Glen would appear manic, starting a project and leaving it unfinished because he moved on to another one. “Sit down, Glen,” I said countless times, “you’re making me nervous.” He would look at her and start crying and get emotional.
Finally, he broke down. “I always had a problem with the fact that my dad never said ‘I love you,’” he told me. “Now that I have her, and I look at her, I can’t imagine why a parent wouldn’t tell a child that they loved them. I can’t imagine a day going by without saying it to her. So I am going to make sure I tell her every single day that I love her.”
(Now she is like, “I get it.” Because he tells her a hundred times a day. There will never be a doubt in my mind that my daughter knows her father loves her.)
Glen’s intense love and adoration for our perfect baby girl brought up painful memories from his childhood. He was having what he thought were nightmares, which he came to feel were repressed memories of abuse he went through as a kid. The memories were triggered by seeing how vulnerable our daughter was, and he coped by using alcohol. He told me he had thoughts of suicide, feeling he was unworthy of having a family. He was drinking all day every day and having a lot of problems with his band.
And I had a newborn and I’d gained ninety-three pounds. I was still leaking out of everywhere, and I had had the whole plan that I would deliver naturally—not two weeks late by cesarean—and do some miracle snapback in time to be at the January AVN Awards, my industry’s version of the Oscars.
In the middle of this shit blizzard, my phone rang. I was holding my daughter in our living room, probably wearing the same shirt I’d worn yesterday.
“Daniels. Spears. Wassup?”
I recognized Randy Spears’s voice immediately. He had been at Wicked during the Trump time. He had recently left the business, but had married and then divorced a woman who was a porn veteran, Gina Rodriguez. She’s found her real calling as an entertainment manager with a specialty for handling mistresses, secret sexters, and D-listers looking to either extend their fifteen minutes of fame or at least get a payoff. Her big break was the slew of Tiger Woods mistresses selling their sexts and stories to the highest tabloid bidders.
“Hey, so I was just talking about you and somehow it came up,” he said, “that you knew Donald Trump.”
I rolled my eyes but said nothing. Somehow. I really liked Randy, but it did me no good to talk.
“Gina wants to talk to you about it,” he said. Glen was outside, and I didn’t want to risk having this conversation in front of him.
“I’m really not—”
This bright voice came on. “You know, I could probably help you tell your story.”
“No, I am not interested.”
“Well, my partner Gloria Allred wants to talk to you.”
“Who is that?”
I was probably the only person on the planet who didn’t know who this person was. I know now that she’s a lawyer who specializes in high-profile cheating and harassment scandals. She worked with Gina on presenting Joslyn James as a former mistress seeking an apology from Tiger Woods for leading her on.
“Look her up,” Gina said. “I gave her your number.”
Sure enough, Gloria Allred called me. I was folding baby clothes in the living room. My daughter was on her back on a blanket next to me, and I sent Glen out on a Walmart run.
“Okay, what’s your story?” Gloria said.
I paused. I wanted to tell her that I was an accomplished star, writer, and director of adult films, plus I had just had a baby who was clearly exceptional because I had seen other brats in my day. And my hot husband was going through a lot, but I loved him and he adored our child. Oh, and I had to lose ninety-three pounds because the AVN Awards, my industry’s biggest night of the year, was in a couple of weeks and those bitches were just waiting for me to roll in. Meanwhile, yes, I was still leaking out of places.
But I knew she didn’t care about that.
I barreled through an extremely abbreviated version of my interactions with Donald Trump, leaving out sex and anything in the least bit interesting.
“Is there anything more?” she asked.
“No,” I said, putting a finger close to my daughter’s hand so she could hold it.
“Well, I really can’t do anything for you if that’s all there is.”
“Sorry,” I said.
I hung up and that was that, right? A couple of months went by, and I was still trying to lose the weight and fully recover so I could go back to work. I did two years’ worth of work in one year in anticipation of being out of commission for a while, but I hadn’t counted on my daughter being late and me needing a cesarean.
In March 2011, I got another call from Gina. “Oh, my God,” she said, panic in her voice. “Have you seen the internet?”
That seemed so strange. Like she was asking if I was familiar with this new and exciting invention where people can find facts and naked pictures.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“There’s a story about you and Trump on The Dirty,” she said.
“The what?”
“The Dirty,” she said. “It’s a gossip site.”
“How is there a story about me on there?”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Do you want me to ask my attorney to have it removed?”
“What are you talking about? What does it say?” I went over to my computer and was trying to find it online when she started reading it to me, saying I had had an affair with Trump. It said a friend leaked it.
“So, do you want my attorney, Keith Davidson, to send them a letter?”
“YES!” I yelled. It seemed perfect. My only thought was, This needs to go away. Glen was a mess, I was a mess—we were in no position to suddenly have a spotlight on us.
The story was down in a couple of hours. Now that I have seen so many incorrect things about me printed and posted, I realize that is fast. Extremely fast.
That’s how Keith Davidson entered my life. I didn’t know that Davidson’s specialty was brokering sex tapes and the like. At the time, it just seemed like I’d been saved from humiliation. Glen was not going to be looking at a gossip website I had never heard of. I had shut it down.
It was quiet, and I went back to the work of getting in shape. Twice a week, I did MamaFit workout classes, where I could take my daughter with me. I was trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. I was also trying to help Glen get his life back in order. He’d been through a lot and was starting to think he would benefit from professional help. Which costs money, which meant I had to get back to work.
Just a couple of weeks after Keith and Gina came to my rescue taking down the story from The Dirty, I got a call from In Touch. And now they had the story. This stranger on the phone told me my story. They had about 80 percent of the details and made it all a little more sensational around the edges. Like a romance novel version of some hot and heavy affair. Um, are you into sharks? I thought.
“I have no comment,” I said. “I’m not talking.”
“Well, we’re going to run the story anyway,” I recall the person saying. “So, you have two options: You can either tell us the story in your words and get compensated for it. Or we’ll run the version we have, which may or may not be accurate, and someone else gets the money.”
“I don’t…” I said.
“Well, think about it.”
Who was this “someone else” telling my story? People think I approached In Touch with the story, but I never would have done that. I called Gina in a panic, and she put it in my head that it was my ex-husband Mike Moz. He did seem like a good candidate, and I 100 percent believed her at the time. He was smart enough to have come up with the plan, and he had about 80 percent of the story. It all pointed directly to him.