected.

But he turned, lowering his pants just enough for me to give him a couple of swaps. I got up and tossed the magazine on the side table with every intention of leaving. Because where do you go from that moment?

This is what stopped me: he turned around and said, in a slow, appraising voice, “I like you.” He fixed the belt of his pants and added, “You remind me of my daughter.”

Now, I know everyone has made that sound sexual, and I feel so sorry for Ivanka because she’s had to hear all these things. Yes, he said what he said, but it was not a creepy or sexual conversation. It was not some perverted, “You remind me of my daughter. She’s so hot.” No, it was, “You remind me of my daughter.” And these were the exact words he added: “You’re smart, you’re beautiful. You’re just like her. You’re a woman to be reckoned with.”

“Thank you,” I said. His whole demeanor had changed. His peacock plumage was now folded down and he became a more normal human being.

“Do you know about my daughter? Have you seen her?”

“Yes, she’s very beautiful.” Because she is. She’s stunning. It was a compliment, not a come-on. He seemed to be off-script. He was genuinely shocked that he’d just had his ass whipped. So, this was now the third time that I had seen him shocked. Once when he found out I was a director, then when he found out I didn’t drink, and now that I had spanked him. He was walking around the room, and I could tell a plan was forming in his head.

“Have you ever seen my TV show?” he asked.

Oh, God, I thought, here we go again. When I didn’t answer, he asked, “Have you ever watched The Apprentice?”

“No,” I said, quick and dismissive. I thought we’d gotten past both the pajama seduction and annoying bragging portions of the evening.

“Wait,” he sputtered. “Well, you know what it is. It’s a huge hit.”

“Yeah, I get the gist,” I said. I’m not really a TV person, but the show had become inescapable in the two years it had been on. Reality stars were starting to be in the tabloids I read when I got my nails done. People like Omarosa were suddenly “celebrities,” and “You’re fired” was the big catchphrase.

He stopped pacing to look right at me. “You,” he said, “should be on that show.”

“What?”

“You should be on The Apprentice,” he said. “You’d be fabulous on it. Fabulous. You’d be huge.”

He was using all the outsized, grand words we know him for now. But it wasn’t for show. He was having a genuine moment. An epiphany.

“They’ll never let me on,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I am a porn star and it’s NBC,” I said. “Never gonna happen.”

His lip curled just slightly at the mere suggestion of the word “no.” It gave me an idea about how I could fuck with The Donald.

I leaned in and said slowly, “Even you aren’t that powerful.”

“What do you mean?” he said. “It’s my show.”

“I don’t care. Even you can’t do that.”

Look, in my mind, one of two things was gonna happen: either he does it and I’m on The Apprentice, or I get to say “I told you so” and I take a couple more feathers out of his tail. Both were very appealing to me. I’d take either.

“No, if you want to do it, I think it would be great,” he said, laying out his case. “First of all, it would show the world that you’re not a stereotypical porn star, and people would tune in for the surprise. It would be sensational. Sensational. Second, it would be great for both of us. Imagine the ratings it will bring.”

My friends have asked me if I think he was just leading me on, but I honestly feel that it was a genuine conversation. I could see his wheels turning and watched him do the mental gymnastics of a cost-benefit analysis in his head. I would bring a built-in fan base in a valuable demographic, and me on TV would be shocking, but not in the way people think. I truly believe his initial thought about this was with his brain, not his dick.

“I understand.” I shrugged. “But you can’t do that.”

“No, here’s the thing,” he said. “I have a wild card. Every season I can pick someone, if I so choose, that doesn’t have to be…” He trailed off. To this day I don’t know what the selection and vetting process was, but whatever it was, I would skip right through. “You can be my wild card next year, and I think it would be sensational. This will be great. This could be huge.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, noncommittal.

“I’ve gotta think on this,” he said, sitting down on the couch next to me. “So, are you married?”

“No,” I said. “I was, but I’m not now. But you’re married. What would your wife think of you being here with me?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said. “It’s not a big deal, and anyway, we have separate bedrooms.” I took that to mean that he no longer saw me as someone to sleep with. By spanking him, I wondered if I had alpha-dogged my way out of his writing me off as a bimbo. As if to prove his intentions were now legit, he jumped up to grab a photo. “Have you seen my son?”

He showed me a photo of Melania holding little Barron, who was only four months old. It was adorable, and I could tell it made him genuinely proud.

He asked me about my family and I gave him the briefest of bios, but I was impressed that he was at least showing some give-and-take in conversation.

“I have to ask you a question,” he said. “It’s kind of offensive, so I apologize in advance if you’re offended.”

“Go ’head,” I said.

“What’s the situation on royalties in the adult business?”

I laughed. I was expecting a sex question of some sort. He added, “I’m familiar with TV, and I’ve been in lots of movies, and I get these checks.”

“There’s nothing,” I said.

“You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was,” I said. He was honestly beside himself. It started a series of questions about the ins and outs—that joke is never funny—of the adult business. Porn 101 at Trump University. But it was nice. We had moved past the foolishness with the pajamas, and we could respect each other’s insight as two career-obsessed people who happen to be extremely successful at what we do.

He asked how much money I made per scene and I explained that I have a contract. “If you’re freelance you can make thirty grand per month,” I said, “and you can get more for different sex acts.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, you get paid more for anal,” I said. “A bonus on the back end, so to speak.”

“Why isn’t everyone freelance?”

“That’s for the girls who get in the business and want to make as much money as fast as possible. They have a two-year plan or whatever, and they want to make that thirty grand a month and pay for college, whatever.”

“What’s the problem with that?” he asked.

“They get shot out,” I said. “There’s a very short shelf life in the adult business if you do too many films. You make a lot of money really quickly, your star rises really quickly, and then it’s gone. Getting a contract, you get a lot less money but you’re in it for the long run.”

“Well, how much money do you make?”

At the time I was making seven thousand dollars a month from Wicked, including my writing and directing fees.

“Well, that’s—” he said, making a face. “Why?”

“I make one movie about every six to eight weeks. There are girls who make six movies a week while I’m doing ten movies a year. I won’t get shot out, plus Wicked spends millions of dollars advertising me and creating my brand. I can go out and do dance bookings and say I am a Wicked contract star. But I own the name ‘Stormy Daniels’ and stormydaniels.com. If I leave Wicked, I leave with my name. Whereas this other girl makes a whole bunch of money the first year and then she’s out.”

“So, you are smart,” he said, nodding.

“Okay, I have a question to ask you that may be offensive,” I said.

“Ooh,” he said. “What is it?” I think he thought I was going to ask him something dirty, too.

I pointed to his hair. “This,” I said, taking a long beat. “What’s going on with this?”

“I know,” he said with a smile. “It’s ridiculous. Come on. First of all, I have a mirror. Second of all, I have had every celebrity stylist—even Paul Mitchell himself—wanting to give me a makeover. I could have whatever. I could basically have a head transplant if I wanted, okay?”

“Okay, well, why don’t you?”

“Everybody talks about it,” he said with an air of in-on-the-joke smugness. “It’s my thing. It’s my trademark. Plus, if I let this person do it, it will just piss off all these other people. ‘Well, why did you let him do it?’ I know a lot of people who would kill to do it. The best. The best of the best.”

“Easy, Samson.”

It was another shot at him, but he seemed to enjoy it. I wasn’t putting on an act—that’s just my personality and what I do to people who I work with. The Donald was no different. Just a bigger fish to fry, which made me want to turn up the heat. And while I had calmed down, I was still angry that I had to prove he couldn’t just order me up like room service. Where was this dinner he promised, anyway?

“What do you like to do for fun?”

Oh, you’re learning, I thought, like, how to have a normal conversation. “I ride horses,” I said. “I don’t have a horse right now because I am too busy, but one day I hope to go back to riding.”

“Oh, I am thinking of doing this show-jumping thing.” He actually was, and he ended up hosting the Central Park Horse Show at Trump Rink in New York. I told him I don’t do Grand Prix show jumping and started to explain three-day eventing competitions, but I took pity on him as I saw his interest fading.

“Well,” I said, “what else do you do besides golf?”

His eyes lit up when he heard “golf,” which I think was all he heard. He literally looked like he woke up.

“You golf?” he asked.

“No, my tits are too big to swing.”

“Well, if you ever want to check out one of my courses, they have fabulous restaurants. The best food in the world. If you ever want to, call me and I will set it up for you.” That got him talking—at length—about his plans to build “the greatest golf course the world has ever seen” in Scotland. He said he was having a hard time getting it started.

He was getting agitated talking about it, but there was nothing that made him seem as petulant and prone to tantrums as he has been as president. He was just run-of-the-mill insecure, which I find happens a lot with people with money that they didn’t earn themselves. They harbor this inner self-esteem problem that they try to mask by overcompensating. That’s him to a tee.

He asked me where I lived, so he could recommend a course, and I told him I was thinking about moving to Florida. “Oh!” he said, perking up again. “I’m building a new condo tower there. Tampa Bay. I’ll get you a good deal.” Mind you, there has been some confusion about that in the press. People, even my gay dad Keith Munyan, got the impression that Trump was going to give me a condo. No, he was going to sell me one.

“If I bought a condo from you, at least that might prove we met,” I said. “My friend Alana didn’t believe me. I said I would call her…”

“Let’s call her,” he said.

I dialed her number and she answered after a few rings. “I’m here,” I said. I mostly called her because she thought I was lying and I couldn’t stand that. “Come hang out with us.”

“I’m with Cindy,” she said. “I’ll call you back.”

I clicked off and he looked at me expectantly. “How do you know her?” he asked.

“She’s actually my neighbor in L.A. and I randomly bumped into her,” I said. “She’s in the business.”

“Is she a big star like you?”

“She’s not a contract girl,” I said, and he nodded. I smiled—I had taught him some of the language of the adult business.

“Have you worked with her?”

“No, I haven’t directed her,” I said. “But I have directed her husband a couple of times.”

His eyebrows shot up. “She’s married? How does that work?”

“Well, when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much…,” I started, as if I were speaking to a child. Then I laughed. “It’s like any industry. You date who you meet, and when you work all the time, you’re going to naturally click with people. There’s a separation. You can love your job and the work you create, and you can also love someone.”

That was all rainbows, but it was starting to be a pride thing for me that Alana wasn’t calling back. This girl didn’t believe me. I just needed her to know I wasn’t making up a story. So, I called again, and when I got her I said, “Are you gonna come?”

“Yeah, come!” Donald shouted.

“Who is that?” asked Alana.

“That’s Mr. Trump,” I said. “I told you. Do you want to talk to him?”

He grabbed the phone, “Come out with us,” he said. “Come party. Come have a good time.”

I started cracking up because there was no alcohol and definitely no drugs. I mean, this is the lamest party ever, if this is a party. If someone says “come party with us,” it sounds like some Hangover-style orgy with cocaine on gilded Trump-branded mirrors. And that’s probably what Alana pictured. He should have just said, “Come tell me about royalties in the adult industry, and I’ll tell you about my golf club. We’ll drink bottles of water and it will be fabulous.”

So I can totally understand why she thought the scene wasn’t for her. She totally ghosted, which she has admitted in the press.

When I looked at my phone, I realized I had been there for three hours. We had been talking so much that I had lost track of time, and all that water made me have to pee. Well, first he was talking so much, but I’d taught him to actually have a conversation and be respectful. If I can help just one selfish person…

“Can I use the restroom?” I asked.

“Yeah, the closest one is right there through the bedroom.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I walked toward the bedroom, which was clearly the one he had been sleeping in. The bed wasn’t messy, but it was lived in. I went through another set of double doors to enter this big, truly beautiful bathroom. There were marble counters with two sinks, a big shower over here, and another door to a toilet. I used the bathroom and as I washed my hands I saw his stuff was on the counter.

Now, I am a bit of a serial killer in that I like to keep trophies from people I meet. Nothing valuable, I just like to have a little talisman to commemorate meeting someone. There was this brief moment when I thought about stealing something, but I didn’t. But I did notice his toiletry bag was open. I didn’t touch it or dig through it, of course, but his nail clippers and tweezers were on top and they were gold. This guy, I thought. His products were out—Old Spice and Pert Plus. I laughed out loud.

“Well, that explains your hair,” I said under my breath. There was something so right and so wrong about a purported billionaire using a two-in-one shampoo and conditioner. I touched up my makeup a little and put on some lip gloss. I figured it was time to make a push to actually get dinner.

I came out and he was dead ahead on the bed.

He was perched on the edge, like he had tried out different poses. A poor attempt at looking powerful. He had taken off the suit, and was down to his white briefs, a white V-neck, and socks.

I had the sense of a vacuum taking all of the air out of the room, and me deflating with it. I sighed inwardly, keenly aware of two thoughts in that one moment. There was the simple Oh, fuck. Here we go. But there was also a much more complex, sad feeling that none of what he said was true. He didn’t respect me. Everything he said to me was bullshit.

And I was mad at myself. How did I miss this? I have been stripping since I was seventeen. I can read a room. I never caught it. For someone who is now famous for “Grab ’em by the pussy,” you’d think he would have grabbed me by the pussy hours earlier. But up until that moment, he wasn’t vulgar or suggestive. I thought we had a great conversation and we’d gotten past the pajama thing by making him my bitch and proving my worth. And it all meant nothing.

I should have said, “Again?” Let him know this wasn’t okay. But I was just, well, sad. Moz, the guy I was seeing, liked to drop these sayings on me that annoyed the fuck out of me. One of them was “Put yourself in a bad situation, bad things happen.” Right or wrong, I could hear his little voice in my head saying that. And the other voice in my head said, “Fuckin’ Alana.” If she’d been here, one of us would have been out there with him. He wouldn’t have been able to take his pants off.

So, here we go.

It was an out-of-body experience.

I was lying down on the bed with him on top of me, naked. I was just there, my head on the pillow. There was no foreplay and it was one position. Missionary. We kissed and his hard, darting tongue pushed in and out of my mouth. I thought, He’s even a terrible kisser.

I lay there as he fumbled his dick into me. I was surprised he didn’t even mention a condom. I didn’t have one with me anyway, because I wasn’t meeting him for sex. If I had been, I always brought my own, because I am allergic to latex. Back then I used Avantis.

He was a little verbal, but nothing dirty. “That’s great,” he said. “That’s great. Oh, you’re so beautiful.” I certainly didn’t do any kind of performance. I just kind of lay there. A lot of women have been there. He wasn’t aggressive, and I know for damn sure I could have outrun him if I tried, but I didn’t. I’m someone who doesn’t stop thinking, so as he was on top of me I replayed the previous three hours to figure out how I could have avoided this.

The world is waiting to hear about his penis. I know, I know. The expectation is that I will say it’s some kind of micropenis. The point-and-laugh moment. I am sorry to report that it is not freakishly small. It is smaller than average—below the true average, not the porn average. I didn’t take out the measuring stick.

He needs to shave his balls, I thought. They were unusually hairy, hairier than the rest of him. He had some fur all over, but I remember thinking, Hmmm, he’s got a lot going on down there. But his hair down there was better than what was on his head.

I hope I haven’t ruined lunch for you.

His penis is distinctive in a certain way, and I sometimes think that’s one of the reasons he initially didn’t tweet at me like he does so many women. He knew I could pick his dick out of a lineup. He knows he has an unusual penis. It has a huge mushroom head. Like a toadstool.

I lay there, annoyed that I was getting fucked by a guy with Yeti pubes and a dick like the mushroom character in Mario Kart.

And then it was over. He came on me, not in me. I’d say the sex lasted two to three minutes. It may have been the least impressive sex I’d ever had, but clearly, he didn’t share that opinion. He rolled over and said, “Oh, that was just great.” He let out a big sigh and added, “We’re so good together, honey bunch.” That would be his name for me from then on.

He looked over at me, expectant. All I could muster was a “Yeah.”

“I’d love to see you again,” he said. “We need to get together again.”

When I didn’t answer, he said in this grossly vulnerable voice, “Would you see me again?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” I was already planning how to get out of there.

“How can I get ahold of you, honey bunch?” he asked. How many women have been in this situation? You’re a bore, you’re the definition of bad sex, you call me this insipid name, I want to teleport out of here and be somewhere eating snacks with my girlfriends—but sure, let’s do this again.

I gave him my number and he wrote it down on the Harrah’s notepad next to the bed. Keith already has my number, you dipshit, I thought. But sure, here.

I got up to find the dress that had been my favorite, and sat back down on the bed, hurriedly putting on my heels. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked. He said he would be at a nightclub that was in my hotel and asked me to meet him there and bring a signed copy of what I thought was the best movie I had directed. Back then it was 3 Wishes, which had just come out that May. Maybe he sensed my lack of interest in him, because he quickly added, “We need to see each other soon because we have business to discuss. We have to talk about getting you on The Apprentice.”

That’s how the Apprentice thing became bait. I didn’t want to have sex with him ever again, but he had convinced me that being on the show was at least a possibility. And he used that.

Before we leave this scene, I would like to note that it wasn’t until very recently that I learned that Karen McDougal says she was having an affair with Trump and had sex with him in Lake Tahoe that weekend. Karen McDougal is the former Playboy Playmate whom he met in June 2006. She later sold exclusive rights to her story to American Media, Inc., the publisher of the National Enquirer, which never ran an article about the affair. I am not disputing any part of Karen’s story, but I have been asked if I saw any signs of another woman being at his hotel. I can only say there were no signs whatsoever that there had been a woman there. I don’t know if he threw her shit in the closet or if he had a few rooms going, but I didn’t smell a woman. There were no tampons, no makeup wipes, and I can tell you that I know Karen McDougal was not using Old Spice and Pert Plus.

I humored him and hung around for at most ten more minutes, but all of his questions about seeing me again made me claustrophobic. “When are you coming to New York?” he asked as I put my gold dress back on—the one that used to be my favorite. “I need to see you tomorrow,” he said.

I promised he would, and I let myself out. Keith was no longer guarding the doors. I pushed the down button on the elevator, finally letting out the sigh I’d been holding in.