Journalist Claims Donald Trump Forced His Tongue Down Her Throat

Our photo team shot the Trumps on the lush grounds of their Florida estate, and I interviewed them about how happy their first year of marriage had been. When we took a break for the then-very-pregnant Melania to go upstairs and change wardrobe for more photos, Donald wanted to show me around the mansion. There was one “tremendous” room in particular, he said, that I just had to see.

Donald Trump

We walked into that room alone, and Trump shut the door behind us. I turned around, and within seconds he was pushing me against the wall and forcing his tongue down my throat.

Now, I’m a tall, strapping girl who grew up wrestling two giant brothers. I even once sparred with Mike Tyson. It takes a lot to push me. But Trump is much bigger — a looming figure — and he was fast, taking me by surprise and throwing me off balance. I was stunned. And I was grateful when Trump’s longtime butler burst into the room a minute later, as I tried to unpin myself.

The butler informed us that Melania would be down momentarily, and it was time to resume the interview.

I was still in shock and remained speechless as we both followed him to an outdoor patio overlooking the grounds. In those few minutes alone with Trump, my self-esteem crashed to zero. How could the actions of one man make me feel so utterly violated? I’d been interviewing A-list celebrities for over 20 years, but what he’d done was a first. Did he think I’d be flattered?

I tried to act normal. I had a job to do, and I was determined to do it. I sat in a chair that faced Trump, who waited for his wife on a loveseat. The butler left us, and I fumbled with my tape recorder. Trump smiled and leaned forward.

“You know we’re going to have an affair, don’t you?” he declared, in the same confident tone he uses when he says he’s going to make America great again. “Have you ever been to Peter Luger’s for steaks? I’ll take you. We’re going to have an affair, I’m telling you.” He also referenced the infamous cover of the New York Post during his affair with Marla Maples.

“You remember,” he said. “‘Best Sex I Ever Had.’ ”

Melania walked in just then, serene and glowing. Donald instantly reverted back to doting husband mode, as if nothing had happened, and we continued our interview about their wedded bliss. I nodded at his hollow words and smiled at his jokes, but I was nauseated. It didn’t seem to register to him in the slightest that what he’d done might have hurt or offended me, or his wife.

An hour later, I was back at my hotel. My shock began to wear off and was replaced by anger. I kept thinking, Why didn’t I slug him? Why couldn’t I say anything?

The next morning, anger became fear. Earlier in my trip, I had tried to arrange a session at Mar-a-Lago’s spa for my chronic neck problem — the spa was part of a private resort separate from the Trump residence — but they were booked up. Trump had gotten wind of that before the interview and called himself, asking the top massage therapist if he would come in extra early to see me, as a favor to him.

I’d been up all night worrying — had I done something to encourage his behavior? But I decided to keep the appointment. I was running late and rushed to the spa with my luggage in tow. I found my designated therapist in a panic.

“I’m so, so sorry,” I apologized, “Can we do 30 minutes and I’ll pay you for the whole hour?”

“Never mind that. Mr. Trump was here waiting for you!”

“What? Where?”

“Here. In the massage room. Waiting for you. He waited 15 minutes, then had to leave for a meeting.”

“But why was he here?” I asked. “Is he coming back?”

The therapist shrugged. I lay on the massage table, but my eyes were on the doorknob the entire time. He’s going to show up and this guy’s going to let him in with me half-naked on a table. I cut the session short, got dressed and left for the airport.

Back in my Manhattan office the next day, I went to a colleague and told her everything.

“We need to go to the managing editor,” she said, “And we should kill this story, it’s a lie. Tell me what you want to do.”

But, like many women, I was ashamed and blamed myself for his transgression. I minimized it (“It’s not like he raped me…”); I doubted my recollection and my reaction. I was afraid that a famous, powerful, wealthy man could and would discredit and destroy me, especially if I got his coveted PEOPLE feature killed.

“I just want to forget it ever happened,” I insisted. The happy anniversary story hit newsstands a week later and Donald left me a voicemail at work, thanking me.

“I think you’re terrific,” he said, “the article was great and you’re great.”

Yeah, I thought. I’m great because I kept my mouth shut.

I asked to be taken off the Trump beat, and I never interviewed him again. A few months later, I saw Trump at the memorial service of a mutual friend, designer Oleg Cassini. We were both giving eulogies, but I avoided him. That winter, I actually bumped into Melania on Fifth Avenue, in front of Trump Tower as she walked into the building, carrying baby Baron.

“Natasha, why don’t we see you anymore?” she asked, giving me a hug.

I was quiet and smiled, telling her I’d missed her, and I squeezed little Baron’s foot. I couldn’t discern what she knew. Did she really not guess why I hadn’t been around?

Except for a few close friends and family, I didn’t talk about the incident. In time, I chalked it up to one of the hazards of a roller coaster ride of celebrity journalism: I’d danced barefoot in Cannes with John Travolta, sang with Paul McCartney, talked about Bogie with Bacall, quoted Shakespeare with Brando and Prince Andrew yelled at me until I cried. Oh, and Donald Trump forced himself on me. I tried to make myself believe it was no big deal.

Only, it was.

Now he’s running for president of our country. The other day, I listened to him talk about how he treats women on the Access Hollywood tape. I felt a strong mix of emotions, but shock wasn’t one of them.

I was relieved. I finally understood for sure that I was not to blame for his inappropriate behavior. I had not been singled out. As he explained to Billy Bush, it was his usual modus operandi with women. I felt deep regret for not speaking out at the time. What if he had done worse to other female reporters at the magazine since then because I hadn’t warned them?

And lastly, I felt violated and muzzled all over again.

During the presidential debate, Donald Trump lied about kissing women without their consent. I should know. His actions made me feel bad for a very long time.

They still do.

Four years after the Trump incident, I left the magazine to write screenplays and books — a few are New York Times bestsellers.

I’m not sure what locker room talk consists of these days. I only know that I wasn’t in a locker room when he pushed me against a wall. I was in his home, as a professional, and his beautiful pregnant wife was just upstairs.

Talk is talk. But it wasn’t just talk in my case, it was very much action.

And, just for the record, Mr. Trump, I did not consent.

A spokeswoman for Trump said,

This never happened. There is no merit or veracity to this fabricated story.

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