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Hollywood killed me.
    I started to wonder, Couldn’t Playboy help me reach that goal? I’d seen it before: Baywatch Hawaii executive producer Michael Berk was a mansion regular and Hef’s former girlfriend Brande Roderick landed a leading role on the show shortly after appearing as a centerfold. The more time I spent at that enchanting Holmby Hills compound, the more I started seeing opportunities like these. It’s very easy to get transfixed by the magic of this curious world where even the impossible seemed possible—where a small-town girl could rub elbows with movie stars and be made to feel like a fantasy. I had spent so much of my youth searching for that kind of opportunity and it seemed Playboy could hand it to me on a silver bunny emblazoned platter. One weekend while waiting outside of the mansion’s front door for the valet to pull up my beat-up old car at the end of a “Sunday Funday,” I looked up at the glowing second-story windows and wondered what it would feel like to call that place home. It looked so cozy and safe.
    Vicky had once given me a peek inside her room—and I was surprised at how much it looked like the type of room I would have liked to have. The plush bed was covered in pink candy-striped satin sheets and piled high with Playboy-branded clothing—free gifts for Hef’s girlfriends. Disney paraphernalia was everywhere from a recent shopping spree at Disneyland—all on Hef’s tab, of course. And a dreamy windowseat overlooked the backyard.
    We even ordered cheeseburgers from the kitchen, which may not sound like much, but it was. Once upon a time, Hef’s guests could order whatever they wanted from the kitchen, whenever they wanted. It was even said that Jack Nicholson used to treat the mansion as a drive-thru back in the ’70s. He would call the butler’s pantry ahead of time, order a meal, and have it brought out to his car as he drove up the driveway. After the food was delivered to him in a paper sack, he would supposedly speed out the back gate without so much as a hello. Since then, guests’ access to the kitchen became a little more limited, but Hef’s girlfriends could still order whatever they wanted, 24 hours a day. To me, someone used to scraping together pennies in order to eat at Burger King, this was on another level!
    I had to admit: the whole girlfriend thing was starting to look pretty appealing.
    Around that time, a few of the girls had suggested that I come out with them for one of the biweekly club nights. One of the girlfriends, Kimberly, had recently been kicked out, which meant there was an open spot Hef was ready to fill. “Talk to Hef,” Vicky encouraged after I confided in her about my housing problems. Never did it occur to me to simply approach him myself. It also never occurred to me that the then-seven girlfriends wanted me around only because my “ordinary” appearance was nonthreatening. They wanted to make sure whoever filled the empty space wasn’t competition.
    On Sunday, I worked up the nerve to mention the idea to Hef when he finally appeared poolside. “I’d love to come along with you the next time you all go out,” I said, bracing myself for a less than exuberant response. Much to my surprise, he immediately took to the idea and invited me to join them that coming Wednesday.
    â€œAwesome,” I cheered, with a little hop. “Thank you!” Hef seemed amused by my childlike excitement, but quickly turned back to his friends.
    When I found Vicky to share the good news, she filled me in on all of the details: I was to meet Hef and the girls at 10 P . M . in the mansion’s main entry hall dressed to impress in my sexiest club wear before heading to Las Palmas—Hollywood’s hottest nightclub.
    Every girl at some point has uttered the phrase, “I have nothing to wear.” But in my case, it was sort of true. I spent the next three days