Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

to these types of events. Working together, I knew that Kira had seen her fair share of Playboy
parties.
“You guys want a tour?” She posed the question as if we had just happened into her very own
living room, and we immediately took her up on the offer. She walked us through the infamous
candlelit grotto (which was still empty at this early hour), through the zoo where we fed grapes to the
tiny monkeys, and inside the ’70s-themed game house before making our way into the main event.
Gorgeous colorful fabrics clung to every corner of the grand tent rooftop, while faux grass lined the
bottom, creating the illusion of some fantastical forest (although I’m quite certain that many of the
people in attendance didn’t make a habit of reading Shakespeare, and, in some cases, quite possibly
had never even heard of the play the party was named for). Everything looked so sensuous and
inviting.
It wasn’t until we were tucked away in a corner of the tent that I finally spotted our infamous
host looking quite gloomy—especially for a man flanked by two of the most breathtaking beauties I
had ever seen. The Bentley twins were tall, tan, and reed thin with slow, languorous walks. They
conducted themselves like royalty—as if they were on the arm of a king or a president—but were
dressed like sex kittens in custom-tailored Baracci costumes. Shimmering with beads, sequins, and
Swarovski crystals on French lace skirts and tops, their outfits were unlike anything any other
partygoer was wearing. They were sexy but oh so elegant, with perfectly painted faces and blond
cascading curls decorated with glittery butterflies. They were picture perfect and, needless to say,
made a lasting impression.
“He never stays for that long,” Kira said, when she saw me looking over at Hef and his fabulous
girlfriends. I watched as Hef sat in a crowded corner of the tent, shaking hands with one partygoer
after another. My first thought was that he appeared really out of it. Was he senile? I thought. More
likely, he was just bored. After 50 years of glad-handing, I’d imagine you’d get sick of it, too.
I knew I didn’t have long before he made his escape, so Heather and I headed towards his table
to introduce ourselves. Maybe Mr. Playboy would see me, think I was pretty, and suggest I audition
for a pictorial. It was a long shot, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. Stranger things could happen.
“Hi, I’m Holly,” I said, sticking out my hands to meet his.
“What’s that?” he asked, clearly having trouble hearing over the crowd.
“I’m Holly,” I repeated, a little louder.
“Oh, hi. Nice to meet you, darling,” Hef said before turning his attention to the next person.
There were no fireworks, no “Rhapsody in Blue,” and there certainly wasn’t any audition.
Oh well, I thought, I gave it a shot.