Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

Playboy—and we had to keep up the image (not to mention, these new fancy cars kept many females
salivating over a spot in Hef’s harem). Although Hef could easily buy each girl a car 10 times over if
he wanted, he knew better than to buy the vehicles outright. Instead, he leased the cars for us. Doing
things this way protected him from having girls drive right off in paid-for cars. Plus, it was another
genius way to control us. If a girlfriend decided to leave the mansion, it’s unlikely she would be able
to meet the payments on her extravagant new ride. So she either had to stay, risk the car getting
repossessed, or leave it behind.
One such car was a white Cadillac Escalade with monster truck tires, a lift kit, rims, and every
other possible tricked-out add-on that was leased for former girlfriend Buffy Tyler. Buffy was a
baby-faced, snub-nosed girl from Texas who had recently moved out after becoming Miss November
2000. Mary O’Connor, who had taken a liking to me, actually came to my rescue and suggested that
Hef let me drive the repossessed SUV. When she mentioned my Celica, she wrinkled her nose. She
was right. It looked like it belonged in a scrap yard—not in the driveway of the Playboy Mansion.
Happily and gratefully, I accepted, even though the car was way too big and gaudy for my taste.
After all, beggars can’t be choosers. Little did I know that accepting the new ride would cause the
other girls to hate me even more (if that was possible). Not only was the Escalade more expensive
than anything the other girls drove, but Hef had paid for all the pricey bells and whistles Buffy had
installed on the car, something he wouldn’t do for any of the other girls. (Playing favorites and
causing jealousy among the girlfriends was yet another little game he enjoyed.) Obsessed with
counting every last penny of who got what, the girls knew the value behind all the features Buffy had
chosen for the luxury SUV. The cold shoulders I received were extra frigid for a good month after I
started driving that car.
Besides Christmas, clothes, and cars, the other large expense that Hef was happy to spend his
money on were cosmetic enhancements.
People often ask me if the girlfriends were required to have plastic surgery while living in the
mansion, because it was clear so many of us did. The answer is both simple and complex. No, we
were not obligated to have plastic surgery while living there. However, the mansion was a virtual
breeding ground for superficial insecurities. And most girls who lived there ended up with body
dysmorphic disorders. No matter how beautiful they were, these women would pick themselves apart
—ordering one procedure after the next.
It was known that if a girlfriend did choose to undergo some sort of plastic surgery, Hef would
foot the bill. The most popular procedures among the girlfriends were breast augmentations (both new
and redone), rhinoplasty, and liposuction. Eventually, I would ask for my own nose job, but that was
only part of my Playboy makeover.
During my first few months at the mansion, I was still a college-aged girl who actually liked
herself. Without school and work, I quickly became bored and filled my days with activities typical
of a 22-year-old girl: shopping, working out, getting my belly button pierced, things like that. One
day, my friend Britney and I decided to go get tattoos. I got a small Playboy Bunny tattooed in the
middle of my lower back (talk about a tramp stamp!), because I thought it was a cute, fun way to
commemorate this crazy experience. This was back when I thought my mansion stay was going to be a