Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

“So,” he said, his voice much friendlier, “can you get me on the list for the parties?”
This guy clearly had no shame. Needless to say, I told him no.
After my friends’ less-than-supportive reaction, I was too terrified to tell anyone else. I was
naïve enough to believe that the decisions I made in the relative privacy of that dark cave of a
bedroom would remain just that: private. I was by no means prepared for the large scarlet letter that
had been branded on my chest.
I knew my close friends and family wouldn’t approve, but I had already made the decision.
Listening to their words of warning and disappointment would only make me feel worse. To be
totally honest, I was already ashamed enough and I wanted to delay any further conversations until I
had a better understating of what my life would be like.
Any remaining doubts about my decision vanished when, on an early morning about a week after
I had moved in, Vicky stormed into my room screaming: “We’ve been bombed! We’ve been
bombed!”
It was September 11, 2001.
“New York and the Pentagon,” she shrieked. “We’ve been bombed!”
I hobbled into the bathroom feeling sick to my stomach and paralyzed with fear. I imagined that
terrorists had bombs aimed at every major city in America. Were we next? In that instant, I couldn’t
have been more grateful to be inside this great big, safe house.
Of course I soon discovered that we hadn’t actually been bombed: but the reality was no less
scary. Terrorists hijacked four American airliners and crashed two of them into the World Trade
Center towers in lower Manhattan (as well as one into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., and one in
rural Pennsylvania).
Thank God I’m here, I thought. I would have been so much more scared had I been out on my
own, couch surfing or worse.
The first few nights I slept in Bedroom 3—one of the biggest guest rooms in the mansion with
three beds and a private bathroom, but like all the other guest rooms in the house, relatively plain.
Strangely, it also doubled as a bedroom for Hef’s two sons Marston and Cooper (who were 9 and 10,
respectively, at the time) if they ever were to spend the night in the mansion. Though they never stayed
over while I was there, there were still toys scattered across the bedroom floor—which made for an
incredibly odd and, frankly, creepy juxtaposition.
April was also residing in Bedroom 3, and she intimidated the hell out of me. She was taller and
bigger boned than Hef’s usual type and had an in-your-face personality. I had heard she used to be a
stripper even though Playboy has a somewhat hypocritical “no stripper” policy when it comes to
Hef’s idea of the wholesome Playmate image. She also had a constant need to be the center of
attention—and would do whatever she needed to keep the spotlight on her, no matter how raunchy.
She also made zero effort to hide the fact that she felt I was intruding on her space.
That week, another girlfriend, Adrianna, announced her departure. It was assumed that April
would move into her old room (Bedroom 5) and I would be staying in the shared room. April was
new to the mansion herself, but since she had moved in several months before me, still had seniority
when it came to rooms. Bedroom 5 was one of the smallest rooms, but it was private. And as I would