Down the Rabbit Hole (3 page)

And just like that, I would be swept under the rug with every other scandal and ghost that once plagued Hugh Hefner . . . and my memory would involuntarily serve as yet another public reminder of the beauty that is
Playboy
.

I think that knowing my death would be in vain convinced me not to go through with it. In truth, I didn't really
want
to die, but I saw no other way out. Thankfully the only thing greater than my need to escape was my desire to share my experience. If I sunk my head below the water and went to sleep, no one would ever know the truth.

Eventually I'll tell my story,
I thought. I wasn't sure when and I wasn't sure how, but someday I would fight my way out. Someday I would be whole again.

C
HAPTER
1

“Begin at the beginning,” the King said, very gravely, “and go on till you come to the end.”

—
Lewis Carroll,
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

S
lowly, the large iron gates surrounding the infamous compound creaked open and our shuttle began its ascent up the steep driveway. My nose was pressed so tightly against the window—anxious to spot any sign of the luxurious Holmby Hills estate expertly hidden by the lush foliage—that my makeup smudged on the glass. Over my shoulder, I heard a fellow partygoer point out the first glimpse of the 20,000-square-foot Gothic Tudor that was steadily coming into view.

“There it is!” a man in silk pajamas shouted. I craned my neck to spot the roof and fixed my eyes on the horizon as the mansion began to surface. Like an early morning sunrise, it was magic. The estate—situated on five rolling acres in one of L.A.'s most prestigious neighborhoods—looked like a castle from a fairy tale. My large eyes widened, trying to fully absorb this moment.

As the shuttle reached the top of the driveway, my girlfriend Heather spotted the infamous “Playmates at Play” sign and nudged me in the ribs.

“Look!” she said, her smile so large I thought it was about to snap off her cheeks. We both burst into laughter. We were positively giddy.
We are actually here
, I thought.
I made it to the mansion
. It had become a goal of mine to see the inside of these walls, and I told myself that I could now happily check that one off the bucket list. I even wondered if I would meet Gatsby himself . . . Mr. Hugh Hefner.

M
Y STORY WASN
'
T ATYPICAL:
a small-town girl—farmer's daughter, so to speak—who dreamt of becoming someone extraordinary.

There were less than 10,000 residents in my hometown, and my high school graduating class was smaller than the guest list to most Hollywood parties (since then, it has seen a boost in tourism thanks in part to the
Twilight
movies, but let me assure you, there was no Edward Cullen sauntering through my lunchroom).

After graduation, I moved 30 miles away to attend Portland State University. Which didn't feel far enough, but it was the best I could do.

It was early 1999 and I was in my second year in college when I heard on the news that
Playboy
's “Millennium Playmate” search was coming to Portland. Immediately, my mind started to wander. I found Oregon's weather depressing and didn't feel like opportunity exactly lurked around every corner there. I had been thinking a lot about moving to Los Angeles to try my luck, but I didn't know anyone in L.A. or have the financial means to make such a big move.

Apparently, according to the report, the magazine had been conducting a nationwide “on the road” search for the “Millennium Playmate.” A gigantic tour bus traveled the United States (and Canada), stopping in 45 cities testing candidates. The girl chosen would receive $200,000, would appear inside the January 2000 issue of
Playboy,
and would be flown around the world to represent the men's magazine for the entire year. It sounded like just the opportunity I was looking for!

This wasn't the first time
Playboy
popped up on my radar. As was true with many children of the '80s, it wasn't abnormal for us to have a
Playboy
magazine arrive at the house. I even remember my mom and dad studying the front cover of a
Playboy
once to find the hidden rabbit head. As a kid, you think that sounds like a pretty fun game, but we were quickly told that it was “for adults only.” One day my sister and I were scouring the house for any Christmas presents my mom may have hidden when we came across a few
Playboy
s that had been hidden away. We flipped through in absolute hysterics, pointing out all the bare butts. I was a kid, so I thought it was hilarious!

While
Playboy
wasn't completely foreign to my home, it still felt rebellious. I knew that if I auditioned for the “Millennium Playmate” and happened to be chosen, my parents wouldn't be thrilled at the prospect of me posing naked, but possibly would have respected my decision. It was a reputable magazine with a storied history, so it felt edgy but also somehow safe.

Plus, at the time many of Hollywood's biggest stars were appearing in the magazine: Cindy Crawford, Jenny McCarthy, Drew Barrymore, etc. Not to mention, my icon Marilyn Monroe was
Playboy
's first ever cover girl. Naturally, I too had pipe dreams about one day being in the magazine.

This is perfect,
I thought
. I'm going to audition!

According to the news report, the process was quite simple: call the provided number, make an appointment, and show up with your favorite bikini.

That's when my genius idea to fast-track my stardom hit its first speed bump: I didn't actually own a bikini. In my defense, I lived in Oregon. Why would I need a bikini? And when I say things were tight financially, I mean they were
tight
. But I decided it was about time to make an investment in my future. After calling the number, getting the address where the bus would be stationed, and securing an audition time the following week, I went shopping.

Needless to say, Portland wasn't brimming with retail shops specializing in swimwear, but I remembered seeing one downtown near my college campus, so I popped in to see what I could find. I didn't really know where to begin. Obviously, I had never taken photos in a bikini before (this was about 15 years before “selfies” became popular), so I didn't know what I should be looking for. After scouring the racks for the best deal, I decided on a silver metallic bikini that was both sexy but also one that I felt reasonably comfortable in.

Before the audition, I figured I should probably get some kind of tan. There weren't too many sunny days in the Pacific Northwest, so my complexion was incredibly light (particularly when coupled with blond hair and a silver swimsuit). I went to the nearby tanning salon and had my first experience with a tanning bed. I was terrified of going to my audition bright red, so I asked for the lowest possible voltage. It wasn't a drastic difference, but it did the job.

As I pulled into the address I had been given, I spotted the tour bus immediately. It was so large that it stood out like a sore thumb in the hotel parking lot it was stationed in. When I arrived, I was ushered inside the hotel lobby with the other “potential playmates” to fill out some paperwork before stepping onto the bus for the audition. Over my new metallic bikini, I wore a barely above-the-knee black “miniskirt” and a white button-down blouse in hopes of capturing that “girl next door” image photographers were apparently looking for. And, to be honest, it was also the sexiest outfit I owned.

To tell the truth, I was a bundle of nerves; I had never modeled before, so the idea that I'd be posing practically nude was terrifying. But I figured that since editors were hoping to discover new talent, they were expecting girls to be relatively inexperienced. On the bus, I envisioned a few stylists helping candidates with hair and makeup touch-ups and a distinguished photographer guiding the amateur models into the most flattering poses. Don't get me wrong, I knew it wasn't a full-blown shoot, but I expected at least a little help. It was
Playboy
, after all.

After a few minutes of waiting, I was escorted to the gigantic 45-foot-long tour bus with two other girls. We were made to wait in the ultra-lux “living room” area, which was wrapped in leather with a seven-foot movie screen in the back. I remember thinking that it was nicer than any home I'd ever been in. Framed portraits of
Playboy
's most iconic covers hung on the walls that reached up to a mirrored glass ceiling. A man with a clipboard walked into the room and greeted us. He gave us a brief history of the magazine and then asked that we go around the room and introduce ourselves and say why we were there.

One girl looked like a Pamela Anderson–inspired stripper with white poufy hair, a clingy silvery dress, and clear-plastic platform heels (and appeared to have brought her pimp with her). For a moment, I remember wondering if she was actually a female impersonator. There weren't too many women like her running around Portland at the time and I was so distracted by her appearance that, for the life of me, I can't recall a single thing she said.

The other girl was pretty, but not too remarkable, and I'd guess about 10 years older than me.

“I came to try out because I've always wanted to be a Playmate,” she gushed. The man with the clipboard smiled and nodded, pretending not to have heard this response more than 20,000 times already. “And me and my best friend have a bet on who would become one first. I want to be Miss April.”

Then it was my turn.

“I've always dreamed of moving to Los Angeles and becoming an actress,” I explained, the other two candidates glaring at me. “I love Marilyn Monroe and she was the first Playmate, so that's why I want to be in
Playboy
.”

For some reason, each of us believed we were total shoe-ins. I mean, I really thought I had a shot. Knowing what I know now, though, none of us ever stood a chance.

After the meet-and-greet, each girl was called one by one into the onboard “photo studio.” When my name was called, I stood up and pressed the creases out of my skirt before making my way into the room.

It all felt very rushed. Besides the photographer, the room was empty—no stylists or coaches to speak of.

“Hi, Holly, how are you?” the photographer said, staring down at my application in his hand and guiding me towards a white backdrop. “This will be great. Just relax. Have fun.”

I was instructed to strip down to my bikini for the first photograph. Brimming with nerves, I did what I was told.

“Awesome, great,” the photographer said hurriedly. “Now, can you take off your top?”

Oh shit! He wants me to do what?
I thought.
He's
not
going to take pictures of my boobs. Is he?

It was incredibly naïve; I know that now. I had figured that the first round of photos were just to see if you were cute enough to be called back and then perhaps we'd discuss the possibility of more revealing photos. I wasn't expecting to get naked at that very moment.

Begrudgingly, I shed my top for a photo. Given how incredibly awkward I felt, I can't imagine it was the most flattering photograph. Immediately, I felt the urge to do some kind of damage control. I had signed my life away on the photo release, so could they use these photos even if I wasn't selected?

“Um,” I said, clearing my throat. “Could you make a note or something that you don't have my permission to use these pictures unless I'm selected?”

The photographer gave me a weird look, clearly not expecting that kind of reaction from a girl auditioning for
Playboy
.

“Okay, I'll make that note,” he said before scribbling something down on my application. That was it, ten minutes and I was done.

Now looking back, I don't think I could have done anything more damaging to my chances. “Hi, I'm Holly. I want to be in
Playboy
but don't use my topless photo.” But at the time, I wasn't prepared for it. Of course I had hopes of becoming the “Millennium Playmate,” but I sure as hell didn't want a topless photo of myself snapped in the back of a bus to be printed in the magazine (worrying about it appearing online wasn't even a consideration back then). What if they did a spread of all the girls that auditioned?

Not too surprisingly, I never heard a word from them.

When the Millennial
Playboy
issue eventually came out, a set of Peruvian twins graced the centerfold (the girls were models from Miami who never even stepped foot on the
Playboy
bus; the “tour” was mostly a publicity stunt for the January issue).

Wow, twins!
I thought. I never stood a chance.

In the previous issue was a four-page spread called “Girls of the Millennium Search” showcasing collages of nude photos from the girls who auditioned on the bus. It was exactly the type of story I wanted to avoid. Frantically, I scanned the pages but didn't see my photo anywhere.