Read Down the Rabbit Hole for Free Online Page A

was. They were accepting and encouraging—some more than others—and Vicky, one of the more seasoned girlfriends, even offered to take me under her wing as I navigated this new, foreign world. It really didn’t occur to me that they had their own agenda, which I would soon learn.
    The girls would rattle on about how glamorous it was being a “girlfriend” and how every girl that moved into the mansion would eventually become a Playmate; they all had a weekly allowance to buy club clothes and get their hair and nails done; and the afternoons free to spend however they like. As a girlfriend, you just needed to be available on the nights when Hef hosted events at the mansion, went clubbing in Hollywood, attended red carpet parties, etc.
    This may sound naïve, but I didn’t immediately realize that they were actually required to sleep with Hef. Back then, none of the girlfriends talked about it. When I inquired about the more intimate duties, Vicky fiercely denied that anything sexual went on with Hef.
    â€œIt’s all for show,” Vicky said, explaining that the whole thing was basically a Hef-orchestrated publicity stunt.
    The girlfriends were simply dazzling arm candy to help keep up his Playboy image. It sounded more like a job than an actual relationship—and they sold it to me so matter-of-factly I was able to overlook what this “job” really sounded like. Hef’s former girlfriend Katie Lohmann had recently left, and Vicky told me that when she went on Howard Stern after scoring her centerfold and cheerfully denied that any of the girls slept with Hef with a dismissive laugh, she was promptly kicked out of the mansion. (Years later I found a taped copy of the interview in Hef’s press collection with a skull drawn on the label. He must have really hated that one!)
    I would be lying if I said I still didn’t have dreams of one day scoring a pictorial in Playboy ’s iconic pages, and mansion parties were a fun way to spend the weekend, but my main focus was either pursuing an acting career or going back to school. I didn’t have time to be Hugh Hefner’s on-call trophy girlfriend seven days a week, nor did I really think I had what it took. When I first started coming around, Hef was dating the Bentley twins—those two sophisticated glamazons that seemed to pay homage to the glory days of Playboy . With the right hair and makeup, I considered myself a pretty girl, but Mandy and Sandy looked like movie stars. After they departed the mansion, the “Sloppy Seven” invaded and lowered the bar.
    It’s almost unsettling how quickly your priorities can shift.
    Over the past year, I had been working long hours to afford my rent and I’d been auditioning like crazy. Luckily, I had no trouble getting an agent—and even managed to land a few bit parts here and there. They didn’t pay much, but it was enough to encourage me to continue pursuing my dream. My two closest friends hadn’t been as fortunate. Heather had given up and decided she was moving back to Pittsburgh. My roommate Nora hadn’t landed a single thing, either. The lease on our apartment was ending and she told me that her parents had agreed to pay her rent on a new lease—but only if she had her brother (an alcoholic who needed constant babysitting) move in. Just like that, I had to go.
    It was like that scene in Bridesmaids where Kristen Wiig gets booted from her apartment by Rebel Wilson and her on-screen brother—only not funny. Nora knew I had no credit and was broke as a joke; I couldn’t believe she was doing this to me. But as hopeless as the situation seemed, I refused to go back to Oregon. Not only did I not want to burden my parents, I also knew that leaving now would set back any progress I had made in becoming an actress. The desire to perform is what drove me to Los Angeles, and the thought of returning home miserable and still dreaming of