Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

elationship I had with Adrianna to her advantage. Hef was totally smitten with Adrianna—who
looked like a perfect, fresh-faced beach bunny—so Vicky, who was as mean as a snake, must have
thought that I would have some useful information she could use to help take her competition down.
Since Adrianna had moved out of the mansion, it was clear to me that my presence was no longer of
use to Vicky. I think she continued to deal with me because she considered me average looking
compared to the rest of the girlfriends. (They all tried the best they could to re-create that ideal of
Pamela Anderson—I on the other hand wasn’t interested in transforming myself into a Spearmint
Rhino version of the Baywatch beauty. I wanted to look good enough to be a Playmate, but still hold
on to some of what made me unique—and, frankly, avoid looking like a blow-up doll.) But as soon as
Hef started using me as a behavioral example, Vicky no longer wanted anything to do with me.
Today, trying to recall how particularly hideously some of the girlfriends treated me is a bit
difficult. I liken it to being the dorky girl in the lunchroom who eats her sandwich quietly with her
nose buried deep in a book, praying she didn’t attract the unwanted attention of the popular kids.
That’s sort of how I felt, but unlike that little girl at school, I couldn’t look forward to weekends or
nights free from these mean girls. I lived with them.
Prior to moving into the mansion, I’d been a fairly confident person, but it didn’t take long for
my self-worth to start to crumble. After being identified by the other girlfriends as persona non grata,
I had become the victim of their ruthless “mean girl-ing.” During dinners or movie screenings, it
wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to overhear their loud whispers criticizing my appearance (my hair,
my face, my clothes). According to their ruthless taunting, I was the “hick girl” from Nowheresville,
USA. They found my optimistic attitude corny and my confidence threatening, so they did whatever
they could to tear me down. Sadly, I have to say it worked. Any Playmates or Playmate candidates
they befriended would join in, mocking me as well. Hef’s hearing was already pretty deteriorated, so
like him, I acted as if I did not hear their harsh remarks. My silence only further incited them and their
attacks became more vicious.
Once I started acquiring a decent wardrobe, my clothing began mysteriously disappearing. When
I would send things downstairs to be laundered, they would never make their way back. As a gift,
each girlfriend was given a gorgeous embroidered burgundy silk robe. We all sent ours to be cleaned
before an upcoming event, but only mine went missing. I reverted to writing my name on the inside of
each label like a third-grader going away to camp, but even that wasn’t really any kind of insurance
policy.
I quickly learned that complaining about the girls’ antics served zero purpose. You know the
phrase “Don’t shoot the messenger”? Well, Hef loved to shoot the messenger. He would make sure to
twist any complaint around into my own doing—and I’d end up apologizing to him. He cultivated an
environment where we were perpetually indebted to him. My priority became remaining in his good
graces.
Regardless, whenever Hef was around, I stayed close to his heels. Even though his presence
didn’t necessarily protect me from their bullying, I felt somehow safer. The “Mean Girls” couldn’t be
as obvious for fear that he might turn his wrath on them.
Two months into my mansion residency, I finally got to attend my first Playboy party as a