Playground (40 page)

neck.

I grab a bottle of Valium and run after him.

It’s Halloween at the Mansion. As I walk along the property, I feel-

ing that magical pull into the familiar world of lingerie and glitter.

The ultimate playground for consulting adults.

A secret society.

A game with no rules; a place where everyone avoids the truth

yet continues to search for it in places where they will never find it;

diluted versions of what is real.

I am back where I started.

On the front lawn are stone tombstones covering the grounds.

A fog machine pumps billows of white smoke, casting a dreamy

haze in the air. It’s an eerie feeling as the names of Hef ’s ex-

girlfriends become apparent on the tombstones. On the outside of

the castle, the words “House of Hefenstein” are projected onto an

enormous screen with white spotlights with lightning bolts re-

flecting off the sides.

Oversize monsters pop out from behind bales of hay and scare

everyone. Huge tents have been erected and turned into haunted

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houses. The atmosphere is festive, campy, and over the top. It feels

like an amusement park.

Television monitors line the stage and dance floor, playing old

black-and-white horror movies. The DJ spins hip-hop and trance

over the speckled dance floor. It’s another raging party and I’m

rolling on ecstasy in a SWAT team vest, fishnets, Versace heels, and

a toy Uzi strapped across my waist.

Someone in a gorilla suit asks me where the buffet table is. We

make some small talk and I point him in the right direction. Later,

I see him eating finger sandwiches, his mask removed: it’s Mick

Jagger.

I wave to Ben Affleck as he and Jared Leto, Justin Timberlake,

Leonardo DiCaprio, and Tobey McGuire dash by in baseball jer-

seys, white pants with kneepads, and black makeup underneath

their eyes. Batgirl, Tarzan, vampires, and women dressed as young

schoolgirls prowl around the property exuding openness and sex-

ual freedom.

I look around at all the familiar faces.

I smile when I see Hef. His spirit and enthusiasm still amaze

me. I make sure to walk over to thank him and kiss him hello.

Hours later, I’m in the game room with Tori Spelling and

Stephen Dorff. I play a quick game of Foosball with Thora Birch

and then waltz into the blue room, where I find girls snorting coke

off some guy’s bare chest. I am speechless for a moment because

their high-pitched squealing noises are beyond annoying.

Out of nowhere, someone pounds on the door. “Security,” a

deep voice announces. I hide out of habit. One of the girls stops

sniffing long enough to open the door while I duck behind the

curtain.

“We have to keep the door unlocked. We’ve had some com-

plaints of rape,” the security guard informs us, leaving the door wide

open as he leaves. This place has become so strict over the years.

These days, background checks are done on all guests attend-

ing the parties. Mansion regulars and old-time Playmates with

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plastic smiles are shuttled in from a nearby parking lot where

check-in tables are stationed with alphabetized names. A manda-

tory photo ID is required before one receives a Playboy wristband.

Security guards check for wristbands before, during, and after the

five-minute shuttle ride to the Mansion. Fire marshals, para-

medics, and security guards with walkie-talkies line the perimeter

of the property. I constantly feel like I’m being watched. Unlike in

the seventies and eighties, drugs are not seen in public, so people

sneak into bathrooms to indulge discreetly in their addiction of

choice. Though safety measures and precautions are taken, the

Mansion is still the most free-spirited, sexually liberated environ-

ment around.

The familiar faces beg me to get water. It seems our drymouth

has taken full affect. I grab handfuls of water bottles from the mini

refrigerator in the game room and say hello to Owen Wilson, who

is lounging on the couch.

I return to the X-Zone (the blue room), where the three girls

are now naked under the sheets. They are kissing one another as

one of the girls pulls out an eighteen-inch strap-on vibrator and

starts fucking the other girl from behind.

“This must be your lucky night,” I say to the guy who is finger-

ing the other two girls at the same time.

People are walking in and out of the room as if it’s no big deal.

One of the girls rubs against me and I pull away feeling claus-

trophobic. “What’s wrong with you? I thought you love this shit,”

one of the girls I vaguely recognize says to me.

“That was before I was legal. But I hear orgies are back,” I say,

slipping off the bed as my discomfort level peaks.

“You’re boring. Go away,” some naked Asian skank on the floor

says to me, like I’m the asshole who’s ruining their little pussy

party.

“I may not speak Chinese, but I’m pretty sure the words for ‘gay

porn’ are universal,” I say, kicking her in the shin on my way out.

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Playground

I’m too old for this shit. I close the door on the live entertain-

ment.

I then meet up with my sister, who is wearing a Trashy lingerie

police officer uniform, short black skirt and five-inch Manolo

Blahniks.

“Do I look fat?” she asks.

“No. You look beautiful,” I tell her, knowing nothing I say will

ever make the mantra in our heads go away.

I will become sickened by my parents’ obsession with weight

and the dichotomy they represent: my father helps people starve

themselves while my mother counsels those who are starving.

One daughter will eat to fill the void, while the other one won’t

eat at all, hoping love may come along and save her.

It will be years before I can acknowledge my emotional trans-

action: not of love but of rage: my rage over never receiving the

kind of emotional support, love, and guidance I needed so desper-

ately to survive. The effects of my childhood warfare are so power-

ful I disguise myself behind a mask, a wall so thick I learn to keep

everyone at a distance.

I’m on a desperate search for drama. Our feet sink into over-

size pillows as we waltz around the tented backyard. I kiss the twin

glam Playmates hello.

“How do you know them?” my sister asks as we make our way

to the outdoor bar passing Cameron Diaz, Britney Spears, and the

“hot” Paris Hilton along the way.

We make loops around the maze of celebrities. Sarah Jessica

Parker and Mini Me are surrounded by tall naked women in body

paint. I hug and kiss a few Playmates and throw air kisses to Tony

Curtis, who whizzes by. Anthony Robbins has two blondes, one on

each arm. When he kisses them his entire mouth envelops their face.

I tell him I have all his tapes but he doesn’t seem too interested.

A compilation of Dr. Dre and Eminem blares through the speak-

ers as Savannah and I stare at video monitors running footage from

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previous Mansion parties. We watch ourselves in a few blurbs,

faced with the uniqueness of our childhood.

I overhear my sister talking to one of the Playmates.

“Ask Jennifer, she’s Dad’s daughter. I’m my mother’s.”

I pull Savannah aside, more annoyed than hurt.

“Why do you continue putting us into separate categories? It’s

like you revel in my mistakes from the past,” I tell her.

“You are so insecure, it’s criminal. Maybe that’s why you fit in

so well,” she snickers, looking around at the Hollywood scene she

has grown to despise.

“You’re fine so long as Mom favors you. The moment you de-

tect her and me getting close you move in and scapegoat me as the

outcast of the family.”

“The consummate victim. You dwell on it. I’m leaving. I don’t

even know why I came.” Savannah takes off in a huff.

I look away, knowing we are still playing out the split in our

family. We both know things will never be as they once were. One

moment we are sisters, laughing and playing, the next moment we

are two women standing on opposite sides of the fence.

I think of when we were kids, trying to figure out the day she be-

came a woman instead of a child. She is a stranger to me now. I look

over at the waterfall and remember us as kids taking turns jumping

off. I think back on a time when we enjoyed the simple things in life

like hopscotch, water puddles, sharing an ice cream cone.

A time when we were happy.

I hear Limp Bizkit scream, “Do you know where you are?”

Where am I? I think to myself. My palms are wet. I tell myself

everything would be okay if I could just separate the present from

the past. Maybe my thoughts are creating my reality.

I go after my sister and find her in the valet line. I look down,

profoundly saddened by the loss of not having grown up with her.

“Here I am your older sister and I don’t feel like I’ve been there

for you as much as I should’ve been. Sometimes it’s like we’re not

even sisters,” I tell her through a well of guilt.

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“We’re sisters.” She puts her arm through mine.

“Sisters are supposed to have a mom and dad, but you have a

mom and I have a dad.”

“It’s weird, there will always be a part of me that wants to fit

into Dad’s world,” she says, looking up at the gray stone castle.

“But it’s not who I am. I don’t know why I keep trying,” Savannah

confesses.

“I know what you mean. I still feel on the outside of Mom’s

world. I guess we both lost out on a parent.”

We look at each other. Two very different sisters.

“I want us to be close again, like we once were, when we were

little,” I say, sincerely.

“It’s never going to be like that. We were kids then.” Tears fill

my eyes when she says this. They are always just under the surface

when it comes to my sister.

Savannah leaves and things are never the same between us.

I rejoin the party, bumping into Tommy, a Mansion regular, who

puts his arm around Hef and boasts, “Hef, do you know who this

is? This is Jennifer Saginor!” he shouts and I am amused only be-

cause I know Tommy is wasted.

Hef looks at Tommy and then at me.

“Of course I know Jennifer. She grew up here,” Hef replies con-

fidently and a huge sense of relief overcomes me.

Hef ’s acknowledgment of my childhood is strangely mean-

ingful.

As I stand there, I realize that Hef ’s the one person who never

wronged me, never hurt me, and never treated me with anything

less than absolute care. He allowed me to be a child in his midst.

These thoughts are interrupted by some slut who slurs, “What

ever happened to Dr. Feel Good? I used to get all my shit from

your father back in the eighties, and now he won’t prescribe shit.”

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I shrug, moving past her.

Someone cracks open a bottle of Cristal as a size-zero naked

blonde drenched in body paint passes a tray of Absolut Jell-O

shots. I down a few, peering around as the Jester jots down a hot

girl’s phone number on Hef ’s notepad. I laugh to myself, asking

Hef who all these new girls are.

“I have no idea.” He smiles warmly and then asks if I’ve seen

the crazy doctor.

And then I do.

A man dressed in a red devil suit, complete with tail and pitch-

fork, reaches out to hug me. It’s him. He’s wearing one of his out-

rageous trademark hats. This one resembles Dr. Seuss’ because it’s

three feet tall with red and white stripes.

“What’s with the hat?” I ask my father.

Dad shrugs. “It’s Halloween. I can do what I want.”

“As if Halloween makes a difference.”

“That’s true,” he says, looking around at all the gorgeous tan

beauties, “Life is great if you’re like Hef and me.”

“It’s paradise . . . ,” Hef says, singing along to a classic tune.

“We’re like Peter Pan,” Dad confirms, “We never get old!”

Hef chuckles as a young blond pulls him away. He sings “Lol-

lipop, lollipop . . .”

“What’s her name?” I ask.