“Well, I gotta see that,” I joked, taking the obvious bait. Unlike the ultra-feminine, docile fembot I was required to be as one of Hef’s girlfriends, with Criss I felt like I could be one of the guys. It was a refreshing change of pace.
Criss asked me what I wanted to do next, his thick Long Island accent coating every syllable as he examined his teeth in the reflection of his steak knife.
“Take me out!” I demanded playfully. I had one night away from the mansion and I didn’t want to squander it sitting up in the hotel room, but we had to be careful. “I don’t know the city at all outside the Palms. I just need to go somewhere low-key,” I explained. “Hef has really strict rules when it comes to us, so I really can’t be seen with a guy in public. It sucks, but . . .” I trailed off and shrugged my shoulders.
Criss didn’t miss a beat.
He immediately suggested CatHouse, which he described as really low-key, jumping at the opportunity to spend more time with me.
“Great,” I said, popping out of my chair. I had no idea what this place was, but I was eager to get out of the hotel room. If it was low-key, it worked for me. “Let me grab my purse.” I bounded into the bedroom to snatch my bag and check my makeup. Looking at myself in the reflection, I couldn’t help but notice the big smile involuntarily plastered on my face.
Maybe this is exactly what I needed, I thought, just one night out. Maybe all of Hef’s restrictions are just making me crazy and I’ll feel better about him tomorrow.
Of course, Hef would be irate if he knew I was headed out for a night on the town with another man, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Nothing was going to happen between Criss and me. Plus, paparazzi didn’t really exist in Las Vegas—not like they did in L.A., at any rate. With all the strict gaming laws in Nevada, photographers couldn’t be snapping away inside a casino. As long as we were discreet, I’d be fine.
The nightclub was small, dark, and intimate. Situated inside the Luxor, the boutique nightclub did feel surprisingly private, and I allowed myself to relax.
Criss asked if I would take a picture with the CatHouse girls, when a posse of uniformed women arrived at our table.
No harm in taking a photo with a couple of dancers, I thought. CatHouse was a restaurant as well as a nightclub, so I didn’t think the photo could be that incriminating should it get out.
Criss and I sat in a corner booth, ordered two glasses of red wine, and talked over the loud music for hours. We spoke about my relationship with Hef and how stifling it was. He confided in me that he started dating an 18-year-old girl who moved into his hotel suite and “won’t move out,” as he put it. He told me he made a mistake getting together with her and was planning on breaking it off in the nicest way possible. The fact that he was dating someone 22 years younger than him, not to mention barely legal, grossed me out since it reminded me so much of the Hefner situation. However, Criss seemed so sincere when he told me that he felt like he’d made a mistake and was looking for someone different that I was willing to overlook the impression his dating situation had made on me. We talked a lot about his new show and the pressures he was under. After we ran out of things to say, he started laying it on unbelievably thick.
“Ya know,” Criss began, going into a bumbling speech about how he was looking for someone to have fun with . . . have fun with but to have a serious relationship with, he was quick to add after he noticed the look on my face.
I sat there quietly and let him continue as he stumbled all over his words while trying to share his feelings with me. I took his nervousness as a compliment—he seemed to be smitten with me.
He continued on about how he had worked for fifteen years to have his own live show and how it was finally becoming a reality. Between his TV show Mindfreak (which was in its fourth season at the time) and his over-the-top public performances (like being shackled underwater for 24 hours in Times Square) Criss was, at that time, one of the most well-known magicians in the world. He seemed so happy about the direction his life was going, telling me that things had been really crazy in the past, but now he could finally have a routine. He was locked into a major contract for the next 10 years, and he asked me if I knew how much he would be fined if he missed a single show. I shook my head as the new direction of the conversation reflected his more aggressive tone. He told me he would be fined $200,000. Criss was constantly peacocking around in diamonds and Rolls-Royces, bragging about his salary and never letting anyone forget how much he was “worth.” To be honest, I found it a little tacky. But at the end of the day I didn’t care. I have no idea if that number he threw out was real or just his way of trying to impress me. At the time, I was just flattered that anyone cared about impressing me, period!
He softened his voice again and went on to say that he had two days off a week and that he needed someone who could plan fun things for him to do on his days off, someone who he could do those things with. It wasn’t the most romantic advance ever made, but I couldn’t help but be intrigued. Here was this adventurous guy, so full of life, who was looking for someone to be young and wild with.
He blurted out that he’d marry me right now when I didn’t take the bait. I nearly spat out my drink. Was this guy serious? While he was laying it on so thick, I found him playful and entertaining and he was clearly dead set on making something happen between us.
“For publicity?” I said, calling him out on what I presumed was bullshit.
To be fair, I knew that Criss was used to women shamelessly throwing themselves at him, so I figured he didn’t quite appreciate that I was simply interested in the novelty of hanging out with a guy who was closer to my own age for a night.
“No,” he shot back, feigning shock at the suggestion. “What I mean is . . .”
He began his spiel (one that I would come to know by heart): how he was ready for a family and for marriage, how hard he worked for 15 years to obtain “success,” how he had been “almost a train wreck” (referring to his slutty behavior, which he loved to remind me of, as if it were going to make me jealous or somehow grateful), and how he was locked into the routine of his new show, BeLIEve.
While I spent much of the evening at CatHouse rolling my eyes, I also had a hard time containing my smile. Sure, Criss was a well-known player and he was coming on strong, but something about his story made sense. Maybe he was at a point where he was ready for a committed relationship. He was 40 years old and making some huge changes in his life, so it was possible. On the other hand, we had only just met, so the whole conversation seemed absurd, but it was fun for me to get swept away in the idea that he was so into me. It was something I needed to feel after years of Hef making me feel like a piece of dirt. And who cared if he was serious or not? I wasn’t going to get with the guy anyway.
The most important part of the night, for me, was that in the span of one evening he had single-handedly crushed one of my biggest fears about leaving the mansion. Perhaps I wasn’t damaged goods after all. In fact, in Criss’s eyes, I was quite desirable. After a few glasses of wine, Criss gave me a tour of the Luxor Theater and then accompanied me back to the Palms and walked me back to my suite. He invited himself into my room, offering to “tuck me in.”
“Okay,” I giggled, knowing the cheesy line would get him through the door, but it wouldn’t get him any further. After all, I wasn’t that drunk.
I stumbled towards the large pink bed, jumped in fully clothed, and pulled the comforter up to my chin. As he stood over the bed and leaned in to kiss me, I erupted into a fit of laughter and turned my head away from him.
“I can’t,” I playfully reminded him. “Remember?”
He sighed, standing back up. He reached down and removed my earrings from each ear and set them by the bedside table.
He whispered sweet dreams softly into my ear. After walking across the room, he scrawled something on the back page of a room service menu (a note reading: “I miss you”), tearing out the sheet and sticking it next to my curling iron on t
he bathroom counter.
“Sweet dreams,” I mumbled, immediately drifting off into a peaceful sleep as he exited the suite.
When I woke the next morning to my buzzing cell phone, the last thing I expected to hear was a ferociously angry Hef.
“Thank you,” Hef screamed so loud that my cell phone shook, “for giving me the WORST night of my life.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked Hef defensively. Honestly, I had endured so many verbal lashings lately that I had no idea what could have possibly been the catalyst for this outburst. After getting permission to stay over the night before, I had called him again shortly before his 10 P.M. bedtime to wish him good night. We traded “I love yous” and that was it. Sure, I hadn’t offered up my dinner and clubbing plans for later that evening, because I knew he would never allow it.
“I didn’t hear anything from you last night,” he continued, screaming into the receiver. “I was up all night sick with worry!”
“But I called you right before you went to bed . . .” I tried rationalizing with him. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. I had my cell phone with me all night . . .” I kept rattling on, before realizing he had to know something. “Why were you up?” I asked.
“Security told me,” he spat. “You had a guy in your room last night!”
I paused for a moment, waiting for this information to sink in. Holy shit, I thought. He actually had me followed.
“Nothing happened,” I said firmly and sternly. “I had a few drinks and a friend walked me in to make sure I got into bed okay. That’s it.”
And it was. Sure, there was some definite flirting and perhaps some blurred lines on his part, but I hadn’t done a damn thing. I had never cheated on Hef. He had slept with an army of different women during our time together, but I remained faithful. Despite all my insecurities and regardless of how desperate I was to have one night out, in my mind I was still in a relationship. And I was nothing if not loyal. Whoever was trailing me around Vegas apparently didn’t relay to Hef just how quickly Criss exited my suite.
“Oh yeah?” Hef asked, mockingly, “Well, we’ll talk about it when you get home. Thank you,” he repeated in dramatic Hef fashion, “for giving me the worst night of my life.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and waited for the line to disconnect. I was equal parts stunned and seething.
How dare he have me followed, I thought. For seven ridiculous years, I remained entirely faithful to this man. Even if my evening did include some temptations, I had conducted myself like a good girlfriend. I wouldn’t even kiss Criss when we were alone in a hotel room in a moment I thought would forever remain private.
I knew Hef well enough to know that in his head, I was already categorized as a “cheater.” I might as well slap a big scarlet A on my chest, because he would never let me live this down . . . even though there was nothing to actually live down. I was sure that for the rest of our relationship he would call upon this incident every time he didn’t get his way and use it as leverage. I could kiss good-bye any chance of spending another night away from the mansion again.
One of Hef’s favorite stories to call upon during press interviews is how, in his pre-Playboy days, his first wife, Mildred Williams, cheated on him during their engagement. When his then-fiancée confessed to being unfaithful, he was devastated, but chose to marry her anyway. Of course the marriage ended, but I always felt he used this incident as a way to justify his philandering behavior and to gain sympathy from the public. It was as if he was saying, “Sure, I’m a womanizer, but my ex-wife made me that way. She did this to me.” In fact, he seemed to have a penchant for cheaters. After all, he did crave drama. His second wife was rumored to have been unfaithful (with a member of the mansion staff), and his third wife ran out of their first planned wedding to be with just one of the several men she had allegedly cheated on Hef with.
It would never change, I thought. Hef would never change. If I stay, this would be my life.
And in that moment I knew I couldn’t stay. I wouldn’t stay. I was finally done.
RETURNING HOME FROM LAS Vegas felt as awkward as you could possibly imagine. I was determined to make my exit as quickly as possible, but Hef kept putting off having too much of a serious conversation about it. He pleaded with me to stay, “despite hurting” him, but I just gave him the cold shoulder. It seemed he felt that if he could somehow stall and put off my leaving as long as possible that I would just forget about wanting to leave and everything would go back to normal (save for the giant imaginary albatross he had to hang over my head). He could sense something inside me had shifted and was waiting for it to shift back. I wouldn’t allow him to manipulate me anymore. I had to make it clear to Hef that I was leaving.
Over the course of our relationship, I’d only ever initiated a “serious” conversation with Hef once, maybe twice. The morning after returning home from Las Vegas, I stopped by Mary’s office before heading out for the day to tell her I needed to talk to Hef as soon as possible. I felt that if I could get Hef on the phone, I could say what I needed to say without him trying to throw me off course, pull at my heartstrings, or lay on the guilt, as I was sure he would be successful at doing if we tried to talk face-to-face.
“Hey, honey,” Mary said, a bit cautiously when she called a few hours later. For months she’d seen the warning signs and knew what was coming. “Hef’s on the line.”
Before I could say a word, I heard Hef speak weakly into the receiver: “Mary says you have something you’d like to talk to me about.”
“Yes,” I said, feeling instantly small and incredibly nervous. I took a determined breath and continued, “I’ve decided I can’t stay any longer. My feelings aren’t there anymore and I don’t want to fake it. I need to make a life for myself and have a family.”
It felt like a full minute had passed before Hef spoke.
“Are you sure?” he finally asked, continuing to dangle the bait that E! had ordered a sixth season of the show.
If I wouldn’t stay for him, he assumed that I would at least stay for the show. It seemed as if he thought all a woman could possibly want was fame and money.
I didn’t say anything. My mind was made up.
He pleaded with me to stay, to not tell anyone we broke up, to try and work it out.
“I need my freedom,” I tried to explain. “I want to be able to actually hang out with my girlfriends and have fun like a normal person.”
“Ha!” he exclaimed, through a sarcastic cackle. “What makes you think any of those girls will want to hang out with you if you aren’t my girlfriend?”
After years of being conditioned to believe that I wasn’t anything without Playboy attached to my name, I had actually started to believe it. But I knew better now. His frantic attempts to keep me chained to the mansion seemed transparent, desperate, and just made me angry.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly but firmly. I wouldn’t be manipulated. Not this time.
And since I clearly wasn’t responding to his spiteful attempts to cripple my self-confidence, he tried playing the guilt card, asking me if I wanted him to have another stroke and saying that if he died it would be my fault.
He wasn’t above using his age and health as a tactic to get his way. Over the years, in a few of our more heated disagreements, he regularly made dramatic statements along these lines to get me to drop an argument. It was ridiculous considering that our disagreements, up to this point, had always been about things that should have been trivial to him.
But for him it was all about winning. He didn’t care if I stayed out of fear or out of pity, as long as I stayed, but I wasn’t going to budge.
I sat silently on the other end of the phone line, patiently waiting for this episode to pass. After gaining some self-confidence and a bit of perspective, I saw just how tired his routine had become. It’s like I was seeing him with new eyes. He was no longer this infallible icon I created in my mind. He was just a spoiled child i
n an old man’s body.
“I have to go,” I said. “That’s final.”
Silence.
“Okay, darlin’,” he managed, his voice choking up (sincerely, for a change). “But I hope you will reconsider.”
Hef was in denial about our breakup for a long time. He chalked it up to some kind of phase I was going through. After giving him the “worst night of his life,” he began pursuing me like never before. All of a sudden, I mattered. The entire concept for season six of Girls Next Door was to follow Hef and me as we trotted off into forever land . . . just the two of us. To everyone on the outside it appeared as though my wish was finally being granted: Mr. Playboy all to myself.
But it was too late. The switch had been flipped. It wasn’t one thing in particular, but more a cocktail of the last few months: his verbal lashings, my newfound confidence as a career woman, and the affirmations of another man all allowed me to see that the fears I’d been living under for seven years were just smoke and mirrors. Now the thought of living with the unfounded “cheater” moniker was just too much to take. I couldn’t stay any longer.
After a meeting in Mary’s office, Hef and I decided that I would move down the hall into Bedroom 5 while I finished shooting my final GND scenes. Most of season five was already in the can when I met up with Criss that night in Vegas, but there was still more to do. It came as a shock to most of the staff and show producers when I actually began the process of moving out of the master suite. (None of my packing was captured on the show. Hef and the producers were still hoping I would change my mind about moving out and that I would be back as Hef’s girlfriend by the time cameras started rolling for season six.) I had done a good job of acting like a blissfully happy girlfriend—only the closest of confidants had known about my unhappiness. It was oddly nostalgic to be moving back into the same room I moved into as a mansion newbie seven years prior. Back then, I barely had a suitcase full of possessions; now I had substantially more to pack. I had a large storage closet—full of clothing, mementos, and Christmas decorations—in the mansion’s basement, not to mention another one in the Bunny House across the street. Needless to say, this move was going to take a bit more time.
Down the Rabbit Hole: Curious Adventures and Cautionary Tales of a Former Playboy Bunny Page 23
