Back in 1990 I was working for Drake Publishing, churning out porn magazines. I worked mostly on Cheri, but also a little bit for High Society, Celebrity Skin, and a real bottom feeder called LIVE! I also did a few issues of Buxom (have to say putting word balloons on boobs was a lot of fun -- wish I could remember the jokes), Climax, and some other forgotten sleaze.
There was also a part of the company that did X-rated romance novels. They weren't quite real porn, but they went a lot farther than your basic Harlequin bodice ripper.
And then they had the idea to do a book about Donald Trump.
Trump was front page in the New York Post for weeks after he got caught schlonging actress Marla Maples, which led to the famous Post cover "BEST SEX I'VE EVER HAD."
Every other day his soon-to-be ex-wife, Ivana, was caterwauling to the society pages, and even Cardinal O'Connor got involved, offering to mediate between Trump and his pissed-off model wife. It was a shit show no matter which direction you looked, and classic 1980s tabloid fodder, oozing sex and money like pus from an open wound.
So the fellow who was editing these dirty romance books bought a manuscript for a quickie Trump book, and they needed someone to write jacket copy. He came down to the floor where we made the real porn, and asked who was the best copywriter on the floor, and somehow -- for all the sterling smut I was writing that year -- I was clearly the Bard of the Boudoir, and so I got the job.
Well not so much a job, because he thought I would just do it as a favor. But I was 24-years-old and already a veteran of Screw magazine where they had paid me 50 bucks a month to review peep shows. I was practically a journeyman, and no way was I writing one word for free. Someone was making some dough on this, and I figured what was good for the goose was plenty good for the gander. I was a gun for hire. You want the mot juste, fucking pay me. My old boss Al Goldstein would have been very proud.
Apparently -- this being the absolute nadir of the publishing racket -- there was no budget for this sort of thing (I would have jumped at $150, which would have kept me drunk for a week in 1988), yet somehow neither the editor or the writer was willing nor capable of writing something snappy, and so they were begging me.
I'm not sure where I got the idea, but I used to walk by it every day, so I told him I would do it if he picked up dinner for me and a friend at the Palm restaurant on Second Avenue, which at the time (well, still) was way above my pay grade. And somehow he agreed.
For dinner at the Palm, this is what you get:
TOO BIG FOR TELEVISION, TOO DANGEROUS FOR HOLLYWOOD
The King of New York, the man who reigns over sin city drenched in money, sex and scandal... what makes him so great? His sexual prowess? It's more than mega-bucks that controls his mind-- and body. Learn the truth about Trump's "Fatal Attractions" -- two young starlets whose ambition was rivaled only by his own, and the act of pride that threatened to crush the Trump empire... forever.
The best part was that there was a TRUMP SCANDAL HOTLINE set up -- the company I worked for were the undisputed kings of phone sex, and this was the gimmick they thought was going to make them some real money. They genuinely believed the marks were going to be dialing until their fingers bled.
CALL NOW AND FIND OUT THE UP TO THE MINUTE DIRT ON OUR EXCLUSIVE HOTLINE: IS IVANA HOLDING THE 'TRUMP" CARD THAT WILL BREAK "THE DONALD'S" BANK?
FIND OUT NOW -- CALL 1-900-258-3030
(Only $3 for the first minute $1 for each additional minute)
I like to think the stuff I scribbled fell somewhere between Walter Winchell and T.S. Elliot. Later I would go on to write jacket copy for dozens of books, not to mention actual books.
Everyone was very pleased with the stuff I wrote (and I actually had fun writing it), and the fellow made good on his word and left his credit card at the Palm.
I took a buddy of mine with me to the Palm, one of my fellow pornographers, and we were like a couple of sailors on leave. We had martinis with our shrimp cocktail, then champagne with our lobster, a haughty Bordeaux with steaks the size of a bed pan, then cheesecake, brandy, and coffee. For Donald Trump's airport book nothing was too good! After dinner I felt like I was going to have a stroke, but in a good way.
The bill came to $300, with a generous tip. It was at the time by far the biggest restaurant bill I had ever seen. Later I was told I had a lot of nerve to run the bill that high. I shrugged it off. To listen to these guys, the book was going to be a bestseller and they were gonna make millions from the Scandal Hotline.
The book died a quick death, but somehow almost thirty years later I still have my copy. The only part of it I have ever read is the back cover. It makes me want to eat a steak.
I am guessing the scandal hotline is disconnected.
Mike Edison's new book, YOU ARE A COMPLETE DISAPPOINTMENT: A TRIUMPHANT MEMOIR OF FAILED EXPECTATIONS is available this Spring from Sterling Publishing.