Down the Rabbit Hole (13 page)

I later talked Hef into installing a desk in place of the TV and chair and putting down beautiful hardwood floors in place of the white carpet, which had long ago been ruined by dogs and Lord knows what else. I had a hard time believing that an elegant man like Hef (or so I assumed) preferred the nasty old carpet to the classic hardwood floors that so complemented the rest of the room. I was wrong. Instead, Hef insisted the change was a
huge
sacrifice he made for me and that “if this doesn't show you how serious I am about you, nothing will.”

Did he really just suggest that his love for me was reflected by his willingness to rip up decades-old carpet?
I thought. Yes, yes, he did.

Speaking of declarations of love, now that I was Hef's number one girlfriend, the vows of love flowed freely, just as they had to Tina days earlier. “I love you” was something he said often and to anyone he was even remotely involved with, including me on what was our second night out together. I realized that was abnormal, but I came to hope that those feelings were true, particularly as he started referring to me in front of friends as the “love of his life” and telling the press he expected to spend the rest of his life with me. That last quote quickly turned into a punch line as late-night comedians speculated if the “rest of his life” meant one or two more years.

I suppose the main girlfriend role did have some other “perks.” Suddenly, Playmates who had once mocked me were kissing my ass, bringing me gifts, and showering me with compliments now that I was Hef's number one girlfriend. The sudden shift in the way some of those girls acted was completely obvious and shameless, but I suppose they thought I was too dumb to notice or that I would be so grateful to be treated kindly for a change that I wouldn't object. The reality was, I knew I had to choose my battles wisely. I graciously accepted their gifts and their compliments, but I wasn't stupid and I never forgot how they had treated me before, when I was just the lowest blonde on the totem pole.

Despite being on the receiving end of Hef's romantic declarations and suddenly being “popular” with the Playmates, I still wasn't exempt from Hef's harsh criticisms. Among the many unspoken rules at the mansion, the red lipstick rule was one of the more notorious. Hef
hated
red lipstick. It was one of the few helpful hints I managed to squeeze out of Vicky. I'm not overexaggerating here; Hef absolutely despised red lipstick and wouldn't allow his girlfriends to wear the color.

“Maybe he doesn't want lipstick on his collar,” Vicky had suggested years earlier. I always found it so hard to believe, because Hef has such a deep appreciation for the gorgeous film stars of the golden age of Hollywood. Betty Grable, Alice Faye, and his muse, Marilyn Monroe, were always painted with succulent red lips. It didn't make any sense that he wouldn't want his girlfriends to exude that same kind of glamour, so I didn't take her warning too seriously.

I would learn my lesson the hard way.

About six months after moving into the mansion, I felt ready for another makeover. I loved my waist-length thick, natural hair. In fact it had long been the physical attribute I was most proud of—mainly because it was the only thing I had that all the other girlfriends, with their extensions and clip-in locks, had to buy. New girls were always coming through the mansion's revolving front door, but I was the only one with enviable hair.

Until Mary Jo. She was a southern belle flown out from Alabama for a Playmate “test shoot.” She had ass-length blond all-natural hair and was dead-set on becoming Hef's newest girlfriend. This woman wasn't just any old blonde; she was single-handedly hijacking the only thing that made me different. I couldn't believe how threatened I felt by her. The fact that I could be so easily upset by something like this made me want to rebel, to do something that would make me an individual, so that I wouldn't constantly feel so replaceable.

I was cracking under the pressures of living at the mansion and resented the fact that everyone had to look like such a clone. Save for the blond hair, the big boobs, and our shared address, I had absolutely nothing in common with these girls. So why should we have to look like we were carbon copies of one another?

I decided to take it upon myself to embrace a more retro aesthetic—a look that captured the old Hollywood glamour I was so fascinated with. Think: more Marilyn, less Pamela.

One sunny afternoon, I decided to do the unthinkable: chop off all my hair. I drove directly to the hair salon and instructed my stylist to cut off about 20 inches of platinum blond hair. It was a drastic move, but I felt liberated by my short new coif. While all the girls were in a race to see who could have the longest hair possible, I had a flirty chin-length bob. I completed the look by having the hairdresser and makeup artist style me like Marilyn Monroe. Though I was making the change for me, I was also sure that Hef wouldn't mind. After all, he worshipped Marilyn and often cited her as the ideal in feminine beauty.

When I got back to the mansion, complete with curled bob, black eyeliner, and red lips, I sat down at my vanity.
This is a fun look,
I thought, admiring my new reflection as I heard Hef shuffle into the bedroom.

“Come in here, Puffin,” I said in a happy singsong voice, “I want to show you something!” I stood up and straightened out my white Juicy Couture jumpsuit when he finally appeared in the doorway.

“
What
did you do?” he spat at me. Instantly, I was taken aback.

“I got a little makeover,” I said sheepishly, giving a slight pat to my new hair. Any shred of confidence I found over the last few hours was quickly evaporating. “I thought you would like it.”

“Well, I don't,” he hissed, taking a moment to analyze my new makeup and hair. My eyes immediately darted to the floor. I didn't know what to say. Of all the reactions he could have had, I was the least prepared for this one. I stood there, silent.

“Actually, I
hate
it,” he continued, the words shooting like knives off his tongue. “I hate the whole look. I hate the makeup and I
hate
the red lipstick.”

I couldn't help the tears that began streaming down my face, ruining the makeup I had been so excited about. I sank back onto the tufted stool. Was this really happening? He had never yelled at me like this before.

“Don't
ever
wear red lipstick again,” he warned me in a low voice and turned towards the door. I was utterly dumbfounded; it was such an irrational reaction to something so small. Even once he saw me crying, there wasn't an ounce of sympathy in his voice; he only saw red (pun intended).

He paused and turned back around to survey my reaction. Deciding he hadn't done enough damage, he served me one final blow before storming out of the room: “You look old, hard, and cheap.”

That was it; end of conversation. But that's how disagreements always ended with Hef; he would just stomp off and you were left to pick the pieces of your self-worth up off the floor. I'd invested every part of myself in Hef and the mansion and had nothing waiting for me outside those gates. I felt so trapped and so vulnerable to his criticisms. This old man had just humiliated me—and I sat there taking his ridicule like a child. I curled up on the vanity stool and sobbed for what felt like forever, in the one little corner of this whole giant mansion that was supposed to be my own. But even that wasn't real. It was his world—all of it.

He made no mention of the conversation again. When you're the king of all you survey, you don't really need to say much more. His point was clearly made. For many years his words rang in my ears: “old, hard, and cheap.”

Who says that to a person they supposedly love?

The whole episode made me feel beyond ugly, as if all the beauty products and cosmetic surgery in the world couldn't make me look good. I felt like an idiot for even trying to be beautiful. Maybe I was just the homely girl who was “lucky” enough for Hef to allow into the mansion. That's certainly how his actions made me feel. Needless to say, from then on, I stuck religiously to corals, pinks, and nudes, never daring to try red lipstick in front of him again.

Just when I was starting to give up hope that I could ever find any real positivity in Hef's twisted world, someone new caught my eye. I looked up from my book and adjusted the messy bun on top of my head that was disguising my poorly received new haircut.

I wonder who that is,
I thought. A bubbly Carmen Miranda–costumed blonde sauntered across the pool area handing out shiny beaded necklaces with tiny bottles of Jack Daniel's attached to all of the partygoers.

“Happy Cinco de Mayo!” The girl beamed, a huge, gleaming smile on her face as she handed me a necklace. She had a large, red headdress balanced on top of her head and seemed unusually perky.

“Thanks!” I said, accepting the beads and watching her walk over to Hef's backgammon table.
How fun,
I thought. Lately, I had become used to putting on a cheerful facade, since on the inside I was essentially Eeyore with a rain cloud following my every step. This girl was like a ray of sunshine so unlike the other Fun in the Sun party guests, all of whom spent the days self-consciously preening themselves while wearing boring basic bikinis. She seemed to glide right out of an old Hollywood musical!

I assumed she had to work for
Playboy
or Jack Daniel's or something. I mean, you had to be getting paid to be that bubbly, right?

That evening, after freshening up, I wandered downstairs for dinner and heard someone blurt out, “You cut your hair!” My new look had been so poorly received that I wasn't expecting any sort of compliments when I arrived in the great hall. Immediately, I spotted Miss Chiquita Banana sitting on the bench in a
Clueless
-inspired plaid skirt and matching top.

“Oh yeah,” I finally replied, self-consciously running my hand under my new blond bob. “I donated it to charity.”

“Oh, Locks of Love?” she asked, seeming genuinely interested.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling the tension in my shoulders begin to melt away. “They say they don't take colored hair, but my hair is really strong and it was super long, so I sent like 20 inches off in case they could turn it into a wig or something.”

It was the most I had said in hours . . . maybe days. Something about this girl allowed me to relax. I didn't feel like I needed to be on guard and I could sense that she genuinely wanted to be my friend.

“Oh, that's so sweet! I've always wanted to do that,” she cooed before sticking her hand out in front of me. “I know we've met before, but I'm Bridget.”

“I'm Holly,” I said, a smile taking over my face. “It's really nice to meet you again.”

Bridget started popping up around the mansion pretty regularly after that. Much to my surprise, she was just another girl invited to spend time at the mansion; her cheerfulness wasn't an act and she wasn't being paid to promote a brand, as I had initially assumed. She didn't have that same desperate air about her that plagued most of the girls who frequented Hef's place. Plus, she wasn't another platinum, plastic wannabe: this girl was refreshingly natural. She had dark blond hair, natural makeup, was plastic surgery free, and was always outfitted in some sort of themed ensemble. She was a walking, talking candy cane and I liked having her around. In a way, she reminded me of myself before Hef and his girlfriends had completely stripped me of my confidence.

It wasn't long before we became best friends. Her energy was contagious, making it nearly impossible to ever be in a bad mood when you're with her. Plus, it was a welcome relief to have a new friend in the house.

Eventually, Bridget Marquardt became one of Hef's girlfriends. When she moved in, I had already been at the mansion for more than a year and had been witness to the comings and goings of quite a few girlfriends. But for once, I didn't mind a new face taking up residence.

Looking back, I often wonder if having a friend like Bridget earlier might have saved my sanity. If I had had anyone else to turn to besides Hef, maybe I would have been able recognize the situation for what it was instead of convincing myself to fall in love with him.

C
HAPTER
5

Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh.

—Lewis Carroll,
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

O
ver the year I lived with her at the mansion, Vicky became increasingly hostile. She wanted desperately to be a Playmate, but Hef was done making girlfriends centerfolds—only we didn't know that then. Hef still let the possibility linger, knowing it was the key to attracting and keeping countless young girlfriends. Earning Playmate status became Vicky's obsession. A new crop of girls had moved into the mansion over the past year and Vicky was hell-bent on beating this new group to the coveted title. It seemed to me that she felt her seniority in the group gave her an edge or made her an exception when it came to snagging herself a centerfold.