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 trying 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.