“Single?” she asked.
“Separated.”
“Hmmph,” said Kayla.
“I’m not taking on the president to get you laid,” I said.
“Yeah, but if it was an added benefit…” she said.
*
Since I got to choose where we were going, I thought I’d haze him a little. I told Mr. Waldorf Astoria boy to meet me at an out-of-the-way dive bar I know on Sunset and Hollywood. Kayla, of course, wanted to come along, still desperate to fuck him.
Kayla and I ordered the fish tacos, and Michael said he wasn’t hungry. Getting down to his fighting weight, I guess. And there, in the dive bar, we worked out our strategy.
TWELVE
Back home in Texas, I assigned Michael a specific ringtone so I would know to slip into another room to talk if I was with people, especially my daughter. It was the Bat Signal, and Batgirl here was busy. Michael had called Andy Court, the 60 Minutes producer he had worked with on a story about his lawsuit against medical giant Kimberly-Clark Corporation and its tech firm spin-off Halyard Health. Michael proved they were misleading buyers about the safety of surgical gowns sold during the Ebola crisis. Michael was really proud of winning the case, and if Michael is proud of something, you’re gonna hear about it. The gowns were more porous than the company told people, consistently failing industry standards. After the piece aired, an L.A. jury found Kimberly-Clark and Halyard Health liable for fraud and awarded $454 million in damages.
So Michael vouching for my credibility had some weight at 60 Minutes, but hey, I’m still a porn star. Producer Andy Court and associate producer Evie Salomon had a lot of initial questions they wanted Michael to relay to me. Then, when they brought the potential story to executive producer Jeff Fager, he wanted additional fact-checking before they committed to even investigating the story.
I was impressed that they took it so seriously. I wasn’t offended, mostly because I found it amusing that Michael seemed ever so slightly put off that his assurance, “Guys, she’s cool,” wasn’t enough to get me through the door. So I pulled out my feature dancing calendar for March to see where I could squeeze in 60 Minutes coming to my house in Texas. I wanted Glen there, at least in the beginning of the meeting, because it was important to me that he feel included after I hid so much from him. I was leaving town for a two-night dance booking in Houston on March 2, so I offered March 1.
Michael got to the house an hour before the producers and met Glen for the first time.
I had arranged for my daughter to play at a neighbor’s house during the meeting. She could meet the TV people, but she had to be gone quickly so we could talk. As she did cartwheels in the living room, the car pulled up and Michael opened the door for Andy and Evie. He was a little older, she seemed young and very serious. Glen left after saying a quick hello, making it clear he was not going to be interviewed and wanted no part of any of this.
“I’ll see you later,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head as he left.
Normally, if someone came into my home, I would offer a drink. You know I love snacks, and yeah, sometimes I put them out more for me than for the guests, but I at least offer them. But in this situation, they could have a bottle of water and that was it. I didn’t want any appearance that I was trying to influence them or for their opinion to be based on anything other than facts. I wanted to present what I would present on a television interview: the facts. Because I think that’s good enough. I felt about the producers how I felt about the 60 Minutes viewers. I don’t need anyone to like me or to try and change anyone’s opinion of me as a woman or a performer or a slut or a whore. Yes, I wish people would think that porn stars are people, but that wasn’t my agenda for this. These producers could sit in my living room and think I’m a disgusting human being and I deserve to burn in hell, but I wanted them to have to follow that up with “But she never called the president and blackmailed him. She came forward because they called her and wanted her to lie. Her reasoning for the decisions she made is clear.”
I told them the whole story, not wasting a second trying to be charming. They kept asking follow-up questions, sometimes trying to catch me by asking the same question in a different way. It felt like an interrogation, and I just told the truth. My daughter would pop back in every now and again, and we would all stop talking until she left again. They were the first people to hear just about everything, and every once in a while, their stoic faces would crack, unable to avoid a look at each other of This is big.
Michael loved those moments, and every single time, he said, “I told you guys.”
We talked for so long, they almost missed their flight back to New York. They left in a sort of daze, sponges that needed to be wrung out.
That night I went to Houston for my weekend dance booking at Vivid club. On March 3, I met Denver Nicks, who wanted to profile me for Rolling Stone. He had reached out to me on Twitter and I loved his energy. He’s this brilliant guy from Oklahoma who has impeccable grammar and a deep voice that makes everything he says sound important. He got me right away, and I didn’t think of the story as a potential conflict with 60 Minutes, since I assumed the episode would come out before the magazine did. While I was in Houston, Michael called me with an update. The producers must have thought it went well.
We settled on a time later in the month when I had a day free and even asked my makeup artist to hold the date. On March 6, Michael filed suit against President Trump on my behalf, alleging that he had purposefully left his signature off the NDA so he could later “publicly disavow any knowledge of the Hush Agreement and Ms. Clifford.” If Trump—or “David Dennison”—didn’t sign it, the agreement was null and void. I was under no obligation to keep anything confidential.
Maybe the filing got 60 Minutes ticking faster. The morning of March 7, we settled on the next day for the interview in Myrtle Beach, where I had a show.
I looked through my closet, settling on a black pencil skirt and red blouse to keep Thunder and Lightning in check. I didn’t have time to get my makeup artist, because originally I was supposed to go to New York, and Michael assured me they could bring one. They had scouted a hotel with villas where we wouldn’t be recognized and set a call time for 6 A.M.
The night before, I did my 10 P.M. and 1 A.M. shows at Thee Dollhouse. With the meet-and-greet after, I didn’t get back to my hotel until four in the morning. I had two hours before I needed to be at the other hotel for the interview.
I was still wired from the show but tried to sleep. My assistant Kayla was out like a light, and I left her at the hotel when Michael sent the car service for me. The crew was extremely rushed when I got there. The lighting crew was local, and they were trying to set up and sign NDAs at the same time.
A makeshift makeup room in the cramped office bathroom had been set up. I pushed open the door, right into Anderson Cooper.
“I never thought we’d be having our first meeting in a men’s room,” I said.
He laughed. He was just finishing up getting his makeup done. When he came out he shook my hand and said he was looking forward to it. I took his spot in the makeup chair.
The makeup woman seemed nervous and rushed, and for one brief second I considered telling her I would just do my makeup myself. But I was so tired I thought, Oh, fuck it, and let her do it. I should have just slept in my makeup from the night before, but that probably would have been too much. A little dramatic and strippery. Though now I would take full Raging Whore over what I got.
It’s not really her fault. She started my makeup and the whole time, they were knocking on the door, asking “How much longer?” so she was super panicked.
Finally, I was seated across from Anderson. I was calm, ready to tell the truth.
“I think some people listening to this,” he said as the cameras rolled, “are going to think that you’re an opportunist. That you’re just trying to get the most money you can. This is an opportunity for you and you’re just tryin
g to grab the money while you can.”
“Which is exactly why I’m sitting here,” I said. “Not getting paid.”
“We’re not paying you.”
“Correct.” Sigh, I thought.
“We didn’t get you a hotel room. We haven’t flown you here.”
“No.” About four hours before, I was picking up dollars at a strip club that brought me here, dude.
I had prepped by watching some of his interviews on YouTube, just to see if he had a “gotcha” trick thing he would do before he tries to throw you. I didn’t see any, and I don’t think he has one. He seemed genuine and eager to just let me talk. The interview was three hours, and I still didn’t say everything I wanted to say. It was so long that I wondered how they could possibly edit it down to, what, eighteen minutes?
Afterward, I asked Anderson if I could take a picture with him. “I know this is secret and I won’t show anybody, but when the story is out I really want to show it to my dads.”
“Your dads?” he said.
“Yeah, they’re gay and they’re big fans of yours,” I said. “I know I can’t get an autograph or anything because it’s proof we met.”
“Well, I can autograph a book and send it to them once this is out.” I gave him their address and names and didn’t think that he would follow through. (He did!)
I was under the impression that they were going to rush it on the air that Sunday. They kept pushing it because they needed to verify my story and fact-check, and I started to get annoyed, feeling that they were flat-out calling me a liar when I knew every word I said was true. They freaked out when Rolling Stone posted Denver’s story on me on March 9, earlier than I thought it would. I thought it was the best thing anyone had ever written about me, so I wasn’t apologetic about it. Plus, Denver had become a close friend, someone I could actually trust. Through Michael, 60 Minutes demanded to know what other interviews I had done.
Meanwhile, as they waited, I was catching all sorts of shit and couldn’t fully defend myself. I tried to relieve the pressure by batting at some of the trolls who came at me on Twitter. When someone tweeted asking if I was worried I was going to go to hell from taking so many dicks, I had some fun. “Does heaven have a maximum dick-taking number? More importantly, does hell have a minimum? Just want to make sure my quota is on track.”
“Pretty sure dumb whores go to hell,” some guy named Scott wrote.
“Glad I’m a smart one,” I answered.
A woman’s response blew my mind. “A very smart one,” a girl named Stephanie wrote. “I wish every woman had the confidence you do and the ability to not take personally people’s lame insults. Whether you’re an adult film star or a teacher or whatever, if you’re a woman, you’ll be called a whore one day. Let’s not let that lame insult affect us.”
I blinked a few times, rereading the tweet. Every word she said was true. More women started chiming in, sharing not just “you go girl” cheesy sentiments, but thoughtful comments about what happens when women speak truth to power. I’m not comparing it to a #MeToo thing, because nothing about it smacked of victimhood. It was just smart women from all walks of life and classes discussing facts.
I think CBS would have preferred that I check into a nunnery under an assumed name until they were ready to finally air the damn thing. Every few days, Anderson Cooper would personally call me to say, “It’s coming together.” I think he was genuine, but I can also see someone suggesting that a call from him would make me feel better. When they said it was going to come out March 18, the day after my birthday, I was relieved.
Cohen then stated he would seek twenty million dollars from me, which he said was his tally of how many times I had talked. One million dollars for each “breach.” 60 Minutes pushed it one last time, to March 25. But now they wanted to do additional shooting of me at home for B-roll, the fluff day-in-the-life footage to keep viewers interested during boring narration.
I didn’t want to do it and wasn’t going to be in Texas anyway. I compromised, letting them film me at my dads’ house in L.A. They filmed me with Keith’s horses, even though they’re not the right breeds to do what I do. It didn’t look anything like Texas.
I couldn’t believe they wanted this stuff. Then they shot what felt like two hours of me watering flowers.
Why were we wasting even a second with fluff when there was so much information to cram in? They shot a three-hour interview of me and Anderson—even if they gave me the whole episode without commercials, the show is literally called 60 Minutes!
*
I watched the show live as it aired March 25. Anderson sat on a chair in front of a huge photo of me. “A week before the 2016 election, Donald Trump’s personal attorney paid a porn star named Stormy Daniels to keep quiet about her alleged relationship with the Republican candidate for president. Today, that arrangement is well on its way to becoming the most talked-about ‘hush agreement’ in history.…”
I only know what he said because I watched it again. The first time I watched it, I was just staring at my photo, horrified by how bad I looked. My makeup was terrible. Here I was, finally getting my chance to talk, and I had to work through my feelings about vanity. That done, my thoughts turned to “I can’t believe they used so little.” Anderson had done such a fantastic job interviewing me, and there was so much focus on what happened in the hotel room in Lake Tahoe, and then in the parking lot in Las Vegas when my daughter and I were threatened. But as edited, the reasons behind my decisions, all the things that I have detailed for you here, seemed unclear. Still, more than twenty-one million people watched it, a bump of over 100 percent from the previous week’s show. In fact, it was the most-watched episode since the November 2008 postelection interview with Barack and Michelle Obama. I bet Trump really hated to hear that.
I had some close friends, including Denver Nicks, over to watch the show with me as it aired, and Glen waited to go ballistic until it was over. At first I didn’t understand and thought it was because it was so public.
“A man fucking threatened you and our daughter, Stormy,” he said. “My daughter. And it never occurred to you to tell me. It never once crossed your mind that as a mother you should tell me someone threatened you.”
“I forgot!”
“You forgot?” he said. “Stop lying to me.”
“I have had so much shit going on, Glen,” I said. “Yes, I forgot. He didn’t kill me. I am sorry that I didn’t tell you. I am so sorry any of this is happening.”
“I asked you if there was anything else I should know and you lied to me.”
“But you were not well,” I said. “I was afraid to tell you anything.”
He stormed out. My phone kept chiming, so I picked it up. I scrolled through my direct messages, and death threats were coming in. I got about a hundred. “Your child should be euthanized,” read one, “because she would be better off than with you.” So many threats involved people wanting to take my daughter away from me, one way or another.
Everyone left but Denver, and I asked him to do me a favor. “I need you to film me giving a statement,” I said, asking him to get out his iPhone. I think he assumed he was taping me for some sort of clarification or response that I would then post on social media. No, this was personal.
“If something happens to me,” I began, directly addressing my seven-year-old daughter, “I love you.” I shared my hopes for her and my pride in the smart, funny, sweet girl I have had the privilege to raise. I told Glen I love him, and then I started reeling off a last will and testament, never so direct about anything in my life. I said who to contact about my life insurance policy, cautioning that the person should not immediately give the money to Glen. “He will be in a bad spot,” I said. I talked about the care of my horses, stating that one of the horses should be sold and the money should be put into an account for my daughter. I cared about the living. Stuff didn’t matter. I had the clear-eyed vision of a person about to die.
Throughout, Denver kep
t looking up, fully feeling the solemnity of the moment. When it was over, I nodded at him to turn off his camera, and he sat on the couch next to me with a heavy exhale. “What do you want me to do with this?” he asked.
“Put it on a thumb drive and don’t say a word about where it’s at until I’m killed,” I said. I was that certain. I told him who to give it to, and we haven’t discussed it since. I had lived alone with the fear of being murdered to ensure my silence for so long that now that the world was discussing the death threats against me, I felt like I finally had some company in my concern. Dark humor is one of my coping mechanisms, and I often joke about it now. Sometime after we taped that final statement, I made the mistake of telling Denver that I had joined a celebrity deadpool, a death-watch list where you bet on the likelihood of a famous person dying that year. “I bet on myself,” I told him.
“Stop it,” he said.
“What?” I said. “It’s funny.”
“It’s not funny, Stormy,” he said. “This is a real thing.”
“If it’s not funny, it will be real,” I said. “I need it to be funny or else my daughter isn’t going to grow up with a mother. So let’s go with funny. Funny works.”
But I also needed to face the fact that I needed bodyguards. I am the Goldilocks of security teams. The first two guys I had just didn’t work out. That very first night with them, Kayla and I were working and managed to give them the slip. It was childish to fuck with the babysitters, but it was also a test that I think they should have passed. The second pair was great, but I needed someone long-term. And the third was just right.
Brandon and Travis became my dragons. My code name is Daenerys, Mother of Dragons, from Game of Thrones. We were insta-family, and they are a team of equals. Brandon is stoic and analytical. I watch him watching everything in whatever public setting I go into, his eyes scanning the entire scene, taking in any anomaly and assessing if it’s a danger. But he is also incredibly goofy. On long drives he’ll be in the front seat doing the most dead-on but respectful Obama impression you’ve ever heard. Travis is more passionate, like me, always listening to his intuition. I call him my M&M with the hard shell and soft interior.
Full Disclosure Page 21