Full Disclosure by Stormy Daniels (2018)
Full Disclosure by Stormy Daniels (2018)
Chapter One
“Me and Susan split up,” he said.
“I kinda heard,” I said.
“Yeah, we sold the house,” he said. “I’m on my way to California.”
“Oh.”
“I just thought I’d take you shopping,” he said, getting out his keys.
“For what?” I asked.
“How do you feel about getting a car today?”
Pretty good, actually. We hit a used-car lot and he told me I could have eight grand to spend on any car I wanted. That feels like twenty thousand these days. He told me to pick out whatever I wanted. He paid cash for a Toyota Celica that seemed pretty brand-new to me. It was dark teal, but the coolest thing about it was it had the flip-up headlights. He paid for a year of insurance on it and took me to dinner. At the restaurant, I mostly talked about how I couldn’t believe I had a new car. When it was over, he got in his car and left.
I never saw him again.
I still can’t figure out why he just handed me a car free and clear. It was nowhere near my birthday or graduation. Maybe it was just a final gift, so he could leave me again with a clear conscience. Eight grand to just be done with me (46-7).
Chapter Five
One of my lines on the tour was “Politics can’t be any dirtier of a job than the one I am already in.” But I was wrong. I realized two weeks in that, just like the entertainment business but with way more repercussions, it’s about who you know and it’s about money. Vitter’s war chest was estimated at two million dollars. Right there was the real civics lesson: The person most qualified to represent the average resident of his or her state could never afford to run. Which means they will never win. Which means the people will never have true representation. It’s why we are stuck with a Congress full of millionaires. I started to get disheartened and was actually depressed for a while about that. Here I was, just doing this until an adult showed up, but what if there were no more honest grown-ups in politics (162-3)?
Chapter Twelve
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 (240-1).
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 (244-5).
Chapter Thirteen
President Trump must have been watching along with Senator McCain, because he broke his Twitter silence about me. We do know he loves his TV time. On the show, Michael and I presented a sketch of the man who threatened my daughter and me in the Las Vegas parking lot. “A sketch years later about a nonexistent man,” he tweeted at six in the morning on April 18, probably from the toilet. “A total con job, playing the Fake News Media for Fools (but they know it)!”
Never mind that the sketch was done by renowned forensic artist Lois Gibson, whose sketches have helped law enforcement ID 751 criminals and secure more than a thousand convictions. Lois has said she was inspired to study forensic art after she was attacked at age twenty-one by a brutal rapist. He almost killed her, repeatedly strangling her until she passed out, laughing each time. Back then, she was a model and dancer in L.A., and she was afraid to go to the police. Just the kind of person Trump and Cohen would write off. But Lois and I believe in each other, because honest people can spot honest people. And liars (258-9).
Chapter One
“Me and Susan split up,” he said.
“I kinda heard,” I said.
“Yeah, we sold the house,” he said. “I’m on my way to California.”
“Oh.”
“I just thought I’d take you shopping,” he said, getting out his keys.
“For what?” I asked.
“How do you feel about getting a car today?”
Pretty good, actually. We hit a used-car lot and he told me I could have eight grand to spend on any car I wanted. That feels like twenty thousand these days. He told me to pick out whatever I wanted. He paid cash for a Toyota Celica that seemed pretty brand-new to me. It was dark teal, but the coolest thing about it was it had the flip-up headlights. He paid for a year of insurance on it and took me to dinner. At the restaurant, I mostly talked about how I couldn’t believe I had a new car. When it was over, he got in his car and left.
I never saw him again.
I still can’t figure out why he just handed me a car free and clear. It was nowhere near my birthday or graduation. Maybe it was just a final gift, so he could leave me again with a clear conscience. Eight grand to just be done with me (46-7).
Chapter Five
One of my lines on the tour was “Politics can’t be any dirtier of a job than the one I am already in.” But I was wrong. I realized two weeks in that, just like the entertainment business but with way more repercussions, it’s about who you know and it’s about money. Vitter’s war chest was estimated at two million dollars. Right there was the real civics lesson: The person most qualified to represent the average resident of his or her state could never afford to run. Which means they will never win. Which means the people will never have true representation. It’s why we are stuck with a Congress full of millionaires. I started to get disheartened and was actually depressed for a while about that. Here I was, just doing this until an adult showed up, but what if there were no more honest grown-ups in politics (162-3)?
Chapter Twelve
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 (240-1).
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 (244-5).
Chapter Thirteen
President Trump must have been watching along with Senator McCain, because he broke his Twitter silence about me. We do know he loves his TV time. On the show, Michael and I presented a sketch of the man who threatened my daughter and me in the Las Vegas parking lot. “A sketch years later about a nonexistent man,” he tweeted at six in the morning on April 18, probably from the toilet. “A total con job, playing the Fake News Media for Fools (but they know it)!”
Never mind that the sketch was done by renowned forensic artist Lois Gibson, whose sketches have helped law enforcement ID 751 criminals and secure more than a thousand convictions. Lois has said she was inspired to study forensic art after she was attacked at age twenty-one by a brutal rapist. He almost killed her, repeatedly strangling her until she passed out, laughing each time. Back then, she was a model and dancer in L.A., and she was afraid to go to the police. Just the kind of person Trump and Cohen would write off. But Lois and I believe in each other, because honest people can spot honest people. And liars (258-9).