Down the Rabbit Hole (7 page)

Despite my initial intention to keep a clear head, I foolishly proceeded to get really, really drunk without even meaning to. I can't even begin to tell you how much vodka and champagne I consumed—aided by the helpful hands of the other girls, who were all too eager to continue plying me with drinks. While I patted myself on the back for turning down the pills, by the time we left the club, I couldn't have been any more incoherent.

On the limo ride back to the mansion, Candice leaned over and whispered to me that all of the girls, myself included, were expected to join Hef in his bedroom. She had a small smile on her face as she watched me absorb this news, which I immediately registered as odd . . . almost as if she relished my shock. For the better part of the year, the girlfriends went out of their way to convince me that no one was actually intimate with Hef. Was Candice just trying to scare me off?

I wasn't an idiot. Despite their staunch denials, it was still a widely accepted public theory that Hef slept with all of his girlfriends. But when I asked them about it directly, they were incredibly convincing, acting almost
appalled
by the idea. This important factor was the touchstone of their entire sales pitch, and the fact that sex would actually be required wasn't exactly something I had prepared myself for—
especially
for my first night out. But at that point, I felt like it was my only option.

Maybe it wasn't that torturous,
I thought.
Why else would all these pretty young girls be jumping through hoops to be girlfriends? I could just see what it's all about. If it's that bad, I'll leave.

What happened next is all sort of a haze. With roughly a third of a bottle of vodka sloshing around my stomach, I stumbled up the mansion's grand staircase and was ushered by the girls towards Hugh Hefner's bedroom suite. Tina brought me into the back door of the bedroom, which led into the large black and yellow bathroom. All the girlfriends—in various stages of undress—conglomerated around the large black marble bathtub with their feet dangling in the pool of hot water. I followed Tina's lead, took off my shoes, and dipped my feet in. I have to say, after a full night of dancing (in very high heels!), the hot water felt amazing.

Before I even had a chance to register much of what was going on, the girls quickly got up and hightailed it into the dark, cavernous room beyond. (They all hated the bedroom routine and tried to get it over with as quickly as possible.) Tina handed me a pink flannel pajama set to wear, which matched the ones all the other girls were grabbing out of Hef's massive closet area. (Yes, Hef's harem wore flannel pj's. How's that for a fantasy?)

As Tina led me into the bedroom, I stumbled over and weaved through massive piles of junk covering the floor. It appeared that Hef liked to collect more than just women. Ceiling-high piles of videotapes, stuffed animals, art, and gifts littered the room. It was like an episode of
Hoarders
. But perhaps in his case it would be more appropriately titled
Whore-ders.

Two huge television screens projecting graphic porn lit up the otherwise dark bedroom. In the middle, a very pale man was tending to his own business (if you're catching my thinly veiled innuendo) and puffing on a joint before passing it around to the nearest blonde. The girlfriends, in various stages of undress, were sitting in a semicircle at the edge of the bed—some kneeling, some standing, and some lying down.

I sat myself on the edge of the bed—unsure of what to do next. I leaned into Vicky—after all, she was the one I was most comfortable with.

Maybe if I hide behind her,
I thought,
I'll go unnoticed for the night
.

“Fake the fuck!” she hissed in my ear and pulled me towards her. “I'll explain later!”

She didn't have to explain. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I could see that all the girls, backlit by the large screens, were putting on a show: they were going through the motions as if they were getting it on or making out with each other, but no one really was. It was just a big façade. No one was actually in the mood (besides Hef, I assumed) or turned on in the slightest. Like the porn itself, it was all just for show. There was loud music blaring, but if you got close enough to any of the girls, you could hear them gossiping with one another or making fun of what was going on in front of them. If smartphones had been around then, I'm pretty sure they would have been texting or checking their Instagram when Hef wasn't looking.

When I think about it now, it's almost comical. Every red-blooded American male has no doubt fantasized about what went on in Hugh Hefner's bedroom with his harem of blond bombshells. The answer? Not a whole lot.

Looking back, I don't know if Hef believed the charade. Truthfully, I don't think he cared one way or the other. Whether it was real or fake, he would be satisfied in knowing that the only reason it was happening at all was for his own personal pleasure.

The girlfriends, and Vicky, it seemed to me in particular, were desperate to bring as many new girls up into the bedroom as possible. With more “fresh meat” available for Hef, it was less likely that they'd be called on to have sex with their “boyfriend” as often. Hef could keep up with only so many girls in a night, so, as I saw it, Vicky had quickly figured out that recruiting new girls effectively achieved two goals at once: not only would she most likely avoid having to have sex with Hef, but she'd also earn his favor by bringing around pretty new young things for his enjoyment. Of course at the time, I knew none of this. Despite the bimbo label often placed on Hef's harem, some of these girls were quite savvy. Girlfriend politics was serious business: ruthless, calculated, and complex. On that particular night, Candice and I were the newest victims—and it definitely felt to me that our new “friend” pushed us into the action.

“Heeeef . . . don't you want to be with the new girl?” Vicky screamed over the loud music as she reached over and pushed him towards me.

Much to my surprise, my turn was over just as quickly as it started. By the time I was able to wrap my head around what was happening, Hef had already moved on to Candice, then to a few of his actual girlfriends before finishing off by himself, as he always did. I have never had a more disconnected experience. There was zero intimacy involved. No kissing, nothing. It was so brief that I can't even recall what it felt like beyond having a heavy body on top of mine.

Even though it was just a few short minutes of my life, I had never taken intimate experiences lightly, so it weighed heavily on me. I was disappointed in myself that it had come to this. Even in my drunken haze, I knew that it was a big decision I would have to live with.

Some of the girls leaned over and quickly pecked Hef on the cheek—in the same unattached manner that most would probably kiss their grandfather. The girls began filing out of the room, offering Hef a few candy-coated “good nights.” Quickly, I pulled on my pajamas and followed Vicky down the hall and into her bedroom. I was so wasted that I forgot to grab my club clothes and purse—which were strewn about somewhere on the floor of the master suite. Vicky ordered cheeseburgers and fries to the room as if it were any other night, but I passed out before the food even arrived.

Over the years, I would see so many girls come and go through that cavernous master bedroom. I never encouraged anyone to come up there and was often downright cold to some of the girls Hef would invite out with us. It wasn't because I felt threatened or even due to my own embarrassment, but mostly because I didn't want to do to those girls what Vicky had done to me. I had hoped my hard exterior would dissuade them from making my same mistakes. Vicky had tried to act all buddy-buddy, like we were just friends having fun together, like she wanted me to be a part of her club, but I had been used: plain and simple. Unfortunately, it took me a while to realize that. At the time, I wanted to believe that Vicky actually liked me, and only pushed Hef towards me because she wanted me to become a girlfriend. Like I said in the beginning, I was naïve.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
, I woke up feeling terrible—and it wasn't just the hangover. Vicky escorted me back to the master bedroom to help me look for my clothes and purse. And just as if it were any other morning, she gave me a friendly hug good-bye.

But I couldn't just leave. I
had
to find Hef.

After asking one of the butlers where he might be, I finally found him in the library busying himself with notes for that Friday night's mansion movie screening (before each movie he always prepared a sort of speech).

“Hef, can I bother you for a second?” I squeaked, my voice breaking midsentence (I would quickly adopt this as my “go-to” pitch when speaking with Hef—the higher octave made it easier for him to hear out of his one good ear). Without even looking up from the pages, he gestured with one hand that I enter his lair. In light of the evening prior, I was even more nervous in his presence than usual. Hef was so used to girls coming in to ask for favors, though, that he didn't seem at all surprised by my impromptu interruption. I had gone from hoping to move into the mansion to downright determined. There was no way I was not going to get what I wanted after having to sleep with him the night before (or, rather, earlier that morning).

In the years that would follow, I noticed that after being intimate with Hef, the new girls fell into one of three categories: the hustler, the runner, or the fighter.

Most of the girls that ended up becoming girlfriends reacted the same way: they were very nonchalant about their “initiation.” Before the sun even rose the following morning, these hustlers were already calculating just how many pennies they could squeeze out of the arrangement.

Next, we had the runners. While the hustlers were scheming, the runners were fleeing. Like a hit-and-run, these girls would bolt from the scene, never to be heard from again. While most—if not all—had hoped to land a pictorial, they disappeared off the face of the planet, never returning for another night out or party, despite being invited back. The “runners” always seemed like inexperienced girls, so I assumed they didn't come back because they didn't like what they had seen or done in Hef's bedroom while under the influence of alcohol, Quaaludes, or both.

My reaction fell into the third category: the fighters. I was freaked out and, frankly, ashamed by the experience. After disappointing myself like that, I had to come away with something positive, something to make it right in my mind, somehow. I knew that if I couldn't find a silver lining, I couldn't forgive myself for the night before. The other girls who would react as I did were probably the most damaged and affected—we couldn't so easily shrug off what we had been reduced to. It would haunt us, but in order to move forward we needed to find an upside.

For me, asking to move in therefore seemed like the next rational step—or so I convinced myself—and I decided to bite the bullet. After all, it hadn't occurred to me to invite myself out to a club night until prompted—and I had met a very welcoming response—so I figured I might have the same luck with moving in. I was a young blond girl with a small waist and large boobs, but I wasn't quite as polished as the girls that usually decorated
Playboy
's pages—and hallways. Still, for the most part, I fit the bill of “girlfriend.”

I can do this,
I thought.

It might be hard to understand, but in that moment, I didn't blame Hef for anything creepy that had gone on the night before. He had the “nice guy” act down pat and it worked. At the time, Hef still had a certain swagger. There was a gentlemanly air about him that belied his reputation. And there was never a shortage of Hef's friends lingering around the mansion who were all too eager to remind every pretty young thing that stepped through the doorway what an amazing, kind man Hugh Hefner is. It was easy to fall under the spell. If anything, it was the other girls I felt used by, and I couldn't let them win.

“Can I ask you something?” I let out another squeak. He looked up at me for the first time and I flat-out told him that I had no place to live. “What do you think about me moving in?”

He took a brief moment to consider what I had just asked before finally saying, “You can stay for a while and we'll see how it works out.”

C
HAPTER
3

“It's really dreadful,” she muttered to herself, “the way all the creatures argue. It's enough to drive one crazy!”

—
Lewis Carroll,
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

I
t only took me one trip in my beat-up red Toyota Celica to move my entire life from a tiny Westwood apartment into a Holmby Hills estate. No one offered to move me in, but I didn't really need the help. I didn't have much to bring besides the few outfits I owned, some makeup, my college books, and a handful of childish knickknacks, like Disney Princess picture frames and Star Wars figurines. I don't even think I owned a curling iron at the time. I left my single twin mattress next to a Dumpster.