Full Disclosure

FOUR

You know that moment when you’re watching a horror movie and the girl thinks she can go back into the house and get her cat or whatever? And you just shake your head because you know exactly where this is going?

Well, for me “the cat” was getting on The Apprentice. So, come along with me as we go back into the house.

I got a call from Keith Schiller the day after Trump and I met up. “Mr. Trump would like to see you tonight.” He was going to be in the nightclub downstairs in my hotel. When I went down, Keith met me in the lobby.

“I’ll take you to the table,” he said. The club had a very Vegas vibe, with a lot of booths and a dance floor in the back. Keith led me through to the VIP area, which was very dark. There was a long couch, and Trump was sitting in a corner with Ben Roethlisberger. Shortly before his twenty-fourth birthday, “Big Ben” had become the youngest quarterback to win the Super Bowl, leading the Pittsburgh Steelers to the win in Detroit that February.

They were in mid-conversation, but Trump stopped and smiled at me. He made a kissy face like an invitation, and I just nodded. I sat next to Ben, who introduced himself.

“I was in Detroit when you won the Super Bowl,” I told him.

“Oh, you went to the game?” he asked. He leaned in to hear me over the DJ’s cheesy pop.

“No, I was dancing,” I said. “I was feature dancing at a place.”

“Oh, where?” he asked, his face breaking into a wide smile.

“The Coliseum.”

“Oh, I know that place,” he said. “It’s really nice.”

Trump started talking to Ben and it seemed to be private, so I just looked around. Ben was drinking as Trump droned on. I don’t drink, so I didn’t have a cocktail to occupy me, and this was obviously before we all became phone zombies. My eyes wandered around the room, which seemed to be full of aging frat boys in town for the golf tournament. Keith was standing guard, and Ben had a guy, too. He was so much smaller than Ben that it seemed comical to me that this six-foot-five professional football player would need him.

I jumped in when there was a break in Trump’s monologue. “Where’s your ring?” I asked Ben. I meant his Super Bowl ring.

“Oh, when I go out I don’t want to draw attention,” he said, “so I have my guy hold my jewelry.” I found it extra funny that this guy had all this jewelry belonging to Ben Roethlisberger in his pocket.

“Do you want to try it on?” Ben asked. He called his guy over, and two of my fingers fit in Ben’s Super Bowl ring.

“It looks good on you,” he said. “Do you come to Pittsburgh a lot?”

“Yeah, I’m actually going to be there in a couple of months dancing at a place called Blush.”

“Oh, that place is kind of weird,” he said. “You should take my number.” I wondered what he considered “weird” and what he thought he was going to protect me from at a strip club. He gave me his number and I put it in my phone.

“Is this your real number or your ho phone?” I asked as I typed.

Trump and Ben both laughed, and Ben recited a second number.

“I’m not gonna call you on your ho phone,” I said.

Trump grabbed Ben’s shoulder and leaned in. “I told you she was smart,” he said. “What did I tell you about this one?”

Yeah, what did he tell Ben about me? I wondered.

We were there an hour, tops, when Trump said he had some phone calls to make, some sort of business. He got up to leave and asked me again to let him know when I was in New York.

“Wouldn’t she be great on the show?” Trump said to Ben, and then to me: “We need to talk about The Apprentice.”

“That would be great,” I said.

He paused and bent to talk closer to my ear. “Hey, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go upstairs unescorted,” he said. He was right; it was late and people were drunk and things happen in hotels. “Also,” he added, “I shouldn’t really be seen with you.” Which was also true, because we couldn’t just walk through the lobby together and then go up in the elevator to my room. There wasn’t even a hint that he was going for Round Two.

“Is it okay,” he asked, “if I have Ben walk you to your room?”

I paused before answering. Why wouldn’t he just have Keith walk me? He’s literally a bodyguard.

“Do you mind?” he asked again.

As I have looked back at this in recent years—being older and wiser and less naïve—I still can’t really figure out this situation. I don’t want to imply it’s something that it’s not, but I also don’t want to sound like an idiot.

“Okay, yeah,” I said.

We stayed about fifteen more minutes, and Ben took me up the elevator to my floor, leaving his guy downstairs. Standing next to me, he seemed so much bigger than down in the bar—over a foot taller than me.

“Thank you,” I said, getting out of the elevator.

He didn’t say anything and just continued to walk with me. I looked up at him. His brow was tightly knit, and his eyes seemed predatory. As I went down the corridor with Ben, all of my intuition alarms went off. The voice that goes, This guy’s not getting a private dance. Don’t go in a VIP room with this man. This is what I felt.

At my door, Ben said, “Oh, can I see your room?”

“I’m really tired,” I said, awkwardly holding the key card.

He looked at the card until I put it in, and I didn’t open the door all the way. Just enough for me to slip through. As I got behind it, keeping my face out, I noticed he’d raised his hand to rest it on the door.

He pushed lightly, I pushed lightly. Did he know he was leaning on the door? Was he just steadying himself?

“Can I come in?” he said.

“I’m just so tired,” I said.

“How about a good night kiss?”

“Well, no, I am here with your friend,” I said, literally trying to play the Trump card. “I just feel weird because I am going to be doing some business with him.”

I was terrified. I am rarely terrified.

“Come on,” he said.

“Maybe I’ll call you when I’m in Pittsburgh,” I said. We were each using the same amount of force to keep the door exactly where it was.

Stop being polite, Stormy.

In one move, I suddenly increased the pressure enough to slam the door and throw the latch.

“Good night!” I said, keeping a smile in my voice.

He stood outside, not leaving. Every now and again he’d knock, rapping his knuckles in a line low along the door. “Come onnnn,” he repeated in a singsong voice. “I won’t tell.” He stayed a few more minutes.

Let’s be completely up front. If he wanted to get in that room, he could have the second I put the key card in the slot. If he didn’t want the door to close, he could have put his foot right on the threshold. I am only describing my intuition.

I can’t know what Trump intended when he sent me upstairs with Ben. I kept thinking of what Trump said: “What did I tell you about this one?” Had he told him, “Hey, she’s down?”

I have no way of knowing, and I don’t want to speculate.

I went back to L.A. the next day and life went on. Alana called to apologize for ghosting, and I said something vague about Trump wanting to have sex, but I didn’t elaborate. I said something similar to Moz, leaving out the fact that we’d actually had sex. I didn’t tell anyone, and gradually the night with Trump at Harrah’s just became another anecdote. I had always wanted to write a book like Chelsea Handler, and mine would be called Why Me? This would just have been a goofball chapterlet about “My Night with The Donald.” He gave me a number to reach him through his secretary Rhona Graff. I never called him.

But he kept calling me. The number always came up as UNKNOWN, but he was the only one who bothered to have an anonymous caller ID, so I always knew it was him. He had an uncanny knack for calling while I was in the studio doing a photo shoot with Keith. Or I would be on set, directing a film, and I would say to everyone there, “Donald Trump is calling me.” He didn’t call weekly, but on an average of every ten days. I would put him on speaker, which he knew, and he would say, “Honey bunch! How’s your day?” I did this at least a dozen times, his distinctive voice filling the room. None of these people knew I’d actually had sex with Trump, and I also didn’t let anyone know about his plan to put me on The Apprentice. I was convinced that Jessica Drake would snake her way into my spot if she knew it was even a possibility. I actually sent him to voice mail quite a bit, because I didn’t feel like dealing with him when I was busy.

“Honey bunch, I just saw you on a magazine cover,” he would usually say. “It’s fabulous. I was walking by and saw you.” He used this as an excuse to call me. “I thought to myself, That’s my honey bunch. She looks fabulous, I have to call and let her know. I can’t wait to see you.”

He let me know, constantly, that he was working on getting me my spot on The Apprentice. And he had an idea.

“I’ve been thinking about your Apprentice thing,” he told me during one of his calls, and he then proceeded to lay out a plan that he would bring up again and again in our phone conversations and in-person meet-ups. “Here’s the thing, honey bunch,” he said. “We can’t just get you on the show. If you get on the show and then you lose the first episode, that’s actually worse than you not getting on at all.”

“Yeah, of course,” I said. Going home right away would just solidify the notion that I’m a dumb porn star who couldn’t hang. The show was built around contestants split into two teams, called “corporations,” challenged with a new business-related task in each episode. Each episode ended with Trump judging the performance of members of the losing team and eliminating the weakest link in the challenge with “You’re fired!”

“Every episode you’re on is better for ratings for me and more money for you,” he said, before taking a long pause. “Gotta figure out a way to keep you on…”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll figure out a way to get you the challenges beforehand,” he said. “And we can devise your technique.”

He was going to have me cheat, and it was 100 percent his idea. He was going to tell me what the tasks were ahead of time, then devise a strategy to win. He never said he would rig it so I would win the whole thing, but he wanted to supply me with an unfair advantage. I felt very uncomfortable with it.

For six months, we talked on the phone and the plan came up repeatedly. He never once used the word “cheat”—he would talk about strategy and technique. “We have to make sure you stay on, honey bunch.”

I didn’t see Trump in person again until the next year. He invited me to the January 17, 2007, launch of Trump Vodka. The party was at Les Deux in Hollywood, and the crowd was a gaggle of wannabe stars, including Kim Kardashian, who was two months away from the release of the sex tape that would make her a star. I had just been in Las Vegas to accept the Contract Star of the Year honors at the AVN awards.

I was smarter now, so when he invited me, I brought along my friend Tera Patrick, who is also an actress in adult film. I wore dark jeans and a gold embroidered top. After we did the red carpet, Trump waved me over as soon as I walked in and kissed me on the mouth in front of everyone.

“You made it, honey bunch!” he said, his hand on my waist. He was wearing a pale platinum tie and a navy suit. I looked around for any sign of Melania, but she wasn’t there.

“I did!” I said. I introduced him to Tera, and he brought me over to meet his son Don Jr. Don was there with his then-wife Vanessa, who was pregnant with their first child. I know from recent reports that Karen McDougal was at the party. He didn’t introduce us, but as I go back in my memory I think I remember her in the VIP area. My hat’s off to him for having the balls to juggle two women at the party.

Trump told me he was staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel and asked if I would come to his hotel later that night.

“Oh, I can’t,” I said. “I’m flying out of LAX tonight.” It was actually true. I was heading to a dance booking.

“When can I see you again?” he asked. “When are you coming to New York?”

“I’ll actually be there in a couple months,” I said. I had a dance booking set for the week of my birthday in March.

“Well, call my office,” he said. “I want to make sure I see you. And we can discuss our project.”

There was the Apprentice bait again, and I took it.

I called Trump’s secretary Rhona when I was in New York and she said to be there at twelve thirty that day. I didn’t want to go alone, so I brought this girl Yoli, who was working for me as an assistant. We went right up to his office on the twenty-sixth floor of Trump Tower. He met us, so excited to show us all the memorabilia in his office, which seemed cluttered.

“I wish it was not so dreary today,” he said, “because the view is fabulous.

“I’m still working on your thing, darling,” he said quickly as I looked out on the fog blanketing Central Park. “Where are you dancing? It’s so nice to see you.”

I was dancing at a club called Gallagher’s 2000 in Long Island City, but he barely let me get half of that out before he started talking again. I stopped him short by making fun of his eyebrows.

“You gotta trim that stuff,” I said, maybe showing off for Yoli but mostly just keeping him in check. “They’re out of control. You look like a Muppet.”

“I’m so busy,” he said, laughing. “I’m dealing with all this beauty pageant stuff.”

Yoli perked up. She loved pageants, and honestly, it was hard to get her excited about anything.

“Do you want to go to the pageant?” he asked me.

“Yes!” Yoli screamed before I could say anything.

Fuck, I thought.

“Oh, I’ll get you the best seats,” he said. “It’s in Hollywood. It will be fabulous. Fabulous.”

The Miss USA pageant was the following week, on March 23. Trump sent a limo to pick up me and Yoli, who was practically vibrating with excitement. It was at the Kodak Theater in L.A., which was at least nice for me because that’s where they host the Academy Awards.

I went to the Will Call. “There should be two tickets for Stormy Daniels.”

“Okaaay,” said the woman. “Who set them aside for you?”

“Uh, Mr. Trump?”

She seemed surprised, and I had a momentary panic that we had gotten Yoli’s hopes up for nothing. Maybe he was afraid to use his name?

“Here we go,” said the woman. “These are great seats.”

She was right. They were about five rows back, behind press and family. Yoli was riveted, but I don’t remember any of it. I saw Trump onstage, but I didn’t interact with him at all. He called me after so I could assure him it was great.

The pageant host, Nancy O’Dell, was pregnant, and we would all later find out that Trump had used that as an excuse to try to fire her. Nancy was the “Nancy” Trump was talking about turning him down on the 2005 Access Hollywood “grab ’em by the pussy” tape released by The Washington Post in October 2016. “I did try and fuck her. She was married. And I moved on her very heavily…. I moved on her like a bitch, but I couldn’t get there. And she was married. Then all of a sudden, I see her, she’s now got the big phony tits and everything.”

Hey, watch how you talk about big phony tits, asshole.

And then Shark Week happened.

The evening of July 29, 2007, Moz drove me to meet Trump at the Beverly Hills Hotel on Sunset Boulevard. By then, Moz and I were more serious, and I still had never told him that I had had sex with Trump.

As we drove up the driveway lined with palm trees, I went over my escape plan with Moz. “If I text you, call me and say it’s an emergency.”

“He’s not going to kill you, Stormy,” he said.

“In case he makes a move, you’ve gotta get me out of there.”

Keith Schiller met me outside the hotel and led me to one of the private bungalows in the back of the hotel. The cottages, with pastel pink and green exteriors, were tucked in among acres of citrus trees and flowers that were absolutely beautiful. Keith let me into Trump’s bungalow, where he was waiting.

“Honey bunch,” he said, “you made it. I’m ordering us dinner. You must have the steak. It is fabulous. Fabulous.”

I was just relieved that we were actually going to have food this time.

“We’re almost a done deal getting you on the show,” he said. This season they were doing it with celebrities, which he assured me I was. “You’re a star, darling,” he said.

“Well, that would be great,” I said. “I would love to be on the show.” Why the hell else was I hanging out with him? Clearly, I wanted to be on the show.

“We gotta figure out the challenges,” he said. “The season hasn’t started yet, so I don’t know what we’re gonna do. But we’ll figure it out.” He started going on and on about how much he hated Rosie O’Donnell, which seemed like such an insane tangent. Like, let’s get back to me getting on the show. I later found out he had offered her a huge amount of money to compete on Celebrity Apprentice and she turned him down.

When the food came, I made him cut my steak. Not because I am a kid, but because I just have a thing about meat on the bone. He thought it was funny and went out of his way to apologize for not knowing. Near the end of dinner, he checked the time and hurried over to the couch.

“It’s Shark Week,” he said. He turned on the Discovery Channel and stretched his arm on the edge of the couch. “Come here, honey bunch,” he said. I inwardly groaned, but sure, let’s cuddle and talk about me getting on your show. I sat under the crook of his arm as he became entranced by the documentary Ocean of Fear: The Worst Shark Attack Ever.

“Have you heard about this?” he said. “It’s horrible. Horrible.”

I hadn’t, not being quite as up on sharks as I would learn he was. It’s the incredibly dark and tragic reenactment of the aftermath of the World War II ship Indianapolis sinking in July 1945. They were adrift in shark-infested waters, and the sharks were swarming because of the blood in the water from the dead and injured. Most of the sailors didn’t die in the actual sinking, but then the sharks just picked them off. Six hundred people.

So, I was sitting in this beautiful bungalow, and I was watching this crazy documentary filmed with real sharks tearing at bodies. And to say this guy was riveted is an understatement. I tried bringing up the Apprentice thing between shark bites, but he kept putting me off. “Disgusting creatures,” he said. “Disgusting.”

Then, to make it crazier, Hillary Clinton called. I could hear her voice through the receiver, and that accent saying “Donald.”

“Hello, Hillary,” he said, briefly distracted from the sharks. He kept the movie going but started pacing around the room.

She was up against Barack Obama seeking the Democratic nomination, and he had a whole conversation about the race, repeatedly mentioning “our plan.” They also discussed a family trip they wanted to take together—something involving a ski area. Who knows if Hillary was just humoring him.

Even while he was on the phone with Hillary, his attention kept going back to the sharks. At one point he covered the phone to talk to me.

“I hate sharks,” he said. “I’ll donate to just about anything, but the only shark charity I would donate to is one that promised to kill all the sharks.”

I nodded, but thought, Well, that’s stupid, because they are part of the food chain. Obviously, they serve a purpose.

When he hung up, he was effusive about Hillary. “I love her,” he said. “She is so smart.” This would be the fourth time he had donated money to her political career. Trump told me he and Hillary were great friends and that they had gone to the weddings of each other’s children. Not quite true. The Clintons attended his wedding to Melania, but maybe he didn’t want to bring her up.

“A lot of people say I should run for president someday,” he said in passing, as he made his way to the couch. “They want me to run because I can afford it. Who would want to? This is way more fun.”

Finally, after two hours of carnage, the sharks were done eating. And Donald was ready to make his move. He turned to look at my face appraisingly.

“What?” I said.

“Your nose looks like a little beak, darling.”

“That’s not a compliment,” I said, kind of mad.

“No, like an eagle’s.”

“Also not a compliment!” I yelled.

“No, no,” he said, “it’s regal.”

“You really aren’t very good at this,” I said.

Then he started to trace his finger on my thigh.

“Oh, I can’t. I’m on my period.” Which wasn’t true.

Those were the magic words, though, and he was now totally not interested in pursuing sex that night. After all, you can’t have blood in the water.

The next time we talked, he called me to tell me that I had been right. There was no spot for a porn star on Celebrity Apprentice.

Okay, we’re done here, I thought.

“I told you that even you couldn’t do it,” I said, twisting the knife.

“Well, it was a personal favor to one of the executives,” he told me. His wife had such a huge problem with a porn star contestant that she threatened to leave the guy, he said. “This bitch Roma.”

“Rhona?” I said. What did his secretary have to do with this?

“Roma,” he said. I can only assume he meant Touched by an Angel star Roma Downey, the wife of Apprentice executive producer Mark Burnett.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he said, “It’s not because I couldn’t use my wild card. It’s because she was gonna have a huge problem.” He called her a bitch.

At this point, Moz and I were engaged, and this whole thing with Trump had become so tiresome. “Okay,” I said.

He called once or twice more after that, but I didn’t answer.

There was one final phone call, early on the morning of January 4, 2008. I was renting Keith’s place in Valley Village in L.A. at the time, and Trump called from New York, oblivious to the time difference. I answered with an incredibly angry voice because it was so early.

It terrified him. He was sputtering about me being mad about something and I could just make out him saying “Jenna Jameson.” I guess Tito Ortiz was a contestant and his girlfriend, Jenna, got some screen time on the show the night before. He was freaking out that I would be furious that the show had let another porn star on when he couldn’t get me on.

“She’s not very smart,” he said.

“I didn’t see it, I don’t really care.”

“You didn’t watch the show?” he asked.

“No.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I said. “Okay, I gotta go.”

“Good-bye, honey b—”

I clicked the phone off. Well, that’s done, I thought.

Life goes on. It’s easy to move on from bad sex with a billionaire and his fizzled plan to game out his reality show competition.

I didn’t think about Trump again unless I was flipping through channels and saw him on my way to a more interesting show. I had sex with that, I’d say to myself. Eech.