Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

efore, often word for word. I think I had unintentionally memorized some of them myself. He
struggled for so long, it was becoming awkward and I feared the reporter had only asked about hiphop
to trip up the 76-year-old man, so I decided to cut in.
“You listen to it out at the clubs,” I offered, looking at Hef with a warm smile, aware that all
eyes were on me.
“Er, um, yes, yes,” Hef said, regaining some composure. “We listen to it when we go out.” He
coasted through the rest of the interview on his Rolodex of previously used responses and we
wrapped.
When I finally managed to get up to the master bedroom to change out of the red skirt and lace
cropped halter I had worn for the video, Hef had beaten me there and was already standing in front of
the bathroom sink.
“YOU,” he began loudly when I appeared in the doorway, “have NO answers! You are to keep
quiet during interviews!”
“Sorry, I was just trying to help,” I mumbled as I darted around the corner into the vanity. My
eyes started filling with tears—as they did almost daily back then.
I was to keep quiet, I repeated in my head. He was treating me like a dog. Sit! Stay! No barking!
Only I’d never seen him be so mean towards his animals. I had tried to help my boyfriend navigate a
sticky situation and now I was being punished for it, which made the reprimand hurt all the more.
Despite his many abuses, I had grown protective of Hef and felt like the interviewer could easily
have made him look like a fool. In the few years I’d been at the mansion, I’d never seen a question
throw him so entirely off his game. What if the producers decided not to be kind that day? The way he
was sputtering in front of the camera, they could have easily made him look like a senile old coot.
But he clearly would rather have looked like an idiot than get help from one of his “dumb
blondes.”
When would I ever catch a break? I wondered.
FOR THE MAGAZINE’S 50TH anniversary, A&E wanted to shoot a TV special to air on the network. The
program included a party at the mansion celebrating the magazine’s iconic run and honoring
Playboy’s most famous Playmates. As girlfriends, we had no role beyond getting glammed up and
sitting quietly next to Hef, but I used it as an opportunity to try to give myself a much-needed boost of
self-esteem. I decided to treat myself to something really special: a red, Jessica Rabbit–inspired
Baracci gown that cost a few thousand dollars. I never spent that much on clothing, since I was trying
to put away as much money as I could, but I felt I finally deserved the treat. I always remembered
how stunning the Bentley twins looked in their glamorous Baracci gowns, and seeing as though this
was an extra-special event, I figured I could splurge!
“You know, you will look back on this time as the best time of your life,” Mary had said to me
after one of my vent sessions. “All the dressing up and things you get to do.” I trusted Mary and
always told her how I felt, but if this is the best time of my life, shoot me now, I thought.
Foolishly, I’d long believed that becoming a Playboy centerfold was the fast track to fame and