Playground
Authors: Jennifer Saginor
Playgrou
A Childhood Lost I
nnside
the Playboy Mansion
d
J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R
In loving memory of Ashley Boyer,
who inspired me to speak the truth
I
n the journey to unravel our past we are con-
fronted by our demons. In order to avoid our demons
we create distractions. It’s in these distractions we
will find our own personal playground.
—JS
Contents
It’s 1975. I’m six when I see sex for the first time.
It’s Thursday, Dad’s day with us, and I can’t wait to jump in
his…
It’s 1977. By the time I’m eight years old, going to Hef ’s is
like…
It’s 1981. I am twelve when Dad moves into the Mansion…-
J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R
After the remodeling, Dad’s house becomes a mini Mansion.
By 1984 I’m a freshman at Beverly Hills High School.
My bedroom at Dad’s is stocked with all the latest high-tech…
Life becomes more exciting when I get my driver’s permit
and…
Kendall’s intensity overpowers me. The thing is, I’m not
sure…
I hit all the hot spots in town: Nicky Blair’s, Vertigo,
Helena’s…
At home I shower, letting the water run over me for almost
an…
It’s the middle of the night when Dad receives a phone call
that…
I attempt to call Hayden, but he does not answer. Finally, I
pick…
As summer rolls on, Kendall’s phone calls grow less frequent.
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Playground
The night of my seventeenth birthday I don’t have plans
with…
I wake up to someone knocking incessantly on the front
door…
On my way to school one day, not long after the night
when…
Most days after school Kendall and I meet at the park across…
It’s 1987. I graduate Beverly Hills High School with the rest
of…
Alone in Dad’s house, I beg Carmela not to leave. But by
2:00 a.m.
At eighteen years old, I feel twelve or even younger.
After college graduation, I move back to L.A. with a new set
of…
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J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R
viii
I t’s 1975. I’m six when I see sex for the first time.
After school, I wait alone by the fence. Most of the other kids
have gone home. I push my Coke-bottle-thick glasses up my small
nose as my green eyes squint against the sun. I pull my long brown
hair back into a ponytail.
Dad’s housekeeper, Carmela, a Hispanic woman with broken
English, blares the horn of Dad’s champagne Rolls-Royce convert-
ible from across the street. She picks me up today because Dad is
too busy.
Carmela cooks, cleans, and drives, but mostly she is my friend.
“
Jennifer!”
she hollers.
I rush to the car and duck inside.
“Where’s your sister?” she asks.
“She’s at Mom’s. She stayed home sick,” I tell her.
J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R
Carmela drives the car carefully to my father’s five-bedroom,
six-bathroom estate in the heart of Beverly Hills. Pulling into the
circular driveway, the automatic gate opens. Water trickles down a
large Mediterranean-style fountain.
Inside the foyer, a huge staircase parts to the left and right, di-
viding the room. The walls display the works of Alberto Vargas:
nude women with perky breasts and thin legs, and nude women
clad in black fishnet and holding whips posing next to white dogs.
Dad’s favorite is titled
Temptation
.
Arcade games and pinball machines line the living room walls
and an air hockey table sits in the center. In the corner is an old-
style jukebox. I punch in Linda Ronstadt and Kenny Rogers since
my father’s always telling me how lucky I am to know them.
I throw my Hello Kitty purse on the leather sofa and play a
quick game of pinball. After beating my highest score, I go into the
kitchen for a grilled cheese sandwich.
Carmela tells me now there’s a note from my father at the top
of the staircase in the pair of oversize porcelain breasts designed to
hold mail. The note is placed between the breasts and reads, “I’m
up at the Mansion. Have Carmela drop you off if you’re bored.”
I crumple the note, flicking it at the enormous Andy Warhol por-
trait displaying six different angles of my father’s face on the wall.
I tear my eyes away from his multiple faces and ask Carmela to
take me to Dad.
As we’re driving down Sunset Boulevard my curiosity gets the
best of me and I ask, “What’s the Mansion?”
“You know, Jennifer, I am just supposed to drive you, you
should ask your father,” Carmela rambles.
We pull up to a gigantic barred black gate. I start to get a sick
feeling in my stomach. We look around for a few minutes until we
hear a voice coming from a large rock next to Carmela’s window. If
you look closely, you can see a small round speaker inside the rock.
“Carmela Delatora. I have Jennifer Saginor,” she announces
and the enormous gates open.
2
Playground
We drive up a long driveway and I notice at least five gardeners
working on the cliff-like lawn. A castle comes into view and I in-
stantly feel like Alice in Wonderland, diving into the Great Un-
known. My nerves take over again as we near the massive gray
stone mansion before us. I tell Carmela I’ve changed my mind and
to please take me home. She assures me that my father is waiting
inside as she pulls around the circular driveway. I ask her to come
in, but she says that it would not be right.
Reluctantly, I slip out of the car and begin the journey of
my life.
I enter a grand marble foyer to find men lined up in funny
black penguin suits. The men smile at me creepily; they already
know my name. One of them escorts me through an enormous
living room with the biggest television screen I’ve ever seen. It’s
like a movie theater, but with soft plush couches, a fireplace, a
grand piano, and as much free popcorn as you want. Lounging
girls in short shorts, poufy hair, and Heaven T-shirts stare at me as
I pass.
The butler opens the doors to a smoky room where five men
glance up for a split second. They’re playing cards. There’s a built-
in backgammon table that is surrounded by a comfy couch and
leather chairs. My father’s eyes instantly light up at the sight of me
as he proudly introduces me to the men one by one. They nod, dis-
tractedly, and wave hello. Dad motions for me to say hello to Hef,
the handsome, kind-looking man dressed casually in a silk robe.
“Hello, darling.” Hef smiles graciously, as if he’s known me my
whole life. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Doc, you have such
an adorable daughter, are you sure you’re related?”
“Why, thanks, Hef. Your girls aren’t so bad themselves.”
Dad excuses himself and leads me through the screening room,
where four young blondes jump up to kiss him and wrap their
skinny arms around him.
Dad is a powerfully built man in his forties, with broad shoul-
ders, an athletic body, manicured hands, and a handsome face—a
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J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R
face people turn to look at. He’s a doctor, but he looks more like a
movie star playing the part of one.
He’s the kind of guy everyone wants to know.
My father, a bookworm from Ohio, graduated at the top of his
Dartmouth class Phi Beta Kappa, and from Harvard Medical
School. He then moved to Los Angeles and opened a private med-
ical practice in Beverly Hills. He soon became a renowned Holly-
wood fitness internist during a time when various weight-loss
regimens, including the Beverly Hills diet, a pineapple and grape-
fruit diet, the cabbage soup diet, amphetamines, and unidentified
vitamin shots, were beginning to peak in popularity.
As far as his rich and famous Los Angeles patients were con-
cerned, he was not just a world-class doctor but also a true genius.
He regularly prescribed the appetite suppressants they so coveted.
Pill popping was trendy and purses had become portable pharma-
cies. Everyone knew if you were famous and in real or imaginary
pain, prescriptions were a phone call away. Though concerned for
their reputations and restricted by a code of ethics, doctors made
names for themselves by providing legal ways for their clients to
get high. And my dad was the biggest name in Beverly Hills. Before
long, my father was referred to as “Dr. Feel Good.” All this in addi-
tion to his regular practice as an internist.
The legitimate part of his practice skyrocketed when Suzanne
Pleshette wrote a heartfelt poem that she dedicated to him and
read aloud on
The Tonight Show
. This poem announced to the