Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

large black and yellow bathroom. All the girlfriends—in various stages of undress—conglomerated
around the large black marble bathtub with their feet dangling in the pool of hot water. I followed
Tina’s lead, took off my shoes, and dipped my feet in. I have to say, after a full night of dancing (in
very high heels!), the hot water felt amazing.
Before I even had a chance to register much of what was going on, the girls quickly got up and
hightailed it into the dark, cavernous room beyond. (They all hated the bedroom routine and tried to
get it over with as quickly as possible.) Tina handed me a pink flannel pajama set to wear, which
matched the ones all the other girls were grabbing out of Hef’s massive closet area. (Yes, Hef’s
harem wore flannel pj’s. How’s that for a fantasy?)
As Tina led me into the bedroom, I stumbled over and weaved through massive piles of junk
covering the floor. It appeared that Hef liked to collect more than just women. Ceiling-high piles of
videotapes, stuffed animals, art, and gifts littered the room. It was like an episode of Hoarders. But
perhaps in his case it would be more appropriately titled Whore-ders.
Two huge television screens projecting graphic porn lit up the otherwise dark bedroom. In the
middle, a very pale man was tending to his own business (if you’re catching my thinly veiled
innuendo) and puffing on a joint before passing it around to the nearest blonde. The girlfriends, in
various stages of undress, were sitting in a semicircle at the edge of the bed—some kneeling, some
standing, and some lying down.
I sat myself on the edge of the bed—unsure of what to do next. I leaned into Vicky—after all, she
was the one I was most comfortable with.
Maybe if I hide behind her, I thought, I’ll go unnoticed for the night.
“Fake the fuck!” she hissed in my ear and pulled me towards her. “I’ll explain later!”
She didn’t have to explain. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I could see that all the
girls, backlit by the large screens, were putting on a show: they were going through the motions as if
they were getting it on or making out with each other, but no one really was. It was just a big façade.
No one was actually in the mood (besides Hef, I assumed) or turned on in the slightest. Like the porn
itself, it was all just for show. There was loud music blaring, but if you got close enough to any of the
girls, you could hear them gossiping with one another or making fun of what was going on in front of
them. If smartphones had been around then, I’m pretty sure they would have been texting or checking
their Instagram when Hef wasn’t looking.
When I think about it now, it’s almost comical. Every red-blooded American male has no doubt
fantasized about what went on in Hugh Hefner’s bedroom with his harem of blond bombshells. The
answer? Not a whole lot.
Looking back, I don’t know if Hef believed the charade. Truthfully, I don’t think he cared one
way or the other. Whether it was real or fake, he would be satisfied in knowing that the only reason it
was happening at all was for his own personal pleasure.
The girlfriends, and Vicky, it seemed to me in particular, were desperate to bring as many new
girls up into the bedroom as possible. With more “fresh meat” available for Hef, it was less likely
that they’d be called on to have sex with their “boyfriend” as often. Hef could keep up with only so
many girls in a night, so, as I saw it, Vicky had quickly figured out that recruiting new girls effectively