Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

etro style Betsey Johnson black and white ball gown. I loved it, but I felt a little out of place after I
realized how conservative my poufy, below-the-knee dress looked next to the other girls’ tighter and
more revealing ensembles.
When we arrived in our stretch limo to the Waldorf Astoria hotel, my heart fell into my stomach.
I’d never been to an event like this in my life—let alone on the arm of the guest of honor.
As we piled on each side of Hef for photographs outside the ballroom, I began shadowing the
other girlfriends. Terrified to make any kind of noticeable mistake, I mimicked the girls who
appeared to be veterans at this point. Like the other six, I plastered on my brightest smile and stood
patiently behind Hef as he conducted one interview after the other. I had to watch my step, though.
Simply falling into place in line didn’t work for the other girls. One girlfriend, Carolyn, shamelessly
shoved me out of the way so she could stand closer to Hef. (Because we were in front of the press, all
of sudden, being as close as possible to Hef was really important to all of the girls, who normally
couldn’t be farther away.)
When the New York magazine reporter shoved her device under my nose, I was taken off guard. I
didn’t want to seem unfriendly or rude, so I answered her questions as politely as possible and
excused myself to follow the rest of the girlfriends into the ballroom.
“What did that reporter ask you?” Vicky hissed as I sat down at the large banquet table closest to
the stage.
“She asked me if we were a harem that travels with Hef.” I let out a small laugh. To me, it was
just a silly sounding question.
“What did you say?” Vicky asked me, her eyes like slits.
“I just sort of laughed and said, ‘Well, I guess so,’ ” I told her, a smile still stuck on my face,
completely unaware that I might have done something wrong. I didn’t take the question literally. When
she said “harem,” I just thought she meant an ornamental group of women, not sex slaves. I had been
around only a few weeks, how was I supposed to know how to answer a question like that? I’d never
spoken to a reporter in my life!
“No,” Vicky spat at me, exasperated. “Don’t ever say that we sleep with him. We always tell
people that only Tina does that.” I could see that I rattled her pretty hard. As Hef took his throne on
stage, Vicky spent the rest of the evening ignoring me and whispering to the other girlfriends in
between venomous glances. She’d clearly misled me in the beginning; I guess I shouldn’t have been
so shocked that she was trying to mislead others, too. But exactly who did she think she was fooling?
The irony wasn’t at all lost on me that the entirety of the evening consisted of sex jokes implying
that Hef was intimate with each of the seven blondes sitting at his feet.
“I’ve read just about every issue of Playboy since I was 15 years old,” began the host, Jimmy
Kimmel, “And not once did I see a Playmate say that one of her turn-ons was fucking a 75-year-old
man.”
INSIDE THE MANSION, LIFE wasn’t at all like what I dreamed it would be. Instead of a nightly slumber
party with six of your best friends, I had entered the lion’s den. It gave a whole new meaning to the