“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.