Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

Monaco’s nightly performances. She’d offer me a friendly wave from the rafters before taking her
plunge down onto the stage each night.
For so long I dreamed of becoming a performer, and this was my chance to prove to everyone
that I was capable of more than being a “trophy girlfriend.”
It didn’t faze me that the audience was never packed (maybe it should have). The show was
averaging roughly 300 people a night, which was pretty dismal considering the size of the theater and
the expense of the production, but in early 2009, people weren’t flocking to Vegas to see shows. If
they happened to come to the city, they most likely spent their time in the casinos hoping to earn back
some of what they lost in the recession.
Either way, it was clear that something needed to change to help drive attendance, so right when
I entered production, executives began an entire overhaul on Peepshow’s marketing campaign. You
couldn’t turn a corner in Las Vegas without seeing me smiling on a billboard, poster, or taxi.
Suddenly the show had a face . . . and it was mine! But whether or not that face would sell tickets
remained to be seen.
As (bad) luck would have it, when my opening night came around, I hit some rough waters.
Earlier that day, I had decided to text Criss. In retrospect it was a dumb move, but I was just so
happy and in a place where personally I wanted to forgive and forget. I’d heard from mutual
acquaintances that Criss was not pleased when I got the Peepshow gig and announced my return to
Las Vegas. After all, it had been his agenda to banish me from Vegas as if I had never existed. It must
have chafed him even more that my appearance on Dancing with the Stars ended just as I had landed
Peepshow. And, whether I liked it or not, Criss was still a high-profile person in my new hometown,
which could prove to be very small at times. Why not make an attempt to bury the hatchet? We’d
almost certainly run into each other at some point.
“Hey, I just wanted to extend an invitation to my premier party tonight,” I typed into my phone. “I
wish you and your girlfriend the best!”
I assumed I wouldn’t hear back from him, but wanted to extend the olive branch, so I at least
knew I did what I could to end things on the best note possible.
A few hours later, I was backstage in my dressing room putting the finishing touches on my hair
and makeup. I was taking a few deep breaths to calm my nerves when I heard my cell phone buzz. It
was a text message from Criss. Instinctively, I looked at the clock.
He must be going on late, I thought. It was a few minutes after his second show should have
started. I expected a generic “Good luck tonight” message. Instead, it went a little something like this:
“I told myself I wouldn’t do this, but I am answering your text anyway. Criss is with me now.
Stop texting him. You are disgusting. You are in a burlesque show because you can’t do anything else.
You used an old man to get to the B-list. Criss told me the real reason you guys broke up. It’s not
because of scheduling differences, it was because you were on antidepressants and he couldn’t be
with someone like that. If I had your reputation, I would be on antidepressants, too. You are the
biggest running joke around here. You got used. Lose this number.”
My face went white and I felt faint. I was completely beside myself. Apparently, his new
girlfriend had taken his phone during his performance. I sat still for what felt like 10 minutes reading