Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (36 page)

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Hef and Kimberley’s

Midsummer Night’s Dream

Playboy Mansion West

August 13, 1993

8 p.m.

Sleepwear of course.

I am going to the Playboy Pajama Party! But what on earth will I wear?
Deciding that boxer shorts and an old T-shirt probably wouldn’t do, I made a quick trip to Victoria’s Secret for more appropriate sleepwear. I opted for a conservative, classy, forest-green satin pajamas pantsuit and left the top unbuttoned enough to reveal a lacy green, push-up bra.
Sexy and classy but not too trashy. I can live with that.

I’d never been to an adult pajama party, let alone one at Hef’s.
This could be the pajama party to end all pajama parties!
As a youngster, I’d get so excited when invited to a friend’s sleepover. But as the night wore on, especially if we turned off the lights to have a séance, I’d get scared and want to go back to my mommy and the comfort of my own home. I was feeling a bit the same way now, not knowing what would go down at this sexy shindig. And there could be a lot going down at a Playboy party.
Am I prepared for this?

I arrived at The Mansion, left my car with the valet, and was ushered not into the building, but to the backyard. The entire grounds, including the pool and waterfall, were enclosed in a forty-feet-high tent and were decorated like a Middle Eastern harem room with thousands of multicolored satin pillows strewn about the ground. The transformation was astounding. Tall tables stood laden with decadent refreshments. I adored the chocolate-dipped strawberries.

But I abhorred the old geezers in bathrobes dancing with young ladies dressed (barely) in lacy, thong lingerie. (I assume they were models from the magazine.) It just didn’t seem right. I was clearly an overdressed prude by comparison. Other than the gray-haired grandpas cavorting with females young enough to be their granddaughters, I didn’t notice any particularly sordid pajama games going on. No one was playing “truth or dare,” as far as I could tell. I wasn’t asked to participate in a séance where some poor victim lies flat on her back and people try to levitate her using only two fingers each while chanting, “White as a ghost. Stiff as a board.” No spin the bottle. Instead, hundreds of people in sleepwear were drinking and eating and laughing and talking and mingling much like at any other outrageously resplendent, celebrity, adult pajama party in Hollywood.

Not knowing a soul and feeling awkwardly alone, I scanned the room for any of my Rock & Roll gal pals. They were nowhere to be seen. Surely Scott Baio was somewhere nearby; he was often spotted at The Mansion. What would I say to him? “Hey, Chachi! I used to love wa wa watching you [“wa wa wa” was his catchphrase] on
Happy Days.
Wha wha whatcha been up to since the seventies?” The only face that looked familiar was that of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who stood head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd (He was literally a few heads taller than everyone else). But we didn’t know each other, and I wasn’t brave enough to get the ball rolling with the basketball giant.

Suddenly my attention was diverted from Kareem by a bovine bounding toward me. As it got closer I started to recognize the little heifer. “Holy Cow! Is that you, Satin?” She was wearing white-and-black-spotted cow footie pajamas complete with cow slippers and a hood with cow ears. “Moooooo!” she giggled. There she was, a real honest-to-goodness bona fide Playmate of the Month with the body and professional nude modeling skills to carry off an alluring outfit that would highlight her double features and have every man in the tent eating out of the palm of her hand. Instead, she went totally against convention, put herself into the goofiest pjs she could find, and showed off her teats (the udder ones). That gal had a great sense of humor and could keep me laughing until the cows came home.

Soon, the rest of the Girls of Rock & Roll found us, and we danced and caroused and whooped it up by ourselves. I was relieved to have my friends there to hang out with. Other than them, this wasn’t really my kind of crowd. The most memorable part of the night was getting walked in on by a male guest while using the poolside bathroom in the cave and being yelled at to “Lock the door next time!” “I did push the lock!” I shouted back. As if I
wanted
him to see me sitting there with my pants around my ankles. Mr. Hefner really needed to get that lock fixed.

When the party was good and hopping, Hef and Kimberley finally made their appearance, Hef sporting the latest version of his signature silk pajamas, smoking jacket, and velvet slippers. His connection with sleepwear began back in the 1970s, when he pulled all-nighters working on the magazine in his pjs and was still wearing this unusual office attire when his employees clocked in the next day. Eventually, his unorthodox, casual clothing carried over into social occasions, too, culminating in the creation of his infamous pajama party. What an ingenious uniform for a man who had built an empire associated with the bedroom.

While I was in the lavatory unintentionally exposing myself to a rude dude with a full bladder, an old timer in the pool was purposefully exposing himself to Callie and other guests. Rave in the cave! Apparently, he was ready to play party games like he did as a member of Hef’s gang back in the wilder and crazier days. However, no one wanted to pin the tail on his donkey. Disgusted, Callie promptly informed Kimberley about the flasher at her bash. She sensibly responded, “Tell him ‘Mrs. Hefner prefers that you keep your swimsuit on in the grotto.’” I agreed with the lady of the household.

Feeling out of place and overly tired from jet lag and the long trip back from Japan, I was ready to leave early. As I waited to get my car, I saw beautiful, blond
Beverly Hills, 90210 actress
Tori Spelling standing next to her date, who was causing a big scene with the valet. Shouting. Finger pointing. Rudeness. Made my skin crawl. Was this considered acceptable conduct in Hollywood? Where I came from, a kid with bad behavior like that may have been spanked and put right to bed. (Of course, this crowd probably wouldn’t consider that a punishment.)
I want my Mommy. I want to go home.

*******

The following week we were off on a five-day excursion to Puerto Rico. A white limo transported us from the airport to the seaport of San Juan where we stayed and performed at the Sands Hotel. San Juan was a tropical, oceanside, palm tree paradise, where the ocean water was warmer than the heated pool. It was glorious!

For our cast, we traded in the disconsolate threesome—Tasha, Tina, and Marina—for Lynda—a lovely blond Playboy’s Girls of Rock & Roll vet with a beautiful voice and decent dance ability—to fill the vacant singer spot. Thankfully, this production was back to all covered and no topless. Since we had left Tasha behind in Japan, the “Erotica” solo was passed on to me. What bothered me most was not the dance itself, but the exceptionally tiny G-string that highlighted my meager costume. I was petrified about moving too much and exposing more than I wanted to. Like a surgeon careful to keep a steady hand and not slip, doing the splits was a delicate procedure. One wrong move and I’d be operating far outside my comfort zone. I wished I could crazy glue that G in place so my privates stayed private.

Gee whiz, our costumes were high maintenance! I had no idea how much effort would be required to look good in a flimsy piece of fabric. When sunbathing or swimming, for instance, we had to wear thong bikinis so that we didn’t get unsightly tan lines. Tan lines and sunburns look terrible on stage and a black thong over marshmallow-white buns with toasty golden brown legs was particularly unappealing. It was hard to find an appropriate swimsuit. Nude sun bathing really would have been the way to go. As far as I was concerned, prancing around poolside with a nearly nude keister was far more embarrassing than singing in a thong on stage. Plenty of Puerto Ricans (and other international patrons) were perfectly at ease wearing next to nothing. But I never felt comfortable with my fanny wiggling freely in broad daylight and always covered up with a wrap skirt when I wasn’t lying down on the chaise lounge.

In addition to performing our show, the hotel asked us to be models in a (mostly) swimsuit fashion show by the pool and then sign autographs on our promotional photos. I had to wear an animal print unitard that made me look like a dehydrated leopard, but I attempted to infuse my prowl on the catwalk with some animal magnetism. We were also guest stars on a television show in which we wandered around town, with the
muy guapo
(very handsome) host, asking men, “¿Dónde está mi esposo?” (Where is my husband?) I never did track down my mate, but I sure did find some fantastic dance partners when we went nightclubbing Puerto Rican style. Let me tell you, all the men there can dance a mean Cha Cha and Merengue.
Muy bueno!

*******

When we returned to Los Angeles, I took my belongings out of storage and moved to a studio apartment across the hall from my dear sister, Cindy. Our high-rise building on Venice Boulevard in Culver City sat in a borderline, risky neighborhood. Several of the tenants were surely drug dealers. I didn’t feel safe living alone, but was comforted that Cindy was only a few doors away. This wasn’t the idyllic, small-town, beachfront scenery of Del Mar, but seeing the Hollywood sign in the hills atop downtown L.A. sent a shiver of excitement over the possibility of hitting the big time. This was the place where dreams came true.

In general, Los Angeles had a distinctly different vibe than the San Diego area, and I tried to ascertain and absorb the unspoken rules of surviving in this City of Angels. Rule
numero uno:
You have to look good, preferably stunning. This Pretty Package includes having a golden tan, six-pack abs, well-toned biceps, the most up-to-date trendy haircut, and, for the women, a nice set of perky breasts (for the men, a Fabio-sized set of pecs). If you ain’t got the goods, sympathetic locals may pity you enough to help you attain those qualities: “Why don’t you come to the gym with me as my guest?” Or “Hey, I know a great hair salon.” It’s also best to have a personal trainer (and a therapist, while you’re at it) if you wish to feel part of the tribe. Tourists, of course, are welcome to have pot bellies, bad hair days, and wear plus-size shirts that don’t reveal their belly jewels; after all, TV shows are always looking for makeover candidates to transform.

Much of this obsession with looks had to do with movie star worship. Movie stars were America’s royalty and Hollywood was Buckingham Palace. So over the top was our idolization of these über babes that you could start to feel like you were nobody if you weren’t somebody. When you lived in L.A., you couldn’t help but be influenced by Hollywood. Everywhere you looked were billboards advertising the latest films, movie stars, and wannabe movie stars or rock stars hoping to be discovered. Even if you didn’t aspire to be a movie star, you most certainly wanted to look like one. I really couldn’t think of a reason to live there unless you were a part of the film industry or servicing the people who were a part of the film industry. It was big business that commanded a lot of attention and admiration, deserved or not. That’s why I was there, after all.

Rule
numero dos:
You need a reliable car, because you will absolutely
live
in it, although you won’t necessarily drive many miles a day. Mostly you’ll just sit in traffic sucking in smog and being honked at and sworn at in various languages by the multicultural community of drivers. Road rage was especially contagious in the overbearing heat of the summer. Automobile outings had to be planned somewhere in the window of about 10:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m. if you wanted to actually move on the freeway. Otherwise, feel free to park on the 405 and enjoy the cement landscape for a few hours. Even a fifteen-mile drive could take an hour and a half under the right conditions, so you might as well get comfy in your vehicle.

An element of dreariness and danger underscored the vitality of Hollywood due not only to enraged drivers, terrible traffic jams, and oppressive heat waves, but also to shootings, gang violence, riots, smog, and threat of natural disasters including the all-time favorites: earthquakes, wild fires, and floods eroding homes into the sea. I was an impermanent fixture in an impermanent city. In the back of my mind, I recalled all the times scientists warned of the San Andreas fault and how California, in an involuntary act of secession, would one day break off from the contiguous United States and float around like a piece of flotsam and jetsam.

If the city did meet its demise, you could bet Los Angelenos were going to look their best for the occasion. They were on the cutting edge of fashion and fitness trends like Pilates, yoga, oxygen bars, vegetarianism, juicing, tofu, Tae Bo, tattoos, and Doc Martens. To fit in, you should adore a soy caffè latte in the morning followed by carrot-ginger juice and a light salad for lunch. And ix-nay on the smoking, eh? It was illegal in public places and not James Dean cool like it used to be. Breathing the L.A. air was toxic enough; ya didn’t need cigarette smoke to add to the lung liability. You could up your trendiness even more by shopping on Melrose Avenue with the other pierced and tattooed patrons.
So that’s where rock stars go to buy their spandex hot-pink-and-black leopard-print leggings.
No Midwestern sensible slacks, couch potato, and creamed chipped beef casseroles for me anymore. I wanted to be a non-smoking, smokin’ hot, fit, and fashionable Los Angeleno.

*******