Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

girlfriends: “Do they all sleep with him?” the more conservative folks would wonder. “It’s all an act.
They’re just paid to be arm candy,” the younger crowd would usually surmise. “How does he keep up
with them all?” the older men marveled. But life inside the Playboy Mansion wasn’t exactly the sexy
fairy tale my ex-boyfriend would have you believe. In fact, it was like a bedazzled, twisted prison
where the inmates developed their own hazing and hierarchy and where the release back into society
was the equivalent of being excommunicated.
How would the other girlfriends react to my death? Among the seven girlfriends, I had only
one friend: Bridget Marquardt. Surely she would be distraught over my death, but I couldn’t imagine
the others girls would shed even a single tear. The climate inside the mansion was toxic. I didn’t
participate in the cocaine benders, the side boyfriends, or all their harebrained moneymaking schemes
that were all in direct violation of Hef’s house rules. I rarely left the mansion, so making it home in
time for curfew was never an issue either. Needless to say, my goody-two-shoes reputation wasn’t
the most welcome among this group of girls. In fact, they’d probably view my unexpected demise as
an opportunity to get away with more shit as Hef busied himself with the public relations rollout
regarding a death at the mansion. Not to mention, it would mean less competition. Yep, they would be
glad I was gone.
Would Hef even feel bad when he heard the news? He’d probably be completely shocked. In
his eyes, as long as each girlfriend had a substantial allowance to buy nice things—and the ability to
bask in the reflection of his fame—that’s all she needed to be happy. He would surely never concede
that my misery had anything to do with him or the life he provided. Would he even miss me? No, I
was certain I was just another warm body—as we all were. “Just another blonde,” I could hear him
say. Internally, I decided he would label it a devastating accident. His main concern would be
navigating Playboy out of any sort of PR crisis. A small memorial might even be held at the mansion,
but it would glorify my days at Playboy and with Hef, once again promoting the idea that life inside
those walls was nothing short of paradise.
And just like that, I would be swept under the rug with every other scandal and ghost that once
plagued Hugh Hefner . . . and my memory would involuntarily serve as yet another public reminder of
the beauty that is Playboy.
I think that knowing my death would be in vain convinced me not to go through with it. In truth, I
didn’t really want to die, but I saw no other way out. Thankfully the only thing greater than my need to
escape was my desire to share my experience. If I sunk my head below the water and went to sleep,
no one would ever know the truth.
Eventually I’ll tell my story, I thought. I wasn’t sure when and I wasn’t sure how, but someday I
would fight my way out. Someday I would be whole again.