Down the Rabbit Hole (12 page)

After Christmas, Lisa became the first girlfriend to depart since Adrianna had left four months earlier. She found a modest apartment in L.A. and sent her three dogs home to her mom back east. And just like that, she packed up her things and drove off the property. Despite working regularly with Playmate Promotions, rumor had it she ran through her savings in just a few months and ended up moving back to her hometown after all. When I heard the news, my heart sank for her. She wanted so desperately to make it, to prove wrong all of those cynics back home who judged her decision to pose for
Playboy
. But I couldn't help but think that they'd been right. Where did it get her?

“She thought she was such hot shit,” some of the girls gloated. “She thought she had it made because she was a Playmate and she couldn't even cut it out there on her own for a few months.”

Wow, she had a centerfold and everything,
I thought. Even booking appearances as a Playmate couldn't keep her afloat in L.A. They were talking about her as if she were a laughingstock. It was clear I needed to land a good job or a few decent roles before I could ever go back out on my own. I wasn't having any luck landing a centerfold and even that wasn't looking like the most secure gig anymore.

When it came to our weekly clothing allowance, I socked away as much of it as I could to pay off my student loans and credit card debt and begin creating a modest savings. It proved difficult, though, because we had to make sure that our allowance always appeared well spent.

When Hazel, one of Hef's administrative assistants, suspected that a girl wasn't spending the money the way it was intended, she would let Hef know. Most of the girls were intolerable to the staff—and she was sick and tired of all the users.

“You should stop giving them so much clothing allowance,” Hazel told Hef. “They just wear bras and panties to the parties—they're clearly not spending it on clothes!”

This would always send him into a tizzy and Tina would end up having to go to bat for herself and the other girls to make sure Hef didn't lower the allowance. It was clear that we had to have something to show for the money he gave us and therefore it became a balancing act: save as much money as you could, but spend enough so that our allowance doesn't get cut.

Another well-placed catch-22 was the car situation. Girlfriends always got new cars while living at the mansion. Like everything else, what we drove around town in was a direct reflection of
Playboy
—and we had to keep up the image (not to mention, these new fancy cars kept many females salivating over a spot in Hef's harem). Although Hef could easily buy each girl a car 10 times over if he wanted, he knew better than to buy the vehicles outright. Instead, he leased the cars for us. Doing things this way protected him from having girls drive right off in paid-for cars. Plus, it was another genius way to control us. If a girlfriend decided to leave the mansion, it's unlikely she would be able to meet the payments on her extravagant new ride. So she either had to stay, risk the car getting repossessed, or leave it behind.

One such car was a white Cadillac Escalade with monster truck tires, a lift kit, rims, and every other possible tricked-out add-on that was leased for former girlfriend Buffy Tyler. Buffy was a baby-faced, snub-nosed girl from Texas who had recently moved out after becoming Miss November 2000. Mary O'Connor, who had taken a liking to me, actually came to my rescue and suggested that Hef let me drive the repossessed SUV. When she mentioned my Celica, she wrinkled her nose. She was right. It looked like it belonged in a scrap yard—not in the driveway of the Playboy Mansion.

Happily and gratefully, I accepted, even though the car was way too big and gaudy for my taste. After all, beggars can't be choosers. Little did I know that accepting the new ride would cause the other girls to hate me even more (if that was possible). Not only was the Escalade more expensive than anything the other girls drove, but Hef had paid for all the pricey bells and whistles Buffy had installed on the car, something he wouldn't do for any of the other girls. (Playing favorites and causing jealousy among the girlfriends was yet another little game he enjoyed.) Obsessed with counting every last penny of who got what, the girls knew the value behind all the features Buffy had chosen for the luxury SUV. The cold shoulders I received were extra frigid for a good month after I started driving that car.

Besides Christmas, clothes, and cars, the other large expense that Hef was happy to spend his money on were cosmetic enhancements.

People often ask me if the girlfriends were required to have plastic surgery while living in the mansion, because it was clear so many of us did. The answer is both simple and complex. No, we were not obligated to have plastic surgery while living there. However, the mansion was a virtual breeding ground for superficial insecurities. And most girls who lived there ended up with body dysmorphic disorders. No matter how beautiful they were, these women would pick themselves apart—ordering one procedure after the next.

It was known that if a girlfriend
did
choose to undergo some sort of plastic surgery, Hef would foot the bill. The most popular procedures among the girlfriends were breast augmentations (both new and redone), rhinoplasty, and liposuction. Eventually, I would ask for my own nose job, but that was only part of my
Playboy
makeover.

During my first few months at the mansion, I was still a college-aged girl who actually liked herself. Without school and work, I quickly became bored and filled my days with activities typical of a 22-year-old girl: shopping, working out, getting my belly button pierced, things like that. One day, my friend Britney and I decided to go get tattoos. I got a small Playboy Bunny tattooed in the middle of my lower back (talk about a tramp stamp!), because I thought it was a cute, fun way to commemorate this crazy experience. This was back when I thought my mansion stay was going to be a short-lived stepping-stone that would soon lead me to something bigger.

At the time, my only real beauty routine consisted of bleaching my own roots with Clairol ultra-blue from the drugstore. One day, as I was performing the ritual in my bedroom with the door open, one of the girlfriends popped her head in.

“What are you doing?” she snarled, with a scrunched nose.

“Dying my hair,” I said, defensively. What did it look like I was doing? I knew these wannabe Beverly Hills bitches looked down on anything do-it-yourself. “I need to save money. I can't spend it all at the salon.”

I actually hadn't been to a salon in my life.

“Ohhhh,” she cooed maliciously, a smirk slowly spreading across her face. “That's smart.” She laughed and sauntered down the hall.

What she failed to tell me was that Hef had an open tab at the José Eber Salon in Beverly Hills, and all the girlfriends had their hair and nails professionally done there several times a week. None of the girls had bothered to share this piece of information with me, because keeping me as homely as possible was in their best interests.

Finally, I found out about the salon privileges when Vicky had lost patience with me using the strong-smelling dye in our shared bathroom.

“You know you don't have to do your own hair, right?” she finally snapped.

When I arrived at the José Eber Salon, it was like arriving in a whole new world. The staff whisked me into the salon and immediately changed my bright gold hair into the light platinum blond Hef loved. They straightened my naturally frizzy mane and planted long acrylic nails on top of my short ones.

Meanwhile, months of utilizing the mansion's gym and tanning beds had taken about 10 pounds off my figure and bronzed my skin into a smooth, perfect tan. Hef's dentist had given me a bleaching kit for my teeth, which gave my smile a perfect bright Hollywood glow.

The pictures we received the morning after each of our club nights out provided me with countless opportunities to study how I photographed. I quickly set about honing my makeup skills (which were virtually nonexistent before the mansion). During my first few months there, I don't think I wore much besides powder and maybe a little mascara. Compared to the Playmates' carefully contoured faces, my sparse and natural look wasn't cutting it. My work-free days gave me hours and hours to shop for and experiment with makeup. I learned how to make my lips look bigger, my eyes more catlike, and my eyebrows fuller and more defined. I felt like I was finally beginning to look like the glamorous Playmate I had always wanted to be!

Staring at my photos, though, I knew there was one last thing to fix. I'd never really been fond of my nose—it was a little too big for my taste, but I rarely thought about it. It wasn't until I started seeing countless pictures of myself day after day that I realized it photographed even bigger than it was. I compared myself with the Playmates in our group photos—most of whom had tiny, unnoticeable noses. Hef's favorite girls had “baby faces” with upturned snub noses. I started to feel like it was about time I did something about it.

While plastic surgery was a common request among the girlfriends, I was still terrified to discuss the idea with Hef. I was uncomfortable enough with my current living situation, so the last thing I wanted to do was ask for anything more. I already felt like enough of a hooker—I didn't need to fan the flame. Eventually, though, I caved.

All the other girls get procedures,
I told myself.
It's only fair that I should be able to get one, too.

I took a deep breath and approached Hef. I had spent time doing my research and decided to enlist the help of the same doctor who had performed a nose job on one of Hef's former girlfriends—a surgery so successful that Hef said he'd “never seen such a transformation before.” After dinner one night, I nervously brought the quote from the plastic surgeon to his room and shakily explained that I wanted to get my nose fixed. He gave me an obligatory two-minute speech about how I didn't need the surgery, but quickly approved it despite his short-lived chivalry.

It felt like a victory at the time, but I now recognize that it was one of those watershed moments in life. Sure, my new nose gave me a temporary surge of self-confidence (and I was absolutely thrilled with the results), but it wasn't my appearance that was in need of immediate attention.

In a few short months, I had gone from a friendly, optimistic, confident woman to a confused girl with a nervous stammer who second-guessed every thought that went through her head and rationalized every bad decision she made. I was so focused on “making it” and turning this bad decision I had made into something positive that I couldn't see that all I was really doing was running faster and faster in circles trying to please Hef and simply stay afloat in his twisted world. I had no time or energy left to chase my dreams.

By this point, Tina Jordan had moved out and Hef had promoted me to his “main” girlfriend. One might think this would offer me some kind of protection from the “Mean Girls,” but no such luck.

Actually, the other girlfriends all but shoved me into the number one slot. As Hef's main girlfriend, you were under the microscope. The “Mean Girls” reveled in their lives outside the mansion and didn't want the extra responsibility where Hef was concerned. Unlike the other girls, I didn't mind most of the rules. I didn't have an outside boyfriend and I wasn't crazy about clubbing, so I didn't mind the 9
P
.
M
. curfew. The “Mean Girls” viewed it as a win-win. If I was ever present as the main girlfriend, their lack of perfect attendance wouldn't be as heavily scrutinized, but I wasn't “hot” enough to be any kind of real competition for the limited Playmate of the Month spots. If they were ever asked why Hef preferred homely little old me best, I'm sure they would lie and say it was because I was the only one who slept with him . . . just like they had all said about Tina.

Despite the presumed prestige in its title, there was nothing ceremonious about becoming Hef's number one girlfriend. After Tina's centerfold was published and she announced her departure, Hef simply asked me if I wanted to move into his room. That was sort of it. No promises were made; no piece of token jewelry was given. I simply prepared to pack up my things and move them down the hall . . . but not before Tina took the opportunity to remind me who was boss.

Just as I was beginning to move to Hef's room, Tina dropped another bomb. She announced that she had decided not to move out after all. The other girls didn't even try to hide their smirks as she shared this news with me (in front of everyone). It was clear I was the only one left out of this loop. My face burned red with embarrassment.

“So, you can just quit packing up your things,” Tina said in her fake singsong voice as she picked up her purse and followed an oblivious-acting Hef out to the limo. I was hurt and embarrassed, but the subject was never broached again that night, so I just pretended the whole thing never happened.

Over the next few weeks, Tina would show up halfway through movie nights only to shove me out of the way so she could sit next to Hef. She did the same thing with buffet dinners and would make a huge show out of forcing me to move my chair over so she could sit by Hef.

I'm not sure if Tina was trying to make an impression on Hef so that he would be more likely to give her Playmate of the Year or if she simply had that much fun torturing me. Eventually, though, the novelty wore off and Tina left for good.

Being tossed back and forth like a useless rag doll by the man I had come to look to for approval did a massive number on my self-esteem. When I finally made the official transition into Hef's master suite, it felt anticlimactic. I was actually moving all of my belongings from a normal-sized bedroom into a tiny corner of Hef's closet called “the Vanity.” These cramped living quarters—without even a speck of privacy—was another reason none of the other girls were clamoring for the title of “girlfriend number one.” The back area of Hef's closet contained a vanity, an island dresser, and closet space lining the walls. There was just enough room to walk between the island and the vanity, but that's it. In what looked like a castle's tower from the outside, the vanity had a few thin windows that looked out over the driveway. A musty rose-colored chair and a nightstand with a small box TV were wedged in front of the windows.