Down the Rabbit Hole by Holly Madison Read Free Book Online Page B

other people. While Hef could date an entire sorority house full of girls, we were to remain totally loyal. Looking back, I’m pretty sure that rule existed not so much because Hef was jealous of other men, but because the truth would have burst the public persona he had spent decades crafting. Girls who were caught “cheating” on Hef would be thrown out of the house immediately. While the girls took that rule extremely seriously, it didn’t mean they would actually obey it. So, on these club nights, the girls would dip off “to the ladies’ room” and head to a corner of the bar hidden from Hef’s view, making “friends” and exchanging numbers with men . . . like normal 20-something girls should be doing.
    I stayed close to Vicky most of that night and followed her lead: dancing, drinking, and making sure to pay lots of attention to Hef. At one point when he stood up to dance with us, his rhythm was so off that I was certain he was joking and let out a big laugh. Vicky shot me a look that made it very clear: he was not joking. Luckily, he didn’t register my laugh as mocking and continued dancing.
    Oh my god, I thought, genuinely mortified for him . Had no one told him how silly he looked? He pulled out some truly ancient dance moves that I can’t imagine were remotely cool in any era other than the ’70s. I felt a bit sorry for him dancing around like the punch line to a bad joke. Did they always allow him to look so foolish? I wondered why these women, his seven dingbats, didn’t care enough to protect him from the embarrassment—surely they owed him at least that. And worse yet, they encouraged his awkward dancing about. Back then, he seemed like such a sweet man to me and this felt unnecessarily cruel. Regardless, I knew it wasn’t my place to break the news to him—not that night anyway. I was so eager to make a good impression that I could hear my heart in my ears. I was grateful that Hef allowed me to tag along in the first place. He seemed like a good man and talked as if he wanted the world for his girls.
    But like all that glitters and sparkles, this opportunity wouldn’t come without a steep price.
    â€œWould you like a Quaalude?” Hef asked, leaning towards me with a bunch of large horse pills in his hands, held together by a crumpled tissue.
    â€œNo thanks,” I answered cheerfully, as if I were interviewing for a job. “I don’t do drugs.”
    â€œOkay, that’s good,” he said nonchalantly. “Usually I don’t approve of drugs, but you know, in the ’70s they used to call these pills ‘thigh openers.’ ”
    I laughed nervously—unsure of what to say. I was proud of myself for saying no; it was the right decision. I still felt in control of the situation and was prepared to tackle whatever came my way with sober eyes.
    Today, I want to scream “PAUSE!” and freeze frame that moment of my life back in late August 2001. I want to grab that young girl, shake her back into reality, and scream, “What the hell are you thinking?”
    Hef was a notoriously lecherous 70-something old man offering me Quaaludes that he referred to as “thigh openers.” Are you kidding me? Why didn’t I run for the nearest exit? It doesn’t get much creepier than that.
    But I suppose I had already made up my mind at that point. Looking back, I can’t imagine what I was thinking, but I’m also so far removed from what I was feeling back then. I was about to be homeless. I had no place to go and was panicking over what to do next when this opportunity with Hef just sort of fell into my lap. If I became a girlfriend, I would have somewhere to live. If I became part of Playboy ’s inner circle, perhaps that could even help my career. It felt as if my stars were starting to align. I decided to take the chance and see what this strange, legendary world was all about. For