The Vegas Diaries: Romance, Rolling the Dice, and the Road to Reinvention (17 page)

For me, the most challenging part of that round of press was the radio tour. For a radio tour, you wake up super early and call a coordina
tor, who patches you in to a different morning show every ten to fifteen minutes for two or three hours. Granted, most of the radio-show hosts I talked to were lovely, but you know the old saying: it takes only a few bad apples to spoil the bunch. Given that some morning shows tend to go for the shock factor, it’s almost impossible for me to do that many radio interviews and not have someone ask an inappropriate question about my days at Playboy. I had my share of uncomfortable experiences doing these sorts of tours back when I was tapped to promote
The Girls Next Door
. I warned my PR reps about the situation and asked them to please let the stations know ahead of time that I didn’t want to talk about Playboy, that I was just there to promote
Holly’s World
and
Peepshow
. I figured I had plenty to talk about.

Most of the calls went well, but of course there was one host who insisted on going there.

“So, you lived at the Playboy Mansion for several years,” one of the male DJs stated. “What was sex with Hefner like?”

Even though the question pissed me off, I answered in a calm, even tone. “You know, I’ve moved on to a new phase in my life, and he’s moved on as well, so I don’t think that’s an appropriate thing for me to talk about.”

I silently congratulated myself on the professional answer, but then the DJ spit out:

“But Kendra was just on the show yesterday, promoting her book, and she talked about it! She said Hef lasted, like, two seconds.”

“Well, if she wants to talk about that, that’s her business.” I replied shortly, praying for this interview to come to a quick conclusion.

I was finding it more and more difficult to take the high road when it came to not kissing and telling. I was frustrated. I wanted to keep my private life private, but I couldn’t because other people were out there telling their version of the story.

If only they knew the truth,
I thought. One day I would tell my story, but I wanted to do it when I had a more complete story to tell. I wanted to
accomplish things on my own, to truly be my own person first. Writing a tell-all the second after leaving the mansion just reeked of convenience. In Kendra’s case, her tales were used to spawn countless tabloid bits to draw interest in her TV show, and the show in turn was used to push the book. Strangely enough, even though Kendra’s description of Hef (or Bridget and me, for that matter) wasn’t particularly flattering, he didn’t seem to protest. Let’s not forget, Playboy was a producing partner on her show, so I suppose the hype benefited everyone who had a hand in the pot.

“Are you ever going to write a book about the mansion?” one of the other DJs asked me.

“Maybe, but not for a while.” And I meant it. I would do it when
I
was ready, not when it was convenient for someone else.

When season one of
Holly’s World
premiered, it scored ratings so strong that all involved were pleasantly surprised! I was incredibly grateful that people wanted to watch this show—even though it wasn’t a show about the mansion or Playboy or Hef.

It was a huge moment for me. Attempting to shed the Playboy stigma and asking people to reconsider how they viewed me was an uphill battle, and the success of season one was a major victory. It was a really good feeling. Oddly enough, I knew that despite the show’s success, I couldn’t do it forever. After what happened with Benji, it had become apparent that reality TV was not particularly conducive to a healthy personal life. I was stuck in a “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” situation. The last time I had heard from Benji, he revealed to me that “my people” (not sure who, but I have my suspicions) had reached out to “his people,” asking him to appear on my show. I was shocked, and honestly, pretty embarrassed. I knew they wanted him on the show, I just didn’t think anyone would ever go behind my back to ask. I insisted I hadn’t been behind the request and that it hadn’t mattered to me if he appeared on the show or not.

The more I thought about it, the more embarrassed I became. The whole scenario made me look so desperate! Here I was, supposedly an
adult in charge of my own life, and the powers that be were still trying to control it, as if they could pull the strings on my love life.

Sure, I had wanted fame and knew that a lack of privacy came as a result. I knew dating wouldn’t be easy for me, but I never imagined it would be made more difficult simply because someone from behind the scenes was lurking behind me like a protective shotgun-toting dad.

The whole situation was lame, but it was a side effect of something I had very much wanted: my own reality show. It was something I was going to have to live with, and, for the time being, figure out how to work around. This scenario made one thing clear: if I ever wanted to have a
real
personal life, I couldn’t do reality TV forever. Years earlier, I had taken on-camera hosting classes, and I decided to revisit my old ambition to be a TV host. It was time to add a new goal to my list.

As if by magic, I was offered a position as the Las Vegas correspondent for the TV newsmagazine
Extra
. Well, it wasn’t magic, it was more like connections.
Extra
shot most of their segments at Planet Hollywood and had thought of me as a natural for the post, since I was the face of the property. Still, the opportunity couldn’t have come at a better time! I took the position without hesitation. At least three mornings a week I could hone my on-camera hosting and interviewing skills. I also started taking singing lessons, hoping I could eventually do a song in
Peepshow
, if I worked hard enough. My schedule was now even more hectic than ever, but for me, it was worth it. After all, I still felt like I was making up for lost time.

Once again, complications in my personal life pushed me further into my work. In addition, in the case of the TV show, my work pushed my love life away. As much as I hated to admit it, maybe I couldn’t have it all, at least not all at once.

“Oh, I don’t mind him a bit,” said Dorothy. “But you are so beautiful,” she continued, “that I’m sure I could love you dearly. Won’t you let me take you back to Kansas, and stand you on Aunt Em’s mantleshelf? I could carry you in my basket.”

—L. Frank Baum,
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

C
an I play?” I asked, hopping over the back of a green velvet couch and landing next to the cute guy engrossed in a game on his phone.

“Hey, sure!” he blurted out with a big smile. He hadn’t seen me enter the bar and I had taken the opportunity to sneak up on him. He leaned over to give me a big hug and proceeded to explain the game he was playing to me. I took this as a cue to lean up against him.
I think this is going to be a great vacation,
I thought.

Mark was a tall, gorgeous specimen I had met briefly at a concert, months ago. Even though I had gone to the concert with a date, I couldn’t help but notice him. How could I not? He exuded the sort of casual confidence that I loved. Leaning up against the cement wall in a white T-shirt and ripped jeans, he draped one sculpted arm nonchalantly over a cooler and used the other one to simultaneously hold a beer and tuck his long,
dirty blond hair behind his ear. First, I was drawn by his deep laugh as he surveyed the girls desperately trying to get the attention of the band, but once the most beautiful set of crystal-blue eyes I’d ever seen met mine, it was all over.

He caught me looking at him and smiled. I quickly averted my gaze. I figured the acknowledgment must have been because he recognized me from TV or something, since we were surrounded by a sea of beautiful young women and I was convinced I didn’t stand out. A normal person would have smiled back at him and introduced herself, but I was nervous and there with another guy.

As the room filled up, our two groups somehow merged and I found myself standing close to him.

“What about you?” he directed my way as I tried to focus on a fake text I was pretending to type on my BlackBerry.

“Huh?” I replied. It was about as gracious as it sounded, a guttural interjection to the hot guy who was nice enough to include me in the conversation.

He repeated the question as my eyes darted between the floor and his striking jawline. His beard was about a week grown in, long enough to look hot, but short enough so that I could still make out the slight dimple in his chin.

“I don’t really know,” I replied, though I hadn’t even heard what he was talking about. Scared that I had either come across as aloof or awkward, I excused myself before any further damage could be done.

I was telling Laura all about that night in L.A. when I was back in Vegas. As I typically did first thing in the morning, I scrolled through my Twitter mentions to see if anything interesting had happened overnight.

It had.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

“What?” Laura asked, raising an eyebrow in my direction.

“The guy from the concert said something to me on Twitter,” I said, my face lighting up.

“The one you said was hot?” Laura asked, leaning in closer to read over my shoulder.

He had tagged me in a post about the concert a few nights ago, making a funny joke about the scene backstage. As I tend to when people pique my interest, I journeyed over to his profile page to see who had made the comment . . . and there was Mark and his spellbinding gaze.

Maybe he likes me,
I thought.
He did go out of his way to try and get my attention
. Little did he know that he already had it.

Our friendly social media banter quickly escalated into direct messages, and within a matter of days we were texting incessantly. Just as with Jeffrey before, I was able to spend time getting to know this person from behind the safety of my cell screen—and without having to further reveal how socially awkward I was. For a phone junkie like myself, having a regular text buddy was pretty appealing—and again, just as had happened with Jeffrey, I quickly made what felt like a new best friend.

Mark was sweet, considerate, and crazy smart. I valued his insight and opinions, and I began turning to him as my constant sounding board, my confidant, and, maybe most important, someone to make me laugh. Mark had the most wicked, witty sense of humor—especially when it came to the topic of sex. I always found sex to be kind of funny, and historically had difficulty making it work with guys, who thought a woman should always be prudish and serious about the matter. We connected on so many levels, and I felt we complemented each other so well.

Mark was also a stage performer, an actor who landed a role in one of Broadway’s latest hits. He confided in me that he had just moved to New York, and with the exception of his castmates, felt lonely. I could certainly relate. I loved my new Vegas friends, but they were just that: new. I was still rushing around to find more, more, more to bring into my orbit, things that could fill the hole inside that came from having lost touch with old friends and lacking a solid emotional foundation underneath me. My new life had been constructed so instantly that it didn’t really feel stable and Mark was living a similar type of lifestyle.

Everything about Mark made me want to jump in headfirst, despite the chips that were stacked against us. (A long-distance relationship was the last thing either of us had room for in our busy lives.) But all I had experienced so far with guys caused me to keep a firm grasp on my reservations.

“This reminds me of you,” he texted me one afternoon, along with a snapshot of a storefront he had passed, his reflection barely visible in the window. Through the smudged glass, I could see a display that included a beautiful photograph of Marilyn Monroe. She was uncharacteristically casual, wearing her iconic blond locks in two braided pigtails and staring at the camera with a wistful look on her face.

That kind of thing wasn’t a rare gesture; that was just Mark. Throughout the day, he would send sweet random messages just to say hello and let me know he was thinking about me.

After a few months of back-and-forth, I started to wonder if we would ever see each other again. Both of us had schedules that were set in stone, but as luck (or fate) would have it, he had a few days off during my upcoming September vacation. As eager as I was to see him again, I wasn’t going to change my plans or go out of my way to connect. I had given so much of my life to boyfriends in the past and had learned my lesson. Like a rubber band, I had been stretched too far and had now snapped back. These days, I wouldn’t even think of compromising for a boy.

I refused to make any effort to meet anyone halfway (both figuratively
and
literally). Hannah and I had already booked our flights and hotel rooms in Florida for a week of relaxing and theme-park hopping. If he was interested in me,
he
was going to have to come see
me
. Even though I craved a boyfriend (or Mark in particular), I wasn’t going to sacrifice a vacation with my friends.

When he mentioned his days off that happened to fall during my vacation, I decided to take the bait and just go for it.

“I’m going to Florida for the week. You should come,” I basically commanded, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to fly across
the country at the last minute. He had only a few days off, so if he was a drag in person, it’s not like he would ruin the whole week, I reasoned to myself.

“That would be kind of the rock-star thing to do, wouldn’t it?” he responded timidly. He wanted me to convince him. Clearly, he wasn’t used to jet-setting for pussy.

“Yes, it would,” I responded. After he found a flight that would arrive around the same time as ours, I sent him the hotel information, explaining that I had already taken care of the rooms. I booked three: one for me, one for Hannah, and one for him. Whether or not Mark and I would end up in the same room at the end of the day remained to be seen.

A
S OUR BLACK TOWN
car slowly approached the sprawling luxury resort, a gorgeous white Victorian-inspired structure came into view. It looked like something from another time, or something out of a movie, as if this picturesque lakeside escape existed in soft focus. A VIP host clad in a coral seersucker uniform met us at valet and escorted us into the hotel. Music swirled around the pastel four-story atrium lobby as an orchestra played from the second-story balcony. The staff—clad in era-appropriate turn-of-the-century attire—bustled around the grounds, which included a white sand beach.

“This’ll do,” Hannah said with a smirk, before waving to a raven-haired beauty curled up on one of the lobby’s antique couches. She unwound her long, tanned legs and in one fluid movement was up from the chair and heading toward us.

“This is Sarah,” Hannah said matter-of-factly. Once it was decided that Mark would join us, Hannah had reached out to a friend who lived nearby. I liked her warm smile and could tell by her willingness to drop everything and join us that she had the same love for spontaneity that Hannah had.

Mark had already arrived earlier that morning and had texted to let
me know that he had set up shop at the bar on the second floor. Our host had informed us that our rooms were still being prepared and would be ready in a few minutes, so we left our bags with the bellhop and jumped into the giant cage elevator and headed up to the second level to greet my latest lust interest.

Even though I had met Mark before (albeit only once), I started to get nervous as we approached.
What if things were awkward between us in person?
I wondered. With texting I could write, delete, and rewrite to make sure I was sending the perfect response.
What if he isn’t mature in person and he gets on my nerves
? Did I mention Mark was twenty-three years old to my thirty-one? The age difference hadn’t bothered me because we seemed like contemporaries . . . over the phone, anyway.

Of course, my most nerve-racking worry trumped that concern:
What if I wasn’t all he expected
?

With a forced confidence but genuine excitement, I hopped onto the couch where he was seated and dropped next to him. “Can I play?”

“Hey, sure!” he smiled, lifting his arm to let me come in closer. “I’m playing Fruit Ninja.”

Instantly my anxieties melted away as soon as I found myself lost in his striking blue eyes. My heart continued to race, but this time for different reasons.

I stared blankly for a moment and then got nervous again.
Had I stared too long?
I wondered.
Or was that normal?
I couldn’t tell. Awkwardly I cut him off as he began explaining the game and introduced him to Hannah and Sarah. Mark stood up and shook each girl’s hand. He politely introduced himself with a smile and immediately shifted his focus back to me. Hannah and Sarah attracted every set of eyes in the room—every set but the blue ones looking at me. Hannah curled herself up into the plush chair across from us. I could tell by the gleam in her eyes that she approved of my latest crush.

Sarah asked us what we wanted to drink, then proceeded to order
beers for Hannah and herself, vodka on the rocks with lemon for me, and another martini for Mark. I leaned in closer to him, ostensibly to learn the intricacies of Fruit Ninja.

“Check this out,” Hannah said, reaching into Sarah’s purse and taking out her keychain. She threw it onto the coffee table between our seats and pointed to a long, skinny white object.

“That,” she announced proudly, “is the bone from a raccoon’s penis.”

She let that hang in the air (and on the table), waiting for Mark and me to react.

“What?” Mark laughed, leaning forward to investigate.

“Don’t tell me the South isn’t interesting,” Hannah said with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

“So they literally get boners,” Mark asked, looking quizzically at the object on the coffee table in front of us.

“No way,” I said. “They have an actual bone in their penis?”

“They sell these in the gift shops down here.” Sarah laughed. “Along with alligator skins and coconut monkeys.”

Mark and I took to Google on our respective phones to find the answer. After determining that, yes, a raccoon does indeed have a bone in his penis, Mark and I got into another debate: iPhone versus BlackBerry.

“But how can you possibly answer all your emails without a keypad?” I asked, flipping his phone around to study it. “Trying to type on this screen would drive me crazy. Doesn’t it take forever?”

“No way. I love Apple. These take
way
better pictures, too,” he claimed, taking his phone back. “And besides, you can’t play Fruit Ninja on a BlackBerry.”

Before I could respond, our dapper VIP host approached us to let us know he had a surprise for us.

“Please follow me,” he requested, smiling brightly before turning on his heels. We piled into the elevator and zoomed up to the top floor. We were buzzing with excitement. Mark’s and my connection in person thus
far had lived up to all my expectations. We were intrigued as to what our surprise was going to be. We followed the concierge down the long corridor to two giant wooden doors.

“We’d like to offer you our presidential suite,” he announced as he pushed open the doors and gave us a small bow. Mark and I slowly walked through the massive, columned entry hall into the giant living room, with rich marble floors and antique chandeliers, but our eyes were immediately drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the resort’s lake. Hannah and Sarah followed behind.