Down the Rabbit Hole by Holly Madison Page A

time, due to the fact that Hef was so distracted by all the partygoers clamoring for his attention. Star fucking was a priority for most of the girls, so they tried to sneak away and meet as many famous men as possible. One of the biggest running jokes among the girls was when a girlfriend (who owned a pet capuchin monkey she liked to tote around for attention) took Jennifer Lopez’s ex-husband Cris Judd up to her room to “show him her monkey.”
    When Hef was ready to leave the party (usually around 1 A . M .) we had to go upstairs with him. Of course, there were always girlfriends who snuck back down to the parties after Hef was asleep, to chase men or hobnob with celebrities, but they were always very discreet about it. After all, Hef’s videographers wandered the parties until the wee hours capturing all the goings-on, and none of the girls wanted to get caught on tape. By the next afternoon, Hef’s video department would have a tape sitting outside Hef’s door with a “highlight reel” from the last night’s party, copies of which would be sent to local news stations. So much for “what happens at the mansion stays at the mansion!”
    That year, Playboy would collaborate with Girls Gone Wild to release a DVD titled Playboy Mansion Parties Uncensored . The DVD—a compilation of all kinds of random party footage, including nudity and celebrity sightings—flew off the shelves. The effect that particular business venture had on the brand was questionable, however. The overeagerness of Playboy to exploit what went on at the mansion parties dirtied the cachet of these events that were once considered exclusive and glamorous. No longer feeling like their privacy was being respected, fewer and fewer A-list celebrities wanted to attend anymore. Understandably so.
    The night ended with me passed out on my bedroom floor with a cheeseburger in my lap. It had become clear to me that being a part of Hugh Hefner’s “party posse” wasn’t as glamorous as it seemed. This was a far cry from what I pictured life here would be like when I first laid eyes on the gorgeous Bentley twins a year and a half earlier at the Midsummer Night’s Dream Party. The situation was also much lonelier than I could have ever imagined. Not to mention more stressful.
    The day-to-day stress of mansion life had taken such a toll on me that I could feel myself mentally regressing. My memory started to dull—and things I used to know with certainty started to fade from my mind. I’ve always considered myself an intelligent girl, but I could feel myself getting dumber and began second-guessing everything. That might sound insane, but I suppose you are the company you keep . . . and let’s just say the other six girlfriends weren’t necessarily winning any spelling bees.
    I was so constantly on edge that I eventually developed a stammer when speaking, so I tried as best I could to stay quiet and not risk the embarrassment of tripping over sentences.
    To Hef, my shrinking violet personality was a sign of submission that he used to manipulate the other women. It helped my rise through the girlfriend ranks to become among Hef’s favorites.
    Over time, I convinced myself that I did actually care for this man . . . that I wanted to be in a relationship with him despite the fact that I didn’t really know him. Of course, living with someone, you learn things about their personalities, their tics and their annoyances, but Hef and I never really talked . . . not about things that mattered. There were no deep conversations or romance between us.
    As far as his girlfriends were concerned, we were better seen and not heard. His friends were there for his intellectual stimulation; my job was to show up and look pretty. Even our daily dialogue was superficial. If ever I tried to speak to him about books, politics, or world events, he would scoff at whatever I said. It