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 a
gain 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.
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 Don
ald.” 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!”
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