Love Life (15 page)

I’ve heard that fame doesn’t change you so much as it changes the people around you. It was certainly true for me. Stepping out of
my little Mazda at the Playboy Mansion, I was only a year and a half beyond not being a part of the cool parties and being totally ignored by 90 percent of the girls I thought were attractive.

Yet here I was, invited into the inner sanctum of Hugh Hefner, one of the twentieth century’s arbiters of cool as well as the undisputed king ladies’ man. The career .190 hitter was getting his first start in the bigs.

A butler held the heavy, Gothic-style door open as I entered the large stone-floored foyer. Tudor wood-paneled walls and a staircase to my left. A bustling bar right in front of me, where maybe twenty or so people mingled. There was no one to greet me; I knew no one and didn’t recognize any of the folks chatting and drinking. If there were cool celebs around, like Mick Jagger or Jack Nicholson, I certainly didn’t see them. I scanned the foyer for someone to talk to. The crowd was older than I was, most by about at least a decade, some by three or four.

“Where are the Bunnies?” I thought. I was surrounded by men who looked like either doctors or rock star managers. I made my way to the bar and ordered my traditional starter, a Corona with lime. Like any good alcoholic in the making, I downed it. Sipping was a talent I neither possessed nor admired.

“I’ll have another,” I said, and the bartender, who had probably seen a number of my kind, never batted an eye. Slowly, I felt the edge being taken off and I began to relax, the booze giving me both comfort and confidence.

“
Where are the Bunnies?!
”

I noticed people coming in and out of a darkened archway to the right. I made my way over and saw that it led to a screening room. The only light came from its Cineplex-sized screen, which was showing the opening coin toss of the game. It was enough light to glimpse the crowd; sitting on rows of couches I saw mostly middle-aged guys,
a few familiar older television actors and their dates, none of whom appeared to be Bunnies.

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Glad you could make it.” It was Hugh Hefner. In silk pajamas.

What if Babe Ruth wore nothing but pinstripes all the time? What if Kobe Bryant never took off his Lakers jersey or Bruce Springsteen still wore his
Born in the USA
headband? Imagine meeting Tiger Woods in his Sunday red and black or seeing Robert Downey Jr. in his Iron Man suit at lunch in the Polo Lounge. It’s one thing to meet a celebrity; it is something else to meet them in their most iconic form in everyday life. You almost believe it’s some sort of send-up. But Hef in PJs at midday in the middle of a party seemed totally organic.

I managed a few words, thanking him for the invitation.

“Well, make yourself at home. Have a good time,” he said, heading back to the screening room holding his beloved can of Coke. There were no empty seats in the theater to watch the game, so I decided to explore.

The mansion’s grounds were lush and vast, with pathways leading to topiaries, past manicured lawns and through koi ponds and cages with monkeys shrieking. Eventually I heard the sounds of the Super Bowl coming from a small dollhouselike cottage nestled among towering stone pines. The door was ajar. From inside came the sounds of girls giggling and talking.

“Hello! Hello!” I called, peeking in. “Does anyone know the score?”

It was the mother lode. There must have been five or six
Playboy
centerfolds splayed about the cozy den, wearing very provocative and skimpy outfits.

“Oh, hiiii!” they cooed, and I knew at once that they’d clearly seen and liked
The Outsiders
.

“I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“Come in here!” one of them demanded, pointing to a chaise lounge she was lying on.

“Yeah, stay with us! We’re
so
bored,” said another.

I felt like I had wandered into a fantastic secret world where no men existed but me and the entire female race was comprised of doe-eyed, well-endowed beauties who seemed to
really
need company. It was a long way from the quad at Santa Monica High School, with not a surfer or volleyball stud to be found. I guess these gals would have to make do with me.

I felt like a pharaoh or, I suppose, a junior Hugh Hefner. The girls poured me drinks, laughed, flirted, ran their fingers through my hair and generally seemed to be having as much fun toying with me as they possibly could. In an added bonus, they were sophisticated sports fans.

“I bet they don’t beat the spread,” said the blond.

Soon enough, one of my adolescent fantasies was realized when one of the Playmates dragged me into her guest room.

When I finally staggered out of the little Hansel and Gretel cottage in the pines, I was both elated and disoriented. Could this possibly be what it was like all the time up here? Had this even really happened? I made myself presentable and made my way back to the party.

The game was long over as I headed back to the main house. The sun had set, and in the moonlight the vibe had shifted considerably. Now girls were everywhere and the middle-aged doctors and music-biz honchos chatted them up in dimly lit corners. An Academy Award–winning writer held court on the patio.

I found myself talking to a well-put-together man in his late forties.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“I do all the work up here,” he replied.

“Do you build or just manage the property?” I asked.

He laughed. “No, no. I do all the
work
up here. For
Playboy
,” he said, as if I should get his meaning. He stared at me like I was a moron.

“I’m a
surgeon
,” he said finally.

“Oh, you’re a . . . plastic surgeon?”

“Ex-actly,” he said, making a small toasting motion. “Also do all Michael’s work.”

“Aaaaah,” I said sagely, knowing of only one Michael synonymous with plastic surgery. “Yes, I’ve seen your efforts.”

“Here’s my card. If you need anything.” He smiled, heading off to a very large-breasted woman nearby, probably for some sort of inspection or warranty check.

My Hansel-and-Gretel-house Playmate and I had made a plan to rendezvous for a Jacuzzi in the famous “Grotto” I had heard so much about, so I began to make my way across the giant backyard to the pool. To my infinite happiness, yet another bar was set up on the lawn. With the evening drawing to a close, I shifted to my main drink, a vodka tonic. (In those days I paid an inordinate amount of attention to finding the perfect level of artificially induced “happy feelings.” I used them like a suit of armor. And let’s face it, like most guys my age, I loved a free bar.) Drink in hand, I explored the pool area.

I had heard stories that the Grotto had underwater tunnels, Jacuzzis and secret chambers. This sounded so cool to me and not unlike a scaled-down version of the backyard pool at Martin Sheen’s house. (Sans Playmates, obviously!) Like Indiana Jones, I noted the large waterfall, which is always a dead giveaway of a secret chamber behind it. Sure enough, as I walked around the faux cliff face it cascaded over, I discovered a discreet stone passageway.

I peeked inside.

I discovered a steaming, humid, dimly lit cavern that looked like something out of
The Land of the Lost
. One large body of water surrounded
by other walled-off Jacuzzis shimmered behind the back face of the waterfall, which kept the little cave totally blocked from any vantage point on the property. Sometimes the steam grew so thick that it was hard to see more than a yard ahead.

My new friend had told me to go into the dressing rooms and change, and eventually I found one of the numbered rooms and did so. I didn’t have the guts (or any other piece of anatomy I may have needed) to go au naturel. I waded into the bathtub-temperature water in my boxers.

Hidden speakers played an obscure cut from
Emotional Rescue
by the Stones. I looked around for my Playmate friend, but she was clearly running late. After some moments contemplating the uniqueness of my surroundings, I began to hear gentle splashing coming from the other side of the Grotto. The steam prevented me from being able to see anything as I made my way toward the sound.

I began to see the outline of a girl silhouetted in the shadows and the reflections coming off the water.

“Hi there! Who is that? Come closer so I can see you,” she said. (It was not the voice of my Hansel-and-Gretel Playmate.)

Being no idiot, I did as I was told. She was standing, facing me, leaning on her elbows on the other side of the wall that divided the pool I was in from the tiny Jacuzzi she was in. The added heat made it almost impossible to see through the rising steam. Even though I was right in front of her, it took me a moment to see that she was naked.

“Hi,” I managed to say.

“Hi back,” she said, and winked at me.

Oh jeez. I didn’t know what the correct move was. There was still no sign of the girl I was supposed to meet.

“Have I seen you before?” she asked.

“No, this is my first time at the mansion.”

“Are you an actor or something?”

“I am. I’m just getting started. I’m in the movie
The Outsiders
.”

“Oooooooaaaaaaggggmpph,” she grunted, making a pained expression.

“Yes, I was a little disappointed in the film myself,” I said. “A lot of my stuff is on the cutting room floor.”

“Aw, that’s too bad. You seem so nice,” she replied.

As I tried to figure out the connection between my being “nice” and being cut from the film, she grunted again.

“Aaaaaggggh!” Her head lolled to the side and I wondered if perhaps she was having a medical episode. I looked around for my tardy date or maybe an emergency technician in case she slipped below the bubbling water, but she made a fast recovery. “I think acting is hard. People think it’s fun and easy, but it’s not. Not from what I can see,” she said. Her smile was sweet and kind. I tried to focus on her face and not her breasts.

“So . . . do . . . you get up here often?” I asked.

“I live here.”

“Wow, what’s that like?” I asked.

“Sorta like being in a sorority. I think.”

“I can see that,” I said, enjoying my casual conversation with a naked Bunny in the grotto.

“I like it. It’s fun. I . . . aaaooooh! Mmmmmaaaah!” she suddenly exclaimed as her big blue eyes rolled up in her head.

And then I saw it.

The steam shifted slightly to reveal a tree-trunk-sized ebony arm wrapped around her waist from behind.

She began to moan. “Oooooh! Yeaaaauuuooow!”

Peering closer, I recognized the man behind her as a legendary Hall of Fame football star. I locked eyes with him, embarrassed.

“Hey, man,” he rumbled with a tiny nod and without a care in the world. I nodded politely back.

“Um . . . well, nice meeting you!” I said to the girl.

“You too!” she said, sweet as pie.

“And you as well . . . sir,” I said, backing away quickly but with as much dignity as possible.

“Uuuuuuurrrgh!” she said, enveloped in the mist.

Later, driving home in my car, I attempted to make sense of my night at the mansion. Replaying images that would stay with me for years, I realized I had been stood up in the Grotto and I’d never found out who won the Super Bowl. Should’ve asked the dude in the Jacuzzi.

M
y youngest son, Johnowen,
was born with asthma and some serious allergies. Although he’s outgrown them now, when he was a little boy it was a serious issue for us. The battery of daily medications made him small for his age at the time and although he loved sports, he was never the strongest or biggest on his teams. Nevertheless, he played with a passion and enjoyed flag football, baseball and basketball as well as tae kwon do.

I loved watching my boys play sports. Maybe it’s because I was always picked last (as the theater nerd) that I had such pride and satisfaction watching them. I loved coaching them. It was another way to be close to them. It was also the best way I knew to be just like any other father in America. It was about them, not me,
us
, not anyone else, and had nothing at all to do with the complications of my professional life. I could disappear into two things I love very much, my sons and sports. And it kept show business in its proper perspective,
as the
other
thing I did, when the games were done and the boys were showered and comfortable back at home.

After the passing of my mother and the cancellation of
The Lyon’s Den
, I spent my free time as the coach of Johnowen’s YMCA baseball team. The league was “coach pitch” and that was great. I was able to actually be a part of the game as I threw strikes for the little guys to hit. I became fixated on my team. I spent more of my time setting lineups than reading incoming scripts. This world of exuberant boys felt safer and more rewarding than returning to the currents of Hollywood.