The Naked Truth: The Real Story Behind the Real Housewife of New Jersey--In Her Own Words

by Staub, Danielle

  This was the man with whom I had my whole life planned. I was engaged to him. I believed in him. I believed in us. Whatever he needed—food, clothes, music equipment, whatever— I would have provided for him. I trusted him completely and he paid me back by going behind my back and hooking up with my friend.

  Still furious, I hopped in my car and peeled out of the parking lot. My disappointment in the one person whom I’d trusted with my entire life was indescribable; I believe it was the first time in my life that I felt genuine heartache. I was stunned, hurt, and dazed beyond belief. All trust had been broken. Sure, we had a rocky relationship at the time, but I truly thought Billy and I were forever. He was not only my fiancé and lover but my best friend.

  I immediately drove to the beach to try to clear my head and get a grip on my emotions. It dawned on me that Debra’s husband was taking classes at a local college, and when I knew he would be at school, I took action—I drove to the campus and marched right into his classroom. As soon as he saw me, he knew I was crazy upset. Let’s face it: I had good reason. I had been best of friends with his wife. When she had been drunk and throwing up, I held her head over the toilet and drove her home afterward. I gave her a couch to sleep on when she had a fight with her husband, and I helped them make up when they wanted to get back together. I was totally there for her. Seeing her with Billy was one of the most shocking and upsetting moments of my life thus far. Not surprisingly, I think that moment was when I began to not trust women.

  Her husband hurried out of the classroom with a worried look on his face. I told him exactly what had happened.

  “Your wife doesn’t deserve your loyalty or my friendship! She knows all there is to know about Billy because we shared everything. I had no idea that she would take advantage of me and hook up with him!” I could barely catch my breath as the words came tumbling out. Eventually, I finished saying my piece and left him to his own thoughts.

  After that, I kicked Billy out of the house. I was done with him, but he tried for some time to get back together with me. He would serenade me outside my home and follow me to bars and clubs, but I would more or less ignore him. He’d broken our trust and it was impossible for me to get it back. He should never have cheated on me. I couldn’t ever respect or trust him after that. He blew it.

  I would go out on dates, and no matter where I was or whom I was with, Billy would eventually show up. Since I’d know he was there, I would dance closely to whomever I was with on purpose, or I would sit with a group of guys and focus all my attention on the one speaking to me. I would hang on his every word so Billy could see what he was missing and how I’d moved on. It drove him crazy and I loved it because it was his turn to feel the way he had made me feel. It was his turn to hurt.

  I began to hang out with people Billy couldn’t keep up with—men who had more wealth and power than he could ever imagine existed. I was a newly single woman in Florida, and I was off to the races with a fast crowd.

  5

  LATINA NITES

  In 1985 the nightlife in Miami was hotter than the weather. I was living at a pace that was catapulting me up the social ranks. When I wasn’t working as a cocktail waitress, I’d spend my nights going to exclusive parties. I became a permanent fixture on the Miami club scene. I never had to wait in line to get into a club—ropes were parted for me and I was rushed inside like a celebrity straight to the VIP room.

  Once I was in, I found it was easy to meet people, especially celebrities. Having a relationship during that time in Miami— whether the person was a celebrity or not—wasn’t an easy go. If I simply hung out with a straight guy, we would be accused of messing around. (It was typically believed that you couldn’t have a platonic relationship with someone of the opposite sex unless you or the other person was gay. I think that’s complete bullshit. It may only rarely happen, but it does happen. I am living proof of it. I had and still have straight male friends who are really just friends—people I spend time with and have no romantic interest in.) In addition, after things ended with Billy, I didn’t even know how I was going to like men again, let alone trust them.

  I had to start all over again.

  Part of my way of starting over was meeting an acclaimed Olympian, which happened while I was working as a cocktail waitress at September’s. This Olympic legend came into the place quite often, and I served him, his publicist, and the rest of his entourage.

  After a few of the athlete’s visits, a friend of his phoned the owners of September’s because he was trying to get in touch with me. The manager was completely blown away that this guy was calling and asking about me and not one of the other waitresses. Other pretty girls who worked at September’s were considered the “it” girls—the waitresses whom everybody wanted to date and customers always inquired about. These typical Florida girls had perky, little, fit bodies, bright blue eyes, and long blond hair. There I was, looking quite the contrary, with curly brown hair, brown eyes, and a lean body. Unlike the rest of them, I wasn’t dripping in jewel-studded gifts from rich South Florida men.

  At first, the most exciting part was having people at work ask me about this Olympic athlete. What was he like? Where did he take you? I wasn’t used to having people ask me anything about my private life or the guys I was seeing, so it was neat to have people suddenly care. I admit that the attention fed my ego. During my years with Billy, my life was more or less boring outside of work. I had small-town notions of settling down, and my friends were the people who knew me through Billy. In hindsight, I think they were moving a bit too slowly for me. All of a sudden I was in a much faster crowd and desired by men—powerful men.

  I ended up dating the Olympic athlete and we had some fun together. He was kind of a rebound guy who I think I was into mainly because it would upset Billy. After a few dates we did have sex, but the relationship didn’t have a big impact on me. He was a nice guy and a gentleman, but I wasn’t in love with him, so I decided not to see him again. That was that.

  My relationship with the star athlete helped me realize that I couldn’t have sex with another man unless I was in love with him. I thought it was going to be easy to date again, but it proved to be much more difficult. I couldn’t just be with someone for the heck of it. I had been with Billy for such a long time that I didn’t know how to connect with a new guy physically. I was always expecting it to feel like love—the way Billy and I had felt when we made love. But when you’re not in love with somebody, I discovered, it couldn’t possibly feel like love. I was confused and had to discover all over again what love was going to be like.

  Most of my partners were in a hurry to jump into bed with me. However, I wasn’t in much of a hurry to get into bed with just any man. I didn’t have any particular complaints about sex, but I didn’t enjoy superficial sex. I have never had a one-night stand in my life. Instead, I enjoyed having a relationship with a man. I liked knowing that he was going to be only with me. I also liked thinking that he was the only one I was going to be with as well. I had a deep desire to build trust with someone and to feel that we were working toward something of substance together.

  It seemed like a waste to just give my body and soul to a man who wasn’t going to say “Good morning” and “Good night” to me every single day and night. It’s not that I had such an inflated sense of myself, it’s just that in my subconscious I knew that I had to have respect for myself and my body after all that had happened during my childhood. My virginity had been taken from me without my permission so many years earlier, and in young adulthood I realized that I now had a choice— I could choose to have sex or not have sex with a man.

  Kissing now became an integral part of my love life. In fact, kissing became more important to me than having sex. Sex was taken from me against my will, but nobody ever took a kiss from me. It was the only form of my sexuality that I actually had control over. If kissing is done passionately, properly, and with the right person, it feels better than sex. This has been proven to be true for me
. I didn’t take off my clothes, yet I got the same satisfaction and fulfillment. For a man, kissing probably isn’t enough sexual pleasure, but for me, it was all I needed. I never felt dirty from it. I didn’t feel invaded or ever have to say to myself afterward, What did I just do?

  Soon after my fling with the Olympian, a world-famous television star stumbled right into my new fascination with the art of kissing. It happened one night when I went with my girlfriends to the Grand in Coconut Grove. The Grand was a popular and trendy hotel with many bars, a hangout for the who’s who of Miami at that time. That evening, I stepped into the elevator at the Grand to find Don Johnson standing right in front of me. He was really handsome—even better looking than he appeared on television—and Philip Michael Thomas, his costar on Miami Vice, was standing right next to him. In those days, these two guys were household names and on the covers of every top-selling entertainment magazine, and Miami Vice was one of the top-rated television shows in the country. Crockett and Tubbs with their white suits and pastel T-shirts underneath were a sensation. Men wanted to be them and women wanted to be with them. The hit cop show was shot on location right in Miami, so the cast were out and about at all the local hot spots almost every single night.

  Don opened the conversation in a flirtatious way by telling me that I smelled really good and asking what I was wearing. I responded, “It’s an oil, and I love it.” (I still love it. Whenever I am around somebody who doesn’t smell good to me, I put my wrist up to my nose and breathe in the oil to escape it. I do that to this day.)

  Don and I continued our conversation about aromas. He then asked me what I thought of the way he smelled. I said, “Let me have your wrist.”

  “No, it’s on my neck,” he said.

  I smelled his neck and thought it smelled very good.

  When you get close to someone’s neck, you begin to feel each other’s energy a bit. With our senses already heightened, a level of intrigue was definitely evolving between us. Whether the aroma banter was idle conversation or not, it didn’t really matter. The scene in the elevator was getting sexier by the second.

  Suddenly we were alone together in the elevator. Neither of us had realized our friends had already gotten out. Don gently placed his hand on the back of my neck, brushing my hair off to one side while pulling me toward him. He softly pressed his lips against my neck, near my ear. As he breathed on my neck, I began to feel aroused.

  Don pulled me up against his body and we started kissing slowly. It wasn’t one of those hard-core, faces-slamming-into-each-other make-out sessions, but passionate and sensual, and we ended up kissing for what felt like ages. We even stopped the elevator to continue and not be interrupted (the Grand had many elevators, so this wasn’t a big deal). Don and I were kissing like two kids who were forbidden to see each other. When we finished, we checked our appearances in the mirror in the elevator, finally formally introduced ourselves, and politely shook hands. We started the elevator back up, and I pressed the floor where I was going. He said he was going to the same place . . . the penthouse.

  We were both headed to the same party. Once inside, Don and I separated, but we had our own little secret. For the rest of the night, we just shot each other knowing glances and smiles and got on with our evenings.

  Don was a good kisser, and making out with him that night was like having sex for me.

  On another occasion, I was at a modeling party and encountered the music legend Prince. All I am going to say is that he was the best kisser out of all the celebrities I have ever been with.

  I realized over the years that being with a celebrity isn’t more important than being with an average guy who appeals to you. Celebrity has never been a big deal to me. I wasn’t impressed with stars’ status or who they were professionally. They were just men in my eyes. I am more concerned about being with a man who truly loves me—at the end of the day, that’s the only thing that counts, the basis for what can last forever.

  I stayed quite busy modeling and was making a good living for a young woman in her twenties. However, my girlfriend Tanya, who was modeling bathing suits just as often as I was, seemed to have a lot more money to spend. European designer shoes. Expensive designer clothing. Sports car. Dripping in jewelry. What is she doing differently than me? I thought.

  One day, Tanya opened up and told me that she was getting paid through an agency to go on dates with men—wealthy businessmen—who would come to the South Miami area often. These successful moguls had their own planes, yachts, and endless amounts of cash to spend to have a good time, but due to their busy schedules, they had no time to look for women. They weren’t interested in going out to dinner alone, traveling alone, yachting alone, etc. So Tanya was an available girlfriend whenever they arrived in town.

  Tanya told me that she was a “regular” for three or four male clients. From working in the restaurant and bar business, I understood what a regular was. To me, that was someone who came into the same place on a regular basis, sat in my station, and tipped me well. Tanya informed me that her male clients didn’t date other girls when they were in town, only her. I quickly became intrigued.

  “Where do you go on dates with these men?” I asked.

  “We only go to the finest restaurants and the hottest clubs,” Tanya responded.

  “Do you have to have sex with them?”

  “It’s not required and completely up to you.”

  “Is it safe to go out with these men?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How much do you make?”

  “A thousand dollars an hour with a minimum of ten hours.”

  Wow, that’s a lot of money, I thought. And in the 1980s, that was definitely a ton of money. I asked Tanya, “Do you think I have what it takes?” Tanya nodded yes and soon after introduced me to the head of the agency she worked for, which was technically termed a “call service.”

  Sharon was the boss—a robust forty-something woman who ran a tight ship. She was very intelligent and seemingly just as business-savvy as her mogul clients. However, underneath the tough exterior, I could tell there was a sweetness about her that put me at ease right away. In fact, the girls referred to Sharon as Mom because she kept everyone safe and treated us all equally.

  Every client had to be checked out and verified first. Sharon hired a private detective who did background checks on all the people who wanted to use the call service. Also, if any potential client called asking about sex, the next thing they heard was a dial tone. Once checked out and accepted, the process was pretty straightforward. A client would describe preferences in body types, hair and eye color, height, ethnicity, age, etc. When Sharon found out what the customer desired, a date was set up and the client paid in advance.

  The first date had some simple procedures for protection. For openers, the client was required to show his proper ID with photo. There was also a bodyguard who took us to meet the date and then stayed around to make sure we were safe. We had to update Sharon as to where we were at all times. The cell phones back in the eighties were the size of briefcases, so this wasn’t a simple task. Instead, everyone carried a pager.

  Sharon gave me some tips before she sent me out into the field. She explained, “Now you’re a part of the family, and I just want you to know that whatever you decide to do behind closed doors is up to you. We can’t protect you once you go into a home or hotel room. Sex is not a requirement. But if you do decide to have relations with somebody, I advise you to always practice safe sex. Other than that, just have a good time. Keep it safe. Keep it clean. And always keep us posted as to where you are.”

  I don’t know what all of the girls who were in Sharon’s employ did, but my girlfriend and I were paid by the hour. Am I sure that all of the girls at the agency were making the same money Tanya and I made per hour? I am quite certain they were not. However, we didn’t exactly get together and talk about it. We were in direct competition with one another. I had no interest in what the rest of them were doing. I was m
ore concerned with what I was doing, which was learning the business.

  Prior to my first date, Tanya and I sat down, opened up a bottle of chardonnay, and had a heart-to-heart about the dos and don’ts of the business. One of the main rules was to develop a relationship with the client without quickly having sex with him. “Keep your hands to yourself and keep your eye on the prize,” said Tanya, with the prize being a second, third, fourth date, etc. Next, she told me to never be distracted from my date no matter how gorgeous an onlooker might be. Furthermore, it’s important to be overly impressed with what the client had to say without coming off as fake. “Less is best when it comes to speaking about yourself,” Tanya said. “Nothing personal, but they don’t really want to get to know you.” I learned that in essence we were therapists for these men because they just really needed someone to talk to and share their time with.

  Tanya asked me what my ideal date would be. My description included five-star dining and dancing, along with the finest wine and champagne money can buy. I’d also like to travel by limousine because it would be easier to have a conversation with my date and maintain eye contact. “But what does that have to do with what a man wants from me?” I asked her. Tanya told me that it had everything to do with it, because Sharon would set me up with the caliber of man who wanted that as well.

  For my first date, I was picked up in a Rolls-Royce limousine. The man was named David and he was very good-looking, in his forties with dark hair and light eyes, and tall in stature. He must have women throwing themselves at him, I thought. So that’s exactly what I am not going to do.

  After our mutual introductions, curiously I asked him, “Where are we going?”