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to <strong>the</strong>se types of events. Working toge<strong>the</strong>r, I knew that Kira had seen her fair share of Playboy<br />
parties.<br />
“You guys want a tour?” She posed <strong>the</strong> question as if we had just happened into her very own<br />
living room, and we immediately took her up on <strong>the</strong> offer. She walked us through <strong>the</strong> infamous<br />
candlelit grotto (which was still empty at this early hour), through <strong>the</strong> zoo where we fed grapes to <strong>the</strong><br />
tiny monkeys, and inside <strong>the</strong> ’70s-<strong>the</strong>med game house before making our way into <strong>the</strong> main event.<br />
Gorgeous colorful fabrics clung to every corner of <strong>the</strong> grand tent rooftop, while faux grass lined <strong>the</strong><br />
bottom, creating <strong>the</strong> illusion of some fantastical forest (although I’m quite certain that many of <strong>the</strong><br />
people in attendance didn’t make a habit of reading Shakespeare, and, in some cases, quite possibly<br />
had never even heard of <strong>the</strong> play <strong>the</strong> party was named for). Everything looked so sensuous and<br />
inviting.<br />
It wasn’t until we were tucked away in a corner of <strong>the</strong> tent that I finally spotted our infamous<br />
host looking quite gloomy—especially for a man flanked by two of <strong>the</strong> most breathtaking beauties I<br />
had ever seen. The Bentley twins were tall, tan, and reed thin with slow, languorous walks. They<br />
conducted <strong>the</strong>mselves like royalty—as if <strong>the</strong>y were on <strong>the</strong> arm of a king or a president—but were<br />
dressed like sex kittens in custom-tailored Baracci costumes. Shimmering with beads, sequins, and<br />
Swarovski crystals on French lace skirts and tops, <strong>the</strong>ir outfits were unlike anything any o<strong>the</strong>r<br />
partygoer was wearing. They were sexy but oh so elegant, with perfectly painted faces and blond<br />
cascading curls decorated with glittery butterflies. They were picture perfect and, needless to say,<br />
made a lasting impression.<br />
“He never stays for that long,” Kira said, when she saw me looking over at Hef and his fabulous<br />
girlfriends. I watched as Hef sat in a crowded corner of <strong>the</strong> tent, shaking hands with one partygoer<br />
after ano<strong>the</strong>r. My first thought was that he appeared really out of it. Was he senile? I thought. More<br />
likely, he was just bored. After 50 years of glad-handing, I’d imagine you’d get sick of it, too.<br />
I knew I didn’t have long before he made his escape, so Hea<strong>the</strong>r and I headed towards his table<br />
to introduce ourselves. Maybe Mr. Playboy would see me, think I was pretty, and suggest I audition<br />
for a pictorial. It was a long shot, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. Stranger things could happen.<br />
“Hi, I’m <strong>Holly</strong>,” I said, sticking out my hands to meet his.<br />
“What’s that?” he asked, clearly having trouble hearing over <strong>the</strong> crowd.<br />
“I’m <strong>Holly</strong>,” I repeated, a little louder.<br />
“Oh, hi. Nice to meet you, darling,” Hef said before turning his attention to <strong>the</strong> next person.<br />
There were no fireworks, no “Rhapsody in Blue,” and <strong>the</strong>re certainly wasn’t any audition.<br />
Oh well, I thought, I gave it a shot.