Down the Rabbit Hole by Holly Madison

never make their way back. As a gift, each girlfriend was given a gorgeous embroidered burgundy silk robe. We all sent ours to be cleaned before an upcoming event, but only mine went missing. I reverted to writing my name on the inside of each label like a third-grader going away to camp, but even that wasn’t really any kind of insurance policy.
    I quickly learned that complaining about the girls’ antics served zero purpose. You know the phrase “Don’t shoot the messenger”? Well, Hef loved to shoot the messenger. He would make sure to twist any complaint around into my own doing—and I’d end up apologizing to him. He cultivated an environment where we were perpetually indebted to him. My priority became remaining in his good graces.
    Regardless, whenever Hef was around, I stayed close to his heels. Even though his presence didn’t necessarily protect me from their bullying, I felt somehow safer. The “Mean Girls” couldn’t be as obvious for fear that he might turn his wrath on them.
    Two months into my mansion residency, I finally got to attend my first Playboy party as a girlfriend. With my clothing allowance, I was able to go to Trashy Lingerie, a popular boutique, to pick out my costume (despite its name, it was way out of my price range before). I chose a frilly Alice in Wonderland costume that came with a purse shaped like a slice of cake with “Eat Me” written cheekily on it in white Puffy Paint. The outfit was supposed to be sexy, but once again I had chosen something quite conservative compared to the body-hugging ensembles the other girlfriends chose.
    When it came to public events and appearances, there was a protocol for the girlfriends to follow. Each of us was expected to meet Hef in his room so we could all make our grand entrance into the party together. It wasn’t as exclusive as it might sound, as many of the girlfriends brought their female friends, who joined us for our entrance. Everyone was dressed in something skintight: a spandex-clad race car driver, a spandex-clad taxi driver, and a few spandex-clad cops. By comparison, I felt like a giant frilly cream puff. When the time came to walk downstairs, we all trailed down the grand staircase slowly with Hef’s house camera crew filming every moment for posterity. Hef trailed behind us, wearing the black-and-white-striped “Prisoner of Love” jailbird costume he wore every year. When we arrived at the foot of the stairs, we were instructed to line up in two rows so Hef’s house photographer could take our group portrait. After the short photo session was finished, I followed the group out into the tented backyard and towards Hef’s table next to the dance floor. On our way out, a naked woman clad only in body paint shoved a tray in front of me.
    â€œJell-O shot?” she asked.
    â€œDon’t mind if I do,” I said with a smile, grabbing a green one off her tray.
    â€œThe red ones are the best,” Vicky snapped at me with a cold smile as soon as I reached Hef’s table with my green shot in hand. She was right; the red ones did taste the best. Never having had a Jell-O shot before, I was amazed at how delicious they were—and clueless at how potent they were. Needless to say, I got wasted. Fast.
    The girlfriends pretty much ignored my existence the whole night, so luckily I spotted some of my old Hooters friends and motioned for them to come over and talk to me. The novelty of my position as “Hef’s newest girlfriend” hadn’t worn off yet, so everyone had plenty of questions (the less polite of which I dodged with non-answers).
    As girlfriends, the protocol was that we stay at Hef’s table all night. We could get up and dance, as long as we stayed on the dance floor in front of the table. The only time we were allowed to leave was to go to the bathroom. There were times when some of the girls managed to get away for short periods of