The Vegas Diaries: Romance, Rolling the Dice, and the Road to Reinvention (3 page)

“And I
really
want to do ‘Laser,’” I blurted out, referring to the “Lay Laser Lay” number that I had seen during my trip to the original outpost of the legendary Parisian cabaret. In the steamy routine, a woman with unbelievably long legs carefully balances herself on a tilted, rotating platform covered with billowing plumes of smoke. Under the light of a vibrant blue laser, the performer takes great care in rolling herself seductively around the revolving stage, looking as if she is climbing over her own body in a fluid dance to a bluesy song. The routine was tightly choreographed and required the flexibility of a gymnast. I was absolutely dazzled.

“Well, you see, that would be difficult,” the producer explained, unintentionally bursting my rather large bubble. “Unfortunately, there are regulations here that prevent us from using those types of lasers on stage. And without the laser, the routine looks . . . shall we say, not very pretty?”

“I understand,” I continued, crossing my legs and straightening my posture in an attempt to mirror the producer. “But I
love
that number; it’s just
so
good! Do you think there is anything we could do to make it happen?”

“We can try, but I must warn you, the routine is quite difficult,” she cautioned me.

It can be a blessing to be acutely aware of your limitations, for then you can adjust accordingly. I, for one, had no idea what my limitations were. As far as I knew, all the stars in the sky were ripe for the taking. I
saw leaving the mansion as a second chance at life and looked at everything around me with delusionally optimistic eyes. Words of warning fell on deaf ears. I thought I could do
anything
if I worked hard enough, including master a lifetime of dance training in just a few weeks.

Even if we could have somehow managed to find a suitable laser substitute, the routine itself was incredibly demanding—and one that my inexperienced legs would never have been able to pull off. It speaks to the talent and artistry of the dancer I saw perform it that she made it look so effortless. Having an amateur dancer tackle such a feat would have required major changes to the choreography, thereby diluting the entire number. But I was wide-eyed and dangerously determined. Burlesque had become my goal, and I intended to achieve it. For my debut, only the most exciting, most tantalizing number would do!

“Well, Holly,” the producer began, her tone warm yet professional, “this has been lovely. We look forward to ironing out all the details. Tell me, would you perhaps be available to spend some time training with our team in Paris?”

My mouth nearly hit the floor. Was she kidding? I was dying to go back to Paris!

“Yes, of course!” I exclaimed, unable to keep the collected composure I was trying so hard to sustain. It felt as if I was running off to join the circus, albeit a circus populated with the world’s most beautiful women wearing custom-made Louboutin heels.

As we parted ways, the producer shook my hand and air-kissed each cheek before assuring me that we would be connecting again soon. With her team trailing behind her, she disappeared around the corner, out of the restaurant, and into the buzzing casino. Since my flight back to Los Angeles wasn’t for a few hours, I figured I should explore the property and get the lay of the land. After all, I was hoping the resort would be my next place of employment. In an attempt to navigate the casino unnoticed, I threw on my sweat shirt, zipped it up to the top, and pulled the hood over my blindingly blond locks. I walked to where the restaurant’s tile
met the casino floor and took a light step onto the whimsically patterned red carpet.

At the time, the MGM Grand was the world’s largest hotel, clocking in at 380,000 square feet and boasting 6,852 rooms. The casino building alone was as wide as four football fields, and I was standing somewhere near the center. I felt a bit lost, but I didn’t care. I was headed nowhere and everywhere.

I passed by the Crazy Horse theater, adorned with a black-and-gold-trimmed facade, a replica of the original at 12 Avenue Georges V. I imagined that the next time I saw the venue, I would be coming straight from the airport, having completed my training in Paris.

Weaving through a maze of blinking slot machines, I nearly collided with a petite cocktail waitress holding a tray of drinks. I wandered past focused blackjack players, bustling crowds engulfing craps tables, and a jovial group of tourists cheering over a game of baccarat. Every corner boasted either a gourmet restaurant promising a once-in-a-lifetime culinary experience or a sleek modern ultra lounge. And just when I thought I’d seen it all, I stumbled upon an enormous rock exhibit, partitioned off with floor-to-ceiling glass walls, that was the resort’s Lion Habitat. One of the lions slept peacefully on a rock, one leg dangling over the edge. I meandered a bit more before realizing I was even more lost than when I started.

Casinos aren’t meant to be easy to navigate. They are laid out so as to take customers through a confusing maze of distractions and temptations. It’s a technique, a trick of the trade. The more time you spend on the casino floor, the more money you are likely to part with. It is in the casinos’ best interest to keep players at the tables for as long as possible, which is why there are no clocks, no sense of night or day, and free drinks for anyone who is gambling.

Wandering through the casino, I went unrecognized, as most people were absorbed in their games. It was so unlike Los Angeles, where pa
parazzi and tabloid culture seemed to have taken over the entire city. With the news of my split with Hef flooding the magazines and blogs, I thought about how nice it would be to come to Vegas for a while. I needed to get away if I was ever going to make a fresh start. Nothing was really holding me to L.A. anymore.

Las Vegas appeared to be a land without judgment. It didn’t matter how campy or strange you might be, Vegas seemed like a place where an outsider like me could really thrive.
Living here would be such an adventure,
I thought. Part of me knew I needed to make up for things I had missed in my twenties. I needed to explore who I was, learn to be self-sufficient, and date like a normal person. Instead, I had spent the better part of the last decade adhering to curfews and living someone else’s life. I wanted to be free . . . and also finally be able to pursue a career of my own.

The more I thought about it, Las Vegas really did seem like the perfect backdrop for my new world. Ever since I officially announced my departure from
Girls Next Door
, I’d been casually speaking with the network about the possibility of my own spin-off, but because I lacked anything firm on the horizon either professionally or personally (think: new job, new man, or a baby), they weren’t sold on the idea. No one could imagine a Holly Madison who wasn’t somehow tied to Playboy, even if it was just as a photo editor.
If everything worked out with Crazy Horse, wouldn’t my new showgirl life in Sin City be a unique premise for a series?
I thought, already pinning the image to my mental vision board.

Years earlier, I had been hesitant about participating in
Girls Next Door
, but I quickly learned its innate value. It wasn’t what I had set out to do with my life, but reality TV was popular at the time and with it came attention and opportunity. If I could continue to do it for a little while, I knew it could buy me some time while I decided what I wanted to do next. Plus, my own television series would offer me a platform that would allow me to reinvent myself in front of viewers who knew me only as
Hef’s former girlfriend (a label I was extremely anxious to lose). For some reason it wasn’t enough that I reinvent myself
for myself
. I needed to prove it to everyone who said it couldn’t be done.

Being known as a Playboy bunny and as someone’s ex had created a chip on my shoulder. As much as I tried to ignore it, it was always there, lurking just under the surface. And when you’re in Las Vegas and happen upon a rather large chip, you know what they say you should do with it? Bet big. And that’s exactly what I planned to do.

I finally arrived at a circular area on the west side of the building that appeared to be the end of the road. On one side of the circle, a set of glass doors led outside to the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard and Tropicana Avenue. On the opposite side was the sports book. To my left was a Rainforest Café, just a few steps from the entrance to the resort’s nightclub.

In the center of the area lay a large circular bar resting on an elevated platform just a few steps up off the casino floor. The column in the center reached toward the ceiling and was covered with countless glimmering bottles. It was still too early for a cocktail, but it looked like an inviting place for a soda, at the very least.

“Can I get you something to drink?” a stout bartender asked me, raising his eyebrows as he dried a pint glass.

“I’ll have a Diet Coke, please,” I said with a smile.

He slid the fizzy drink over to me as I looked up at the giant domed ceiling above the bar. It was plain, had a sort of gray pall, and looked like it had been built as a projection screen of some sort.
That’s odd,
I thought.

“You know,” the bartender began, attempting to make some friendly bar chatter, “that ceiling you’re looking at used to be part of the old
Wizard of Oz
display we had here. It was for the tornado show.”

He must have noticed the glimmer in my eye, because he added with an all-knowing smirk, “Actually, this bar sits on top of what used to be the start of the yellow brick road.”

“Really?” I asked, genuinely intrigued. I had a soft spot for all things kitsch. “Why’d they get rid of it?”

“The bosses just wanted to get rid of all that kiddie stuff, I suppose.” He shrugged, picking up a rag and drying another glass. “When this casino opened in ’93, Vegas was trying to make itself a family destination.” He laughed to himself. “Guess they figured out the Strip ain’t a family kind of place.”

“Wow,” I said quietly. I was fascinated by these bits of trivia. Las Vegas was barely a hundred years old, but it had such an intriguing history, one that I was eager to know more about.

“Don’t be too surprised,” the bartender quipped. “Las Vegas is the queen of reinvention: the people, the places . . . heck, even the city itself.

“The
Wizard of Oz
motif had a good run here, but themes, eh, they can’t last forever,” he continued. “You got to give guests a reason to come back, to see something new. You know?”

He caught my gaze as I nodded in agreement.

“Could I get the check, please?” I asked politely. “I lost track of time and have to get to the airport.” I was suddenly anxious to get home; I had a lot to think about.

“Sure thing,” he said as he moved to print out my bill. “You know that show the
Folies Bergère
?” he continued casually, referring to the traditional showgirl extravaganza at the Tropicana. “Word is, they’re gonna be closin’ up shop soon. Longest-running show on the Strip, that was. Fifty years!” he exclaimed, shaking his head.

“Why are they closing?” I asked, my eyes wide with curiosity. This was the business I was about to get into, after all.

“’Cause it’s Vegas,” he said with a shrug as he turned to swipe the credit card I had set down in front of him. “It’s always ‘on to the next.’ People want bigger, they want better, they want newer. Like I said . . .” he continued, shaking his head, “Las Vegas is the queen of reinvention.”

He turned back toward me, check in hand.

“Good luck,” he said, pausing to look down at the receipt, “Miss Madison”—reading my name from the paper—“on wherever your journey takes you.”

“But how about my courage?” asked the Lion, anxiously.

“You have plenty of courage, I am sure,” answered Oz. “All you need is confidence in yourself. There is no living thing that is not afraid when it faces danger. True courage is in facing danger when you are afraid, and that kind of courage you have in plenty.”

—L. Frank Baum,
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

March 2009

I
s my laundry molding in the washing machine?
I wondered, still not daring to move.

The trip to Paris to train with the Crazy Horse dancers never happened. I didn’t run off to join the glamorous French circus, and my dreams of beginning a new life as a showgirl in Las Vegas had fallen flat. Instead, I was sprawled out on a simple black couch in a tiny Santa Monica condo. My muscles were so sore that I couldn’t even drag myself the few feet toward the closet that housed my single-unit washer and dryer. As I lifted
my head off the cushion, the bright late-afternoon sun poured into my eyes like floodlights. I didn’t have any curtains to block it out.

After my initial meetings with Crazy Horse Paris, seven months earlier, I began dating a Las Vegas magician, Criss Angel. Initially I intended for the relationship to be casual, but I quickly (and foolishly) fell much deeper than I meant to.

Within weeks he talked me into moving into his suite at the Luxor to become his much-publicized girlfriend and the relationship quickly took a more controlling turn, resulting in me declining the Crazy Horse Paris opportunity. I knew this was a mistake, and it was then that I realized I had to break it off. I had found myself once again in an all-consuming relationship, similar in many ways to the one I had just left behind.

Every inch of my body hurt. Though I had just taken an hour-long nap, I was still exhausted. I woke up in a panic as the alarm went off on my phone.
What was I supposed to be up for?
I wondered. I had turned my life upside down more than once over the past few months, so sometimes it took a couple of seconds for me to recall where I was and what I was supposed to be doing.

When I remembered that my alarm had been set for a friend’s party and not a work obligation, I calmed down.

I was just a few weeks into my first job as a newly single woman. Just five days before its premiere, I had been asked to compete on the eighth season of
Dancing with the Stars
, filling in for an injured contestant. Having the chance to appear on this show was a dream come true! I had been a huge fan of the program for years. There was no question that I had to make it my top priority. I poured myself into the rehearsal schedule, which consisted of grueling eight-hour days, five days a week, with performances the other two days. I felt like I was training for an Olympic competition.

Can I even get on my feet for this party?
I asked myself.

When I had returned to my new home earlier that day, I flopped down on the couch for a nap, lacking the energy to even climb the spiral
staircase to get to my bed. I had committed to a short snooze, hoping I would feel up to that evening’s festivities after a little rest.

My close friend (and former housemate) Bridget Marquardt was hosting a premiere party for her new Travel Channel show
Bridget’s Sexiest Beaches
. I had told her that I would come to support her, but I was struggling to gather the strength. My body felt like a punching bag. I spent the next few minutes psyching myself up for the one chore I knew I had to do: moving my car. Earlier, I had forgotten the remote control for my garage door and just parked on the street, but during rush hour it became a tow-away zone, and that was a headache I did not need.

I was really proud of Bridget and wanted to celebrate this moment with her, but I felt like shit. Also . . . the party was happening at the mansion. I wasn’t particularly keen on returning to our formerly shared home, even if it was to support a friend.

I bundled myself up in my hoodie, wrapping the hood tightly around my face (hoping to go unnoticed by any of the uninvited paparazzi that had taken up residence outside my apartment), and headed to my car. Before pushing the front door open, I threw on a pair of sunglasses. I was in no condition to be photographed. Quickly I slipped out the door, made the short walk, and climbed into my car. I was already around the corner before any photographers realized I had come out. As soon as the garage door was open just wide enough, I zoomed through and arrived safely to my parking spot without a single photo having been taken.
Victory!
I thought, raising my arms. Just then a pain shot through my side like a bulldozer. I had bruised my ribs in rehearsal that week. I felt like my body was falling apart.

I took my BlackBerry out of my pocket and started typing. I composed a text message to Bridget, apologizing for not being able to make it to her party and congratulating her on her success.

I hesitated before hitting send. Was I
certain
I couldn’t make it? I hated the idea of flaking on her, but I knew she’d be surrounded by a ton of well-wishers, including her handsome new boyfriend, and I needed every
extra minute of sleep I could find.
Dancing with the Stars
had offered me a lifeline when I needed it most. I couldn’t
not
give this opportunity my full focus.

Just a few weeks earlier, I had hit my own personal rock bottom when I left Criss, which was the second of two particularly dramatic back-to-back breakups. After the first breakup, I knew I was in for a period of readjustment. After all, I was stepping out into the real world after spending all of my post-college life in the surreal world of the Playboy mansion. I thought things could only go up when I walked out the door, but my subsequent relationship quickly proved me wrong and I once again found myself picking up the pieces from a relationship that had sapped both my freedom and my self-worth.

Still, my head and my heart were at odds. While it was clear to me (or to my brain, anyway) that getting out of those relationships was the smartest thing I could have done, my heart was still hurting. To add insult to injury, I felt defeated. Immediately after the breakup, I had no job and no leads. It was demoralizing. So I did the only thing I could: I scraped up all my courage and committed myself to starting over . . . again.

But I knew I couldn’t operate without a plan. I needed to specifically pinpoint what I wanted for my life before I could go about the business of getting it done. The first thing I had to do was get out from under the shadow of Playboy. I couldn’t take myself seriously if for the rest of my life, I trotted around with “former girlfriend” written across my forehead. I was determined to find success on my own. Failure wasn’t an option. The day I arrived back in L.A., I began making a list of things that I wanted to achieve.

The first thing I wrote down was “Compete on
Dancing with the Stars
.” I had long dreamed of competing on the series.
Dancing
was incredibly popular, so much so that people were clamoring to be contestants. For reality stars and more niche pop-culture personalities,
DWTS
, with its primetime slot, became a platform to reach a wider audience.

Second, I wrote: “Perform in Crazy Horse Paris.” I hoped I could reopen the conversation we started a few months earlier and that it wasn’t too late to make the guest appearance happen. I still had a fascination with burlesque, and diving into a new project that would require discipline and hard work was just what I needed. For me, the more focus something required, the more determined I became. Learning a challenging art form completely new to me would help give me the self-confidence I needed to feel myself come alive again.

Finally, I added: “Develop my own reality show” to my short list. It makes sense to do what you know—and I knew the “reality” world.
Girls Next Door
had provided me with some great opportunities, and there was no reason to think that a similar show wouldn’t do the same. Plus, at the time, having your own reality series was considered a major coup—for personalities and pop-culture fixtures, it was a real sign that you had made it.

Well, when you put your hopes and dreams out into the world, you never know who might be listening. My phone rang the very next morning; it was a producer from
Dancing with the Stars
.
Holy shit,
I thought. This was beyond eerie! It had been less than twelve hours since I’d written down my goals . . . and now the network was reaching out to me! The producer explained that a contestant slated to compete on the show had been injured and they were searching for a last-minute replacement for their premiere on Monday (which was only five days away). I had interviewed with the producers about being on the program more than once already, but had never been chosen. I was afraid I never would be, as rumor had it that
Dancing
didn’t want to commit to having me on the show because they didn’t think Middle America would accept me due to my association with Playboy. In hindsight, I think my persistence paid off. They offered me the final spot for season eight, most likely figuring that I was the only person who wanted the chance badly enough to agree to perform on live television with less than a week to prepare. The other contestants had been rehearsing their routines and learning technique for
a month; I was given exactly four days. I had my work cut out for me, but this wasn’t an opportunity I was going to squander.

I read the text message to Bridget again, then sighed and hit send. Weeks earlier I would have been totally confident strolling into the mansion battered and bruised from rehearsals, wearing sweat pants and a ponytail. However, these days I wasn’t exactly popular with the Playboy folks. While typical ex-girlfriend decorum required that the former flames continue to coo over Hef and, in turn, he extended them an open-door policy to the mansion (whether that was for sentimental reasons, damage control, or both, I’ve never been sure), I was no longer interested in being told how to behave, which meant that my Playboy stock had fallen very low. I was certain that they would have turned me away for something as insignificant as a dress-code violation.

Bailing on a friend was shitty, but I believed it would be best for me to stay as far away from my old life as possible—for everyone involved. I was quickly learning who from that world was a genuine friend and who wasn’t. One person I was still close with was the mansion’s executive secretary, Mary O’Connor. In fact, I stayed at her house in the Valley whenever I had time to drive out there. She was a loyal friend to Hef, but that didn’t stop her from being a good friend to me as well. In fact, I had been insulated from the outside world (and outside people) for so long that Mary was one of the few people I had left. She was also one of my only confidantes, so she understood me and never tried to talk me into coming back to the mansion.

But otherwise, my new life was lonesome, and being lonely was a new feeling. Granted, I had been “alone” in a relationship for years, but being without any of the social swirl I had become accustomed to felt strange. It was uncomfortable to be alone with my own thoughts—I wasn’t emotionally ready to process what the last seven years of my life had been about. I was just desperate to move forward. When I exited the television series, along with my life at Playboy, most of my so-called friends took it as a signal to cut ties with me. I no longer had access to the Playboy party
invite list and couldn’t offer any camera time, so I suppose I no longer served a purpose. It was a rude (but necessary) awakening.

Through the grapevine, I heard Hef was over the moon that I was back from Las Vegas and occasionally staying with Mary. I was certain he viewed my return as a sign of failure, as if I couldn’t make it on my own and staying at Mary’s was one step closer to my inching my way back behind the gates. The truth was, I just wanted to be surrounded by people who actually cared about me. Mary’s warm, cozy home made me feel safe, unlike my modern, empty Santa Monica loft.

Hef and his minions had already made a plan for my future: returning to the mansion for season six of
The Girls Next Door
. I was told it was what the network wanted. It was what the viewers wanted. It was what Hef wanted. But no one seemed to care that it wasn’t what
I
wanted.

Not only did I feel like my ex-boyfriend was not so subtly rooting for me to fail, but it seemed as if there was an entire army of people gearing up for what they thought was my inevitable meltdown. When
DWTS
came along, I saw it for what it was: a life raft. Here was a chance to get a ton of exposure (at the time,
DWTS
was one of the most watched shows on television, second only to
American Idol
) and some positive publicity
and
to make good money. But most important, it was an opportunity to start fresh and the first step toward reintroducing myself to a world of people who only thought they knew me.

The stakes were high for me and the pressure was tremendous. During rehearsals, it wasn’t always easy for me to hold it together. And at times it was impossible. There were plenty of “bathroom breaks” that were really excuses for me to cry in private when I could no longer hold back the tears. Emotions and memories are fickle beasts. You never know when they’re going to pop up, and when you’re working your body to the point of exhaustion, it’s even easier to let your guard down. Even though my dance partner, Dmitry Chaplin, could not have been more of a gentleman, just being that close physically to a man brought back painful memories. It was hard for me to act “passionate” in the Latin
dances that required it. The intense, manipulative, and overly possessive relationships I had been in recently made me feel a tremendous guilt and shame for even
acting
like I was into a guy. It was as if I was afraid of being called a slut simply for dancing with my partner. That’s how out of whack I was.