As the piles diminished, ornately carved walls I had never seen (and which probably hadn’t seen the light of day in a decade) appeared. While it felt good to see the room come together, I must say I found some things I would have rather not seen. Topping the list? An old reel stashed away in a drawer full of porn labeled “Girl and Dog.”
It made me wonder if Hef had ever thought about who was going to go through his things one day after he passed away. He was so fastidious about his public image and about having every moment in his life documented and recorded in a way that showed his life the way he wanted it shown.
I was disheartened to learn from one of his friends that he had plans to donate his scrapbook collection to a library or university after he passed, though he hadn’t settled on which one at that point. It was such a personal and private collection, not just for him, but for anyone who’d ever been in his life.
Hef holds the Guinness Book of World Records title for largest scrapbook collection at over 2,000 volumes. He keeps them in his attic along with desks and supplies for his scrapbook staff (yes, he has a scrapbook staff) to paste everything together. Good or bad, anything written about him goes in the scrapbook. Every picture his photographers take ends up in the scrapbook. Every girl he takes out is pictured in the photos, and the insinuation that they slept together is there along with nude photos, in some cases. I’m sure many girls included in the scrapbooks wouldn’t be too thrilled to learn they could be public property one day soon.
I know I wasn’t. Granted, there wasn’t anything scandalous about me in the scrapbooks, but it was humiliating to think that anything personal I had trusted him with could end up public property via their inclusion there, even if it was just something trivial like a sad note I had written to him. It was another thing that made me feel embarrassed, trapped, and forever branded.
In another attempt to occupy my time (and my brain), I began taking French lessons, acting classes, and real estate investment courses at UCLA. I needed to do something to stimulate my mind and avoid permanent bimbo status. The stammer I had developed continued to creep into my speech, and I hoped that furthering my education might somehow help. Bridget and I truly were kindred spirits. She had already received her master’s degree, but felt the weight of mansion life affecting her head, too, and began taking classes as well.
The classes were the only part of my day that didn’t in some way revolve around impressing Hef or conforming to his rules. He couldn’t have cared less about what I was learning. To him, a woman’s beauty is her most powerful asset . . . unless of course she happens to be famous.
Above all things, Hef is fascinated with fame (both his and other people’s). He is obsessed with cataloguing his life as a public figure and keeps records of every press interview he’s ever done. Celebrity is one of the few things that can’t be bought—and Hef prides himself greatly on his 60-plus years in the spotlight.
Whenever even the most Z-list celebrity would grace him with his or her presence, Hef would drop everything to accommodate the “star.” It made me feel so incredibly insignificant, and it was embarrassing to watch him act even cheesier and more fake than he usually did. Hef never even bothered to introduce us to his guest—as if we were some lifeless mannequins unworthy of such an “honor.”
While I had always dreamed of one day becoming an actress, it wasn’t until I lived at the mansion that I began craving fame strictly for fame’s sake. In some corner of my mind, I thought that maybe if I became famous I would have some value. Perhaps I would earn Hef’s respect after all. Maybe I could even score a pictorial in the magazine.
My life had become so backwards. I had once looked at a Playboy pictorial as a stepping-stone to an acting career, but over the past few years I had become so absorbed by Playboy that I started seeing fame as a stepping-stone to a pictorial. I was completely coming undone.
“WE HAVE PINK PUSSIES!” a loud baby-voiced blonde shrieked, charging past security into our roped-off table at one of our regular night spots.
Hef adored Paris Hilton. Before she became a household name with her television show The Simple Life, Paris was a notorious socialite who was regularly mentioned, along with her sister Nicky, in Page Six.
With some sort of murky pink liquid (these shots were the “Pink Pussies” Paris referred to) sloshing out the tops of three shot glasses, Paris squeezed her way into our VIP section of the club. Like clockwork, Hef motioned for us to scoot down to make room next to him for Paris. According to Hef, she was a “celebrity” (even though her meteoric rise to fame was still months away).
I took it upon myself to always take note when a celebrity would make the effort to introduce him- or herself to us or even simply blanket the group with a simple “Hi, girls!” Many of them ignored us entirely and spoke to Hef as if he were the only person in the room. Since Paris took the time to introduce herself, she fell into the “nice” category.
It was the heyday of the club scene in Los Angeles, so we would see Paris around semi-regularly. She’d always make a point to come over and say hello to us—and each time Hef would just beam like a perverted grandfather. At one point, I heard, she even began discussing the possibility of doing a pictorial with Playboy photo editor Marilyn Grabowski.
But a few weeks later, Paris, in the lowest low-rise jeans, the skimpiest blue top, and the darkest spray tan I had ever seen, appeared tableside during one of our club nights at the Standard Lounge to speak with Hef. I noticed she seemed more subdued than usual as she leaned into his “good ear.” She appeared to be explaining something to him. When she eventually walked away, Hef turned towards me and said: “She can’t pose for the magazine because her mother said she would disinherit her.” Whether that was true or if it was just an excuse she made up in order to back out of the discussions, I don’t know.
Right before her new Fox reality show aired, Paris’s now infamous sex tape surfaced, making her the most talked about woman on the planet. 1 Night in Paris quickly became one of the bestselling porn videos of all time. Posing nude for Playboy wouldn’t have been nearly as controversial as her sex tape. What nude photos did for Marilyn Monroe in the 1950s, sex tapes were now doing for 21st-century starlets. The Simple Life premiered to more than 13 million viewers.
I certainly wasn’t planning on ever making a sex tape, but any TV appearances I could get—even it was just as “Bunny Number 2”—I jumped on. Given our roles as mansion tour guides, Bridget and I were often drafted to help play hostess when television shows came to film. During a shoot for MTV’s Doggy Fizzle Televizzle, Bridget and I gave Snoop Dogg the official tour. When MTV returned to shoot an episode of Viva La Bam on the property, I was asked to be the Bunny who interacted with the cast. Desperate to swipe the spotlight away from me, Daphne came to crash the shoot, but her spot ended up on the cutting room floor. Shucks.
When MTV Cribs shot a Playboy Mansion episode, only one girlfriend could fit in the doorway alongside Hef for the opening shot—and since I was his main girlfriend, I got the part. The crew took a liking to me and asked that I lead them along on the tour. (One of the other girls in particular tried shoving her face on camera as much as she could. She was green with envy that I was getting this opportunity and rolled her eyes whenever they asked me to say something on film.)
Rarely would a request come through to shoot all the girlfriends together, but before the holidays one year, a Los Angeles news station asked to film a segment with all the girls in our pajamas in front of the mansion’s Christmas tree. Hef insisted we each wear the same matching oversize flannel pajamas he kept in bulk in his closet, but I decided to wear my own slim-fitting pajamas with red Playboy Bunny heads printed on them. Hef was extremely offended and demanded that I march back upstairs and put on the de rigueur pink flannels. Was I one of his children?
I refused. I hated having to conform, especially to this group of girls. I also found his baggy, faded flannel pajamas terribly unflattering. I wasn’t granted permission to wear my outfit of choice witho
ut yet another argument complete with flowing tears from Hef. (He later apologized for being so upset after he saw the other girls pile around the tree with deliberate markers of their own: a yellow duck beanie, a Pomeranian puppy, etc. I wasn’t the only one desperate to stand out.)
Those TV spots were fun, but I was really excited when Fox started shooting a reality television show called Who Wants to Be a Playboy Centerfold? (The show was intended to be a series, but ended up getting cut down into just a one-time special.) I thought this could be a chance for me to learn more about the behind-the-scenes operations of television, and who knows, maybe even get discovered myself. The show was shot mainly in a ranch-style home across the street from the mansion that Hef had recently purchased, which we would later take to calling “The Bunny House.” Twelve contestants vying for a chance at a Playboy centerfold were moved into the house, three or four girls to a room. The girls would participate in several photo shoot challenges as they were eliminated one by one. Finally, a winner would be chosen to be Miss July of that year.
Much to my dismay, Hef deliberately kept his girlfriends far, far away from the production. Desperately bored with my day-to-day life, I became obsessed with learning every behind-the-scenes detail about this television special. I even snuck into the living room during a production meeting to listen in as Hef clandestinely discussed the next round of contestant eliminations with the producers. I casually flopped down into a pile of pillows in the corner of the room so I could secretly hear their conversation.
“We have to keep her! She’s the bitch!” a female producer exclaimed after Hef pointed out who he would like to eliminate next. “She makes great television!”
“I dunno, I think she’s a little overweight,” Hef grumbled.
“She’s right, we need to keep her,” an enthusiastic male voice chimed in. “She’s confrontational with the other girls in the house. She adds conflict.”
“Okay, well, we’ll keep her for the next round and see how it works out,” Hef slowly acquiesced.
Wow, I thought. I was familiar with America’s Next Top Model, the show that this Playmate competition show appeared to be based on, and never would have guessed that contestants were kept on strictly to stir the pot. It made sense, but in the early days of reality TV, viewers weren’t as wise to the process as they are now.
Interestingly enough, the girl Hef had deemed “overweight” became a favorite of a Playboy photo editor, and her centerfold was so well produced, Hef ended up selecting it as the winner. Since viewers wouldn’t be happy with an antagonist winning the competition, the show was quickly re-edited to take out those “pot-stirring bitch” moments and make the winner look like America’s Sweetheart. (By the way, I always found the winner to be a nice person. I suppose she was a little more honest and blunt than the rest of the contestants, hence the “bitch” label that people like to throw onto assertive women.)
Anything is possible, I thought. Maybe Hef will one day change his mind about my chances of being a centerfold, too.
The television special was just the latest in a slew of media opportunities Hef had begun participating in over the past few years. Two of the most substantial, documentaries titled Playboy: The Party Continues (2000) and Inside the Playboy Mansion (filmed before my arrival in 2001), followed Hef’s new life as a 70-something swinger. Any time a Playboy-related program aired, it scored fantastic ratings. Middle America was still buying into the intrigue and racy glamour of the Playboy world, made interesting again by Hef’s reemergence onto the social scene.
Hef loved the documentaries that covered his life, but he also loved any chance to cross over to a younger audience (he was obsessed with appearing “hip” and relevant), which is how we found ourselves doing press in the middle of a Justin Timberlake video shoot in the mansion’s backyard.
“So, do you listen to hip-hop?” the MTV reporter asked.
“Uhhh,” Hef began, seemingly at a loss for words. “Ummm . . .”
In early 2003, Justin Timberlake was at the top of his game. You couldn’t spend more than 10 minutes at any nightclub in Los Angeles before hearing a track from his latest album Justified (so much so that I still can’t listen to a single song without being overcome by painful memories). When a request came through Playboy asking to shoot a music video at the mansion for the Nelly track “Work It” featuring Justin Timberlake, the answer was of course yes.
When it came time to shoot the video, the director offered Hef and his girlfriends small roles. Because some of the other models in the video were topless, it was deemed too racy for the United States and only aired internationally. During the shoot, Hef sat in his own wooden throne-like chair bobbing along to the beat and wearing black sunglasses, with Nelly and Justin Timberlake on either side of him, while we danced around them in skimpy outfits. After filming wrapped, Hef was asked to do an interview with MTV news. All the girlfriends gathered around Hef, and I took my place at his immediate right.
“Uhhh,” Hef continued to fumble. This nonresponse was completely out of the ordinary. Usually he was a pro at these interviews, able to call upon a laundry list of canned responses to just about any question you can imagine. I listened to Hef rattle off the same answers he’d given a million times before, often word for word. I think I had unintentionally memorized some of them myself. He struggled for so long, it was becoming awkward and I feared the reporter had only asked about hip-hop to trip up the 76-year-old man, so I decided to cut in.
“You listen to it out at the clubs,” I offered, looking at Hef with a warm smile, aware that all eyes were on me.
“Er, um, yes, yes,” Hef said, regaining some composure. “We listen to it when we go out.” He coasted through the rest of the interview on his Rolodex of previously used responses and we wrapped.
When I finally managed to get up to the master bedroom to change out of the red skirt and lace cropped halter I had worn for the video, Hef had beaten me there and was already standing in front of the bathroom sink.
“YOU,” he began loudly when I appeared in the doorway, “have NO answers! You are to keep quiet during interviews!”
“Sorry, I was just trying to help,” I mumbled as I darted around the corner into the vanity. My eyes started filling with tears—as they did almost daily back then.
I was to keep quiet, I repeated in my head. He was treating me like a dog. Sit! Stay! No barking! Only I’d never seen him be so mean towards his animals. I had tried to help my boyfriend navigate a sticky situation and now I was being punished for it, which made the reprimand hurt all the more. Despite his many abuses, I had grown protective of Hef and felt like the interviewer could easily have made him look like a fool. In the few years I’d been at the mansion, I’d never seen a question throw him so entirely off his game. What if the producers decided not to be kind that day? The way he was sputtering in front of the camera, they could have easily made him look like a senile old coot.
But he clearly would rather have looked like an idiot than get help from one of his “dumb blondes.”
When would I ever catch a break? I wondered.
FOR THE MAGAZINE’S 50TH anniversary, A&E wanted to shoot a TV special to air on the network. The program included a party at the mansion celebrating the magazine’s iconic run and honoring Playboy’s most famous Playmates. As girlfriends, we had no role beyond getting glammed up and sitting quietly next to Hef, but I used it as an opportunity to try to give myself a much-needed boost of self-esteem. I decided to treat myself to something really special: a red, Jessica Rabbit–inspired Baracci gown that cost a few thousand dollars. I never spent that much on clothing, since I was trying to put away as much money as I could, but I felt I finally deserved the treat. I always remembered how stunning the Bentley twins looked in their glamorous Baracci gowns, and seeing as though this was an extra-special event, I figured I could splurge!
“You know, you will look back on this time as the best time of your life,” Mary had said to me after one of my vent
sessions. “All the dressing up and things you get to do.” I trusted Mary and always told her how I felt, but if this is the best time of my life, shoot me now, I thought.
Foolishly, I’d long believed that becoming a Playboy centerfold was the fast track to fame and fortune. Boy, was I wrong. There have been more than 720 Playmates in Playboy’s history. How many of them can you name? Even if I did happen to score a pictorial someday, it didn’t necessarily mean anything beyond validation. More than ever, I had begun to accept that I would never achieve anything greater than my role as “Hef’s main girlfriend.”
The handful of Playmates who had become famous were all in attendance that night. Playmate and TV personality Jenny McCarthy hosted the event (her beauty is matched by her wit—she ended up being the best part of the show, by far!), which included musical numbers and stand-up acts. Nineties Playmate stars Anna Nicole Smith and Pamela Anderson were also in attendance.
Barbi Benton, Hef’s main girlfriend in the ’60s and ’70s, attended the soiree. While not technically a Playmate, Barbi was featured in several pictorials and on four Playboy covers. Hef went out of his way to keep in touch with many of his ex-girlfriends—partly out of sentimentality but also, I believe, as a form of damage control. Keeping in the good graces of his ex-girlfriends was a sort of insurance policy. I guess he figured the regular invites back to the mansion would keep anyone from speaking negatively about him.
Barbi would end up becoming a regular guest star on The Girls Next Door, and I ended up really liking her. She was quirky, friendly, and creative. Barbi wasn’t a close confidant, though. Despite having dated the same man, we couldn’t really relate on that subject. Sure, Hef was much older than she was when they dated—old enough to be her father, though, not her grandfather. Plus, Barbi didn’t have to share Hef publicly. He wasn’t faithful to her by any means, but she could at least pretend the other women didn’t exist. Never was she forced to one side or the other to make room for a gaggle of giggling blondes to line up around him.
Down the Rabbit Hole: Curious Adventures and Cautionary Tales of a Former Playboy Bunny Page 12
