Bunny Tales (33 page)

I know some people reading this ask why we, living a life of partying, with butlers and maids and all the luxuries, would need a vacation. The answer is complicated. We just felt trapped most of the time, the curfew was taking its toll, as was the life of constant tension among the girls, and always living life on someone else’s terms. Yes, we chose this life, and at the beginning it was different. But it seems like life at the Mansion had gone through phases, especially for me: curiosity and intimidation, then fun and excitement, and finally boredom and fatigue.

When all the parties were over, Hef kept saying that the fun would continue with the fifty-city tour—fifty
Playboy
parties in fifty different cities in honor of the anniversary—and that we could go to some of those cities. He knew that we were getting restless; we had been there for almost two years. And he was lucky that we all stayed with him for the fiftieth anniversary instead of leaving him with only two girls. When the whole fiftieth anniversary year began, he said there would be so much publicity and girls would see how much fun we were having, that new girls would be knocking down the Mansion gates to join our party. “Shhh,” we would say to each other all the time, “I think I just heard a girl knocking. . . .” We listened closely, but there was no one at the door.

19: Bunny Trap.

“ A mind not to be chang’d by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”

—Paradise Lost, Book I, Line 253

O
ne day I woke up and had an epiphany: I was unhappy. I hadn’t slept all night; they had rented out the pool to some alcohol company the night before and the rowdy guests did not leave until 2 a.m. For the next three hours, they cleaned up and threw the tables and chairs onto a truck. When I finally fell asleep at 6 a.m., the workers gathered under my window to chat. “Can you keep it down please?” I muttered, sticking my head out the window.

At 10 a.m., the office staff was in and the daily noise began. Holly apparently slept well because she came to Mary’s office, her dog Harlow having barked all the way down the hall. I gave up. I woke up and ordered my usual breakfast, and by the time I got it, my over-greased English muffin was hard and as tasty as cardboard. The phone rang. “Dude, I am going to kick that stupid dog when I see it!” Emma said. Apparently Harlow woke up everyone who was sleeping. “Emma, don’t even get me started. I need to have a pot of coffee before I can even begin to tell you how I feel right now.” And that is when it came to me: What the hell was I doing? I visualized my apartment; it was no Mansion, but it was five times bigger than my room. It was cleaner, quieter, had nice furniture, and I could actually make my own breakfast. It was time to stop complaining like a spoiled brat and start living my own life once again. This setup was still perfect for people who were lazy and satisfied living off the fame of another, but that was not me, it never had been. I had a ton of fun and fantastic experiences, but that seemed to be over. It was time to move on and let someone new move in and enjoy the temporary bliss of the Playboy Mansion.

I felt exhausted. I was tired of the clubs, not just going out twice a week, but to the same places all the time being bound to our separated area. The late nights and drinking and stress made me feel like I aged twice as fast. I was also tired of living in a house with so many people around. No privacy ever, never just a chill day when you don’t want to see anyone. I was also sick of getting sick. With so many different people handling your food before you got it, it was like a germ paradise, and my tired immune system was susceptible. I also wanted to do my own laundry. I was tired of getting things washed out, discolored or shrunk and stained—so many clothes ruined and missing. Every other day I got some other girl’s laundry or random pairs of underwear, and that meant other people got mine. I was also sick of having a dead battery in my car every week from valets leaving something on, or worse, my car getting dents and scratches all the time by the workers. It was a big hassle to get the car fixed and have Playboy pay for it. I never thought I would get tired of living in a Mansion. More than anything, I got tired of the company I was keeping. The tension among the girls was ridiculous. We could not do anything without some drama ensuing.

I was at the Mansion by choice, and I was also free to leave whenever I chose. But like a captive who grows to care for the captor, I was not ready to leave all at once. The process would be gradual. Emma and I always talked about leaving the Mansion together, and although she and Susan complained daily and said they were leaving, I knew they had no intention of walking out on the best gig they ever had. I had to think of myself. I began saving money. I decided that I would leave in May. I would sign up for the July Bar exam and hence force myself to leave so that I could study for it. In the meantime, because I knew I was leaving, my attitude changed. What was once tolerable became unbearable: the cattiness, the tensions, the dimwitted conversations.

We arrived at a point where the air itself was filled with animosity. It could not be ignored or wished away. I remember the time we had to do a photo shoot for the cover of YRB (
Yellow Rat Bastard
) magazine. It was tense from the beginning. The photographer told Bridget and Holly to sit on either side of Hef à la bookends because they were wearing the same color outfits (preplanning on their part); Emma then threw a fit about it—feeling she had no other choice. So she planted herself right smack in the middle on the floor in front of Hef. I could not have cared less about the whole issue, so I just sat back. The photographer then wanted to take individual photos of us outside. Hef went back to the office, and we went out onto the back lawn, tense as could be.

“Who is the leader of this clan?” the photographer asked.

“I am,” Emma said testily.

“
Yeah,
right,” was Holly’s quick response.

Oh God,
I thought to myself,
here we go.
I could not believe that Emma wanted to create a fight out of this simple event. The photographer and the crew instantly picked up on the vibe.

“So you all hate each other?” They could tell the group was divided.

“Yes, they are the nerd herd,” was the mature response from Susan, Emma, and I.

“And what are you guys?”

Hmm.
We hadn’t thought about it.

“The cool group?” was our lame answer.

I couldn’t believe things had deteriorated to this degree. We then had to undergo the torture of watching each other do individual photos. Holly and Bridget were great at keeping their hatred and fury inside. They did not say one word to each other or anyone else, they just did what they had to and left. But I know as soon as they entered Holly’s vanity area, in Hef’s bedroom, they blew up. I knew Emma had gone too far. We already had so much tension; it really wasn’t necessary to add to it. It was like two dogs trying to mark their territory. I knew Emma would lose.

In January 2004, Hef announced that we would be going to the Golden Globes as we did every year. We also found out that for the first time ever, there would be no clothing allowance. We were told that Holly complained to Hef that some girls—i.e. Emma—were not spending all their money on the dresses anyway. Apparently his secretary also urged him to give us less; she was always so nosy about what we wore, but I thought she was just curious. The other girls suggested that she was just checking to see if we had spent all of the money we were supposed to, and that is why she always asked where we got everything. I thought it was ridiculous—could Hef really be that gullible and easily manipulated by his secretaries and Holly? Apparently so. Once again, Emma and I went to reason with him; we could not wear things we already had because we had been photographed in everything, and it was embarrassing. This was a formal event, and we didn’t have gowns lying around in our closets. But he would not budge. He said he would give us money for the Grammys that were coming up in a couple of weeks. We gave up. We knew something was different. In the meantime, I bought a dress for a couple hundred dollars, and some of the other girls bought dresses that they later returned. I guess desperate times call for desperate measures.

Then came the 2004 Grammy Awards. Hef usually gave us $2,000 because we had two events to go to—the MusiCares formal dinner gala and the actual Grammy Awards. That year, he gave us only $1,000 each. We couldn’t believe it, especially since he didn’t give us any money for the Golden Globes. A thousand dollars, truthfully, was not enough for us to dress the way he wanted us to dress for these two fancy events and for being photographed on the red carpet. Something was wrong. This was not Hef; this was the influence of other people. I wanted to go and tell Holly that the sooner we saved any leftover money for ourselves, the sooner we would go, so she was in fact working against herself by talking him out of giving us clothing money. We knew that this might be the last Grammys we would attend—none of us had any musical talent, so the only way we would be going again in the future was on the arm of some rock star—so we decided to make the most of it.

We wanted to wear something fun and cool, very representative of the Grammys. Susan wanted us all to wear the same thing since Hef likes the whole idea of twins or triplets, and if it appealed to him, then Holly and Bridget would be upset—icing on the cake. It was up to me to create the outfits, and I found this dress—actually it was a top—in three different colors. I envisioned them with over-the-knee glitter boots for the extra bling. Emma wore a yellow dress with gold boots, Susan wore a red dress with red boots, and I wore a pink dress with pink boots. It worked. On the red carpet, everyone was focused on us and our outfits.

“Who are you girls wearing? You look hot!” asked the amused reporters.

“Izabella Creations,” Emma kept answering, as the eager reporters scribbled it down.

I laughed. Pictures of us showed up at stores around L.A. with knockoffs of the dress/top we wore. When photographers took photos, it was of the three of us and Hef; when they asked the names of the girls they didn’t go any further than inquiring about our names. We knew the other girls were mad, and we loved it. You wanna play games? We can play! The show that year was really good; Beyonce was amazing, and I loved the White Stripes. After the show, as we were walking out toward our limo, I noticed Scott Stapp standing there. I had to say something. “Hey Scott, my name is Izabella, I live at the Playboy Mansion.... I am the one you talked to for six hours that time. Did you ever end up making it to the party?” I asked, even though I knew he did.

“Oh yeah, I did but it was really late. Can I get your number?”

I wanted to give it to him again, but I had to run; Hef was way ahead of me.

“I’m sorry, I gotta go.”

“Fine, whatever,” was his cool response.

Two minutes after we got into the limo and started driving, someone rear-ended us. It wasn’t a hard hit, but it jolted us and the pause made us lose our party streak. We ended up only going to one of the after-parties—despite having planned on attending three—for about fifteen minutes, and then going home. It was so pathetic, but we knew we were not going to have fun with Hef anyways, so why bother going to all those places? It was the great irony of the situation for us; we were invited to all these fabulous parties and events, but we could not go, and even if we could, we could not enjoy ourselves. This routine was getting really old.

And like always, as soon as we were in the limo heading home, Hef would reflect on what a great night it was, and Holly and Bridget would obligingly “ooh” and “ahh” while the rest of us grieved for the fun that was not to be had. His tone wasn’t genuine. It was like he was asking for praise and thanks for taking us there, and at the same time trying to convince himself that he was living the life of a real Hollywood player. Of course we were grateful, but at the same time our attitude was, “Why lead the horse to water if you aren’t going to let him drink?” But that was not Hef’s plan; he just wanted to be seen bringing the prettiest horses and then taking them right back to the stable, while at the same receiving their gratitude for allowing them to see the water. And if we weren’t grateful enough, he would be sure to tell us how he did it only for us and how much money he spent to get us there.

I remember I was driving somewhere with Emma and Susan when they began talking about leaving the Mansion and finding another sugar daddy. Susan kept harping on the fact that Donald Trump gave her a compliment at the
Playboy
fiftieth anniversary party, and now she and Emma wanted to take full advantage of it. Emma got the phone number for his office and wanted Susan to call him. I was in awe. They called and left a message with his secretary. Their grand plan was that since he gave Susan a compliment, he must have been interested, so when he called back Susan would get together with him, but would be with him only if he would take care of Emma as well. I could not believe what I was hearing!

“He has a girlfriend, Melania Knauss, who he has been with for years, just in case you girls did not notice!” I pointed out.

“So?” they chimed in.

I could not believe how silly they were. More than anything I longed to be independent and try to build my own life. I could not believe they were desperate to go into the arms of another man who would take care of them
again
, versus taking care of themselves. I remember telling them, at that moment, that I never met such characters, and one day I would have to write about them. Then they began talking about other men who were like Hef, men who were wealthy and wanted to copy his lifestyle. Despite what Hef would like to believe, he is not the only playboy around. Hef wannabes who had as much if not more money than him had emerged, and offered more benefits to the girls, more money and more freedom. The only thing they did not have was their own magazine and a legend.