Down the Rabbit Hole (11 page)

Today, trying to recall how particularly hideously some of the girlfriends treated me is a bit difficult. I liken it to being the dorky girl in the lunchroom who eats her sandwich quietly with her nose buried deep in a book, praying she didn't attract the unwanted attention of the popular kids. That's sort of how I felt, but unlike that little girl at school, I couldn't look forward to weekends or nights free from these mean girls. I lived with them.

Prior to moving into the mansion, I'd been a fairly confident person, but it didn't take long for my self-worth to start to crumble. After being identified by the other girlfriends as persona non grata, I had become the victim of their ruthless “mean girl-ing.” During dinners or movie screenings, it wasn't out of the ordinary for me to overhear their loud whispers criticizing my appearance (my hair, my face, my clothes). According to their ruthless taunting, I was the “hick girl” from Nowheresville, USA. They found my optimistic attitude corny and my confidence threatening, so they did whatever they could to tear me down. Sadly, I have to say it worked. Any Playmates or Playmate candidates they befriended would join in, mocking me as well. Hef's hearing was already pretty deteriorated, so like him, I acted as if I did not hear their harsh remarks. My silence only further incited them and their attacks became more vicious.

Once I started acquiring a decent wardrobe, my clothing began mysteriously disappearing. When I would send things downstairs to be laundered, they would never make their way back. As a gift, each girlfriend was given a gorgeous embroidered burgundy silk robe. We all sent ours to be cleaned before an upcoming event, but only mine went missing. I reverted to writing my name on the inside of each label like a third-grader going away to camp, but even that wasn't really any kind of insurance policy.

I quickly learned that complaining about the girls' antics served zero purpose. You know the phrase “Don't shoot the messenger”? Well, Hef
loved
to shoot the messenger. He would make sure to twist any complaint around into my own doing—and I'd end up apologizing to him. He cultivated an environment where we were perpetually indebted to him. My priority became remaining in his good graces.

Regardless, whenever Hef was around, I stayed close to his heels. Even though his presence didn't necessarily protect me from their bullying, I felt somehow safer. The “Mean Girls” couldn't be as obvious for fear that he might turn his wrath on them.

Two months into my mansion residency, I finally got to attend my first Playboy party as a girlfriend. With my clothing allowance, I was able to go to Trashy Lingerie, a popular boutique, to pick out my costume (despite its name, it was way out of my price range before). I chose a frilly Alice in Wonderland costume that came with a purse shaped like a slice of cake with “Eat Me” written cheekily on it in white Puffy Paint. The outfit was supposed to be sexy, but once again I had chosen something quite conservative compared to the body-hugging ensembles the other girlfriends chose.

When it came to public events and appearances, there was a protocol for the girlfriends to follow. Each of us was expected to meet Hef in his room so we could all make our grand entrance into the party together. It wasn't as exclusive as it might sound, as many of the girlfriends brought their female friends, who joined us for our entrance. Everyone was dressed in something skintight: a spandex-clad race car driver, a spandex-clad taxi driver, and a few spandex-clad cops. By comparison, I felt like a giant frilly cream puff. When the time came to walk downstairs, we all trailed down the grand staircase slowly with Hef's house camera crew filming every moment for posterity. Hef trailed behind us, wearing the black-and-white-striped “Prisoner of Love” jailbird costume he wore every year. When we arrived at the foot of the stairs, we were instructed to line up in two rows so Hef's house photographer could take our group portrait. After the short photo session was finished, I followed the group out into the tented backyard and towards Hef's table next to the dance floor. On our way out, a naked woman clad only in body paint shoved a tray in front of me.

“Jell-O shot?” she asked.

“Don't mind if I do,” I said with a smile, grabbing a green one off her tray.

“The red ones are the best,” Vicky snapped at me with a cold smile as soon as I reached Hef's table with my green shot in hand. She was right; the red ones did taste the best. Never having had a Jell-O shot before, I was amazed at how delicious they were—and clueless at how potent they were. Needless to say, I got wasted. Fast.

The girlfriends pretty much ignored my existence the whole night, so luckily I spotted some of my old Hooters friends and motioned for them to come over and talk to me. The novelty of my position as “Hef's newest girlfriend” hadn't worn off yet, so everyone had plenty of questions (the less polite of which I dodged with non-answers).

As girlfriends, the protocol was that we stay at Hef's table all night. We could get up and dance, as long as we stayed on the dance floor in front of the table. The only time we were allowed to leave was to go to the bathroom. There were times when some of the girls managed to get away for short periods of time, due to the fact that Hef was so distracted by all the partygoers clamoring for his attention. Star fucking was a priority for most of the girls, so they tried to sneak away and meet as many famous men as possible. One of the biggest running jokes among the girls was when a girlfriend (who owned a pet capuchin monkey she liked to tote around for attention) took Jennifer Lopez's ex-husband Cris Judd up to her room to “show him her monkey.”

When Hef was ready to leave the party (usually around 1
A
.
M
.) we had to go upstairs with him. Of course, there were always girlfriends who snuck back down to the parties after Hef was asleep, to chase men or hobnob with celebrities, but they were always very discreet about it. After all, Hef's videographers wandered the parties until the wee hours capturing all the goings-on, and none of the girls wanted to get caught on tape. By the next afternoon, Hef's video department would have a tape sitting outside Hef's door with a “highlight reel” from the last night's party, copies of which would be sent to local news stations. So much for “what happens at the mansion stays at the mansion!”

That year,
Playboy
would collaborate with
Girls Gone Wild
to release a DVD titled
Playboy Mansion Parties Uncensored
. The DVD—a compilation of all kinds of random party footage, including nudity and celebrity sightings—flew off the shelves. The effect that particular business venture had on the brand was questionable, however. The overeagerness of
Playboy
to exploit what went on at the mansion parties dirtied the cachet of these events that were once considered exclusive and glamorous. No longer feeling like their privacy was being respected, fewer and fewer A-list celebrities wanted to attend anymore. Understandably so.

The night ended with me passed out on my bedroom floor with a cheeseburger in my lap. It had become clear to me that being a part of Hugh Hefner's “party posse” wasn't as glamorous as it seemed. This was a far cry from what I pictured life here would be like when I first laid eyes on the gorgeous Bentley twins a year and a half earlier at the Midsummer Night's Dream Party. The situation was also much lonelier than I could have ever imagined. Not to mention more stressful.

The day-to-day stress of mansion life had taken such a toll on me that I could feel myself mentally regressing. My memory started to dull—and things I used to know with certainty started to fade from my mind. I've always considered myself an intelligent girl, but I could feel myself getting dumber and began second-guessing everything. That might sound insane, but I suppose you are the company you keep . . . and let's just say the other six girlfriends weren't necessarily winning any spelling bees.

I was so constantly on edge that I eventually developed a stammer when speaking, so I tried as best I could to stay quiet and not risk the embarrassment of tripping over sentences.

To Hef, my shrinking violet personality was a sign of submission that he used to manipulate the other women. It helped my rise through the girlfriend ranks to become among Hef's favorites.

Over time, I convinced myself that I did actually care for this man . . . that I
wanted
to be in a relationship with him despite the fact that I didn't really know him. Of course, living with someone, you learn things about their personalities, their tics and their annoyances, but Hef and I never really talked . . . not about things that mattered. There were no deep conversations or romance between us.

As far as his girlfriends were concerned, we were better seen and not heard. His friends were there for his intellectual stimulation; my job was to show up and look pretty. Even our daily dialogue was superficial. If ever I tried to speak to him about books, politics, or world events, he would scoff at whatever I said. It didn't matter if my remark was educated or even correct, because if I said it, it must be wrong. During movie nights, he would lean over to me to explain plotlines and time periods in the most condescending of ways. Oftentimes I would have to bite my tongue. It was all I could do to keep from screaming: “I know!” Clearly he was used to, or preferred, a woman with no more than a grade school level education.

But I was young and blinded by his fame and accomplishments.
What wasn't to love about Hef?
I told myself. Because of his generosity, I was living on this gorgeous estate, attending swanky Hollywood parties, and had money to spend on clothes, shoes, hair, and makeup. So I reasoned with myself that no two people are exactly the same.
Of course we won't see eye to eye on everything,
I thought
.

With that in mind, I began noticing only his good qualities: he was smart, kind to his friends, appreciated the arts, and had a sense of humor. I chose to see my world through rose-colored glasses and ignored all of his bad qualities, no matter how over the top they were.

Like Beauty locked up in the Beast's castle, I developed my own brand of Stockholm syndrome, identifying with my captor. I felt like there was no one I could turn to besides Hef. I thought I could trust him.

Somehow Hef became the “good guy” in my eyes. Slowly I started to isolate myself from the other girls (for good reason) and from everyone outside the gates (for other reasons). I developed a reputation as an ice queen, since I was so quiet and kept to myself.

On the outside, Hef appeared to be the perfect gentleman—an act that paired nicely with my delusions. He always described himself as a “hopeless romantic” and acted as if his womanizing was some long search for the perfect woman that didn't exist. Whether this image was calculated to make him more palatable to the public, more endearing to potential conquests, or both, I don't know. All I know is that it worked on me like a charm. I felt strangely protective of him. The other girlfriends used him, mocked him, and even cheated on him with the boyfriends they kept outside the mansion. They made him look foolish and I resented them for it, all the while overlooking the fact that we were mice trapped inside the glamorous maze he created. It was survival of the fittest and we all were just trying to come out alive.

I convinced myself that I could look past his age and appearance.
Perhaps we're right for each other,
I routinely told myself. After all, I had never fit in anywhere else before and
certainly
hadn't had any luck at love.
Maybe guys my own age just weren't for me,
I thought.
Maybe I was always meant to one day find Hef.

And just like that, I was in love. It didn't seem to matter that I couldn't recall how or why. Simply put, it was just a decision I made.

B
Y THE TIME
C
HRISTMAS
rolled around, I had already been at the mansion for four months. Nobody told me beforehand what the expectations were for us as girlfriends during the holidays, so I was surprised to find out that Christmases were
always
spent with Hef. Girlfriends were given “off” days before or after the holiday to visit family and friends, but there were no exceptions for the actual day itself. That was the one house rule that no one seemed to mind, because Christmas was when Hef was most generous with his girlfriends.

Hef really is a big kid at heart—and he loves the magic of Christmas morning. The mansion was always decorated from top to bottom, a formal Christmas dinner was held every year, and he spared no expense under the Christmas tree.

Each girlfriend was given $500 to spend on gifts for each girl living at the mansion at that time and $500 for ourselves—the idea was seven sets of matching gifts. With six other girls in residence, that was $3,500 to spend!

I selected elegant Louis Vuitton leather evening purses for each of us—they would be perfect for our nights out! My understated choice wasn't gaudy enough for Tina, however, she returned my gift in exchange for a Louis Vuitton bucket purse with the brand's logo emblazoned all over it.

Carolyn got us Gucci purses; April chose fur jackets (I ended up donating mine to the Goodwill—real fur has never been my thing); Candice (who had stepped into the spot Adrianna had left vacant) picked out large Gucci travel totes, and Vicky selected Gucci shoes.

While the showering of luxurious items was beyond anything I'd ever imagined having just a few months earlier, we didn't have the financial freedom many people assumed. Not even close.

Obviously, we all wanted to save money. But Hef knew that money equals freedom to walk out the door, so he was exceptionally careful how he spent it on us. When Tina and Lisa chose Best Buy gift certificates to give each girlfriend at Christmas, Hef let it be known that he was severely displeased. I suppose gift cards too closely resembled cash for his taste.