Down the Rabbit Hole

by Holly Madison

  Not long into our courtship, Criss bought me a piece of jewelry—a small diamond cross necklace. Conveniently, a photo of us at the jewelry store popped up on a few gossip sites, most of which speculated that we must be engagement ring shopping.

  With a 10-year Vegas residency on the horizon, Criss was in the market to purchase his first home—and insisted on me coming along to all the showings. He wanted me to love what he insisted would be our future home. As we’d stroll through these sprawling Vegas estates, he’d ask my opinions on this feature or that fixture—seeming interested in what I had to say.

  On the days I would travel back to Los Angeles to work on my Playboy job that I had somehow managed to hang on to, I’d come home to a huge bouquet of red roses already waiting for me at my Santa Monica condo. Criss didn’t waste a single opportunity to continue impressing me. He would text me often throughout the day wanting to know what I was up to, getting worked up when he couldn’t get ahold of me.

  After a few trips back to the coast, Criss began insisting that one of his security guards accompany me. As our public profile continued to rise, Criss said it was in order to keep me safe. The guard would stay in a hotel near my condo and was to accompany me everywhere. It was awkward and embarrassing to have to explain to my friends why a security guard joined us for every meal.

  “Doesn’t that seem a little unnecessary?” one friend suggested over our lunch. “Maybe a bit possessive?”

  “No,” I said, trying to hide my embarrassment. Criss worshipped the ground I walked on and genuinely worried about me, I thought. “He’s just protective,” I explained.

  In my post-mansion life, Criss seemed to be exactly what I needed. It wasn’t long before I reverted back into the Converse-wearing, jeans, ponytail, and black nail polish kind of girl that I used to be in high school. No longer feeling the pressure to look and act like a human Barbie doll was a gigantic weight off my shoulders. In fact, Criss even encouraged me to go without makeup.

  Wow. Somebody who likes me for who I really am! I thought.

  Despite having made a complete break from my relationship with Hef, I still felt like I was awkwardly darting back and forth between two worlds. Not only was there my job at the Playboy Studio, but there were still Girls Next Door obligations to fill. I had been with Criss for only about six weeks or so when I received a call from the GND producers asking me to come into the studio for audio commentary for the season five DVD. Understandably, now that the season was wrapped and edited, the producers were eager to get this commentary in the can before the three of us girls scattered even farther in different directions.

  Despite placing an impenetrable candy coating on what was often a miserable existence, I was always very grateful for Girls Next Door and the opportunities it provided me. Who knows where I would have ended up if it hadn’t been for the series? Perhaps still locked behind that giant gate, depressed as ever . . . or worse.

  Committed to fulfilling my obligations to the show, I agreed to come in that week. For the audio commentary, producers set Bridget, Kendra, and me in chairs around a monitor. They’d play each episode and we’d talk about what was going on in that moment or provide some behind-the-scenes details. Despite having been away from the girls for only a few weeks, it felt like I hadn’t seen them in years—and it was so much fun laughing over the show with them.

  My jovial mood, however, wouldn’t last. During the final episode, producers had cut a video montage of Hef’s and my most romantic-seeming moments over the course of the last five seasons. With our breakup (not to mention the way he had treated me) still so fresh in my mind, I couldn’t begin to manufacture any sort of sentiment for the commentary. In fact, the entire montage made me sick to my stomach.

  “Really?” I groaned into the microphone at our producer. “Do you have to do this?”

  “Holly, Hef is a romantic,” he said calmly. “He wants to hear from you.”

  “It’s gross,” I protested. “Do you have to put all this in? We’re not together anymore. Nobody wants to see this.”

  He seemed disappointed that I wasn’t making this easier, but I didn’t care. The montage seemed wildly inappropriate. Plus, Criss was growing more and more sensitive about my affiliation with Playboy. About a month into our living together, he started getting really upset any time an article would surface linking me to anything Playboy-related. His rants frightened me, but since I had (foolishly) already moved in with Criss, I gave him chance after chance, hoping that this was a passing phase. In my head, I imagined Criss watching this episode and completely going off the deep end (which is exactly what would happen).

  After we wrapped commentary, Bridget, Kendra, and I gathered around outside the studio with the producers and the crew chatting about the season, what we loved, what we hated, etc.

  “You know, Hef likes all the drama,” Kendra began. We’d all had our complaints in the past, but this was the first time Kendra was so vocal in front of production. I guess since it was all over, she had nothing to lose. “I remember one day we were all watching a movie and afterward Hef followed me back into my room. He goes, ‘You know, I’m really disappointed that you didn’t sit closer to me.’ And it was so weird, so I just said, ‘Well, that’s, like, where Holly sits and I don’t want to, you know, step on anyone’s toes.’ Then the dude stomps his feet and was like, ‘I like the drama!’ ”

  Kendra’s story hit me like a punch in the gut. While I had long ago tired of Hef’s double standards, ridiculous rules, and belittling comments, this was the first time I really realized what a manipulator he was. Suddenly, it all became clear to me. The biggest reason I never got along with most of the girls in the house was Hef. He encouraged the infighting all along, despite his fake pleas for harmony. He was looking more and more pathetic in my eyes. I couldn’t believe I had been manipulated for so long.

  I kept in touch with the show’s producers regularly. Since I openly blabbed to the press about my hopes to do a reality show of my own in Vegas, they called to find out what I had in mind. They also contacted me regularly to invite me to Kendra’s bridal shower and to confirm me as a bridesmaid for her wedding. It was difficult for me to communicate with them, though, because Criss seemed to be getting more and more paranoid about any affiliation I had with Playboy or Girls Next Door and tried to talk me out of even attending Kendra’s wedding. While his behavior troubled me, I could almost sympathize with it, in my own twisted way. After getting some space between me and the mansion, I was truly beginning to realize just how poorly I had been treated and what a grim situation that had been, and so in a way, I saw Criss’s behavior as him protecting me from Playboy.

  During one of Criss’s performances, I waited for him backstage and found myself alone for the first time in weeks. Usually I watched his shows from the audience or waited backstage with other members of his entourage, but that evening everyone else must have been occupied because I was the only one in the room. I decided to take the rare opportunity to call one of my favorite producers and catch up.

  The call didn’t go quite how I had planned. Somewhere in the midst of our catching up, what was meant to be a friendly phone call turned into a berating session. I believe it stemmed from the fact that I didn’t react the way they wanted to the “Holly and Hef love montage” during the audio commentary session. What I remember clearly is ending up in tears and trying to stick up for myself as he rattled off a list of complaints Hef had logged against me in a recent bad-mouthing session. I knew that when I made the choice to leave the mansion that I was leaving my spot on TV behind, but I certainly hadn’t expected Hef to try and poison everyone I had worked with against me. My producer friend told me that all of the things I’d said during the commentary made everyone uncomfortable: him, the crew, Bridget . . .

  Apparently it had been okay for Kendra to rattle on and on about Hank throughout the commentary, despite having dated him behind Hef’s back for the better part of a year. I guess because they had been planning
a Kendra spin-off anyway, that was okay. True, they thought the spin-off was going to be about a wild, single Kendra out on her own, but the concept of the show was easily adaptable to the idea of Kendra having a boyfriend, once they found out about the secret months-long romance. I had thrown a huge wrench in their vision for GND season six, however, so my behavior and honesty during the commentary was deemed “wrong.” It was incredibly hypocritical, but what else was there to expect from the same camp that thought we should all be faithful to Hef without him showing us the same respect?

  Seized by an anger that was bubbling up inside me, I phoned the mansion to confront Hef about what he was saying about me behind my back. For years, Hef had maintained friendships, however superficial, with most all of his ex-girlfriends. I had expected to receive the same politically correct treatment and made sure that anything I said about Hef in the press was favorable and kind. For some reason, though, I seemed to be the first ex-girlfriend that he was going out of his way to poison.

  “Hello?” Hef answered, not sounding particularly happy to hear from me.

  “Hi,” I said and jumped in before he could stop me. “I’ve been told about all the things you’ve been saying about me and it’s not right. I did my best to be the best possible girlfriend for seven years and . . .”

  “Ha!” he shouted into the receiver, going on to accuse me of having had an agenda all along and reprimand me for not showing up at mansion events post-breakup.

  “I wanted to give you your space!” I near screamed into the phone. “I’m not going to show up and push whoever you’re seeing out of the way. I was never that kind of girlfriend. I’m not Tina. I’m not going to play that game.”

  I was fuming. For so long I tried to be—had been, in fact—a model girlfriend, and here was Hef, characterizing me as if I were no better than all the two-faced manipulators he dated before me. I was just trying to move on and live my life, but my 80-something ex wouldn’t stop talking smack about me to anyone who would listen. So much for exiting with any grace!

  He could only respond by ranting about how much I had supposedly changed and what a different person I was.

  He was right. I had changed—and in my opinion, it was for the better. And for the first time in a long time, my opinion was the one that mattered to me.

  After that call, I quit my job at Studio West. While I adored my position and the people I worked with, staying felt awkward. I needed to leave Playboy totally behind me. Plus, I was no longer feeling challenged. Hef had very cookie-cutter preferences when it came to Playmate shoots and layouts, so it wasn’t long before I could do the job in my sleep. I felt like I wasn’t learning anything anymore.

  Over the next year, I would routinely pick up the latest issue of Playboy to see the published pictorials. I was surprised to see the take on the Shannon twins in their pictorial. While the sunny, fresh-faced tennis-themed photos that I directed (the same shoot that was seen on The Girls Next Door) were still included, the rest of the pictorial had a distinctly different flavor. The girls had been styled as “Mansion Mistresses” lying on top of each other on a floatie in the mansion pool, one of them donning Hef’s signature captain’s hat, seductively straddling each other on Bridget’s former bed and climbing the grand staircase in nothing but cheap, stripper-store rhinestone jewelry.

  So much for the girl next door, I thought. The title of our reality show was inspired by the way Hef described the ideal Playmate back in the ’50s when he launched the magazine. Most women pictured in other publications of the era wore heavy makeup and very stylized hair. Hef wanted something different. He wanted his Playmates to look young and fresh-faced, not like “someone’s older sister,” which was how he described the look of most models at the time.

  Criss seemed absolutely thrilled that I had quit my job. He’d been pestering me to leave and insisted I use his publicity and management teams. Since Playboy PR had long ago started giving me the cold shoulder, I accepted.

  Over the few months that I was with Criss, my heart would sink any time I would see magazine articles featuring Bridget and Kendra together. It seemed as if Playboy PR was still working for them, and suddenly the two girls were pushed like never before. I was never contacted to be a part of the photo spreads and interviews, though, and it hurt to be the only one left out. Despite the other two girls moving on to new men, I was the only one Hef was determined to punish. In the media, Hef would always say what a great girlfriend I had been and that I was welcome back in his life at any time (which would always send Criss into a fury), but in reality he wasn’t being friendly towards me.

  Criss’s explosive temper was becoming increasingly more alarming. I didn’t want to go back to the mansion, Criss knew that, but it was as if he couldn’t help his jealousy. For all his fame, fortune, and success, Criss, to me, seemed cripplingly insecure.

  This was starting to feel all too familiar.

  Before I met Criss, I had seen his television show and thought he was cute. Had I dug a little deeper and done some research on the guy, perhaps I would have been more hesitant to get into a relationship with him.

  According to reports in the press, earlier that year Criss had threatened Las Vegas Review-Journal columnist Norm Clarke in public, screaming, “Don’t ever write another word about me or you’ll need an eye patch over your other eye.” The confrontation was written about in the paper and online, but I wasn’t aware of it until I had already started dating Criss. Many of his public rants, though, happened after I left him. Apparently, he singled Perez Hilton out in his audience one night and called him “the world’s biggest douchebag asshole”; and magician Joe Monti filed a police report that alleged Criss “flipped out” and assaulted him. Monti produced an audiotape with a voice that is allegedly Criss’s saying, “Get out of my place before I knock you out.” I wasn’t surprised by any of it after what I had experienced.

  In the beginning, any fame I had, Criss loved. That was what made our relationship such a publicity boon for him, after all. But as time went on, his jealousy seemed to get the best of him.

  I remember him barking at me to cover up my hair as he yanked my hoodie over my head. He then went on to complain that my bright blond hair was attracting too much attention.

  It was true. Even in his resident casino, people would often spot me before recognizing him.

  After an amazing Elton John concert at Caesars Palace, we went backstage to say hello to the friendly pop legend. His dressing room walls were covered with shelves adorned with a massive bobblehead doll collection.

  “You have my bobblehead!” I squealed, pointing at two of my dolls nestled in among the immense collection. I have to admit: it was a total fangirl moment. I mean, who doesn’t love Elton John?! It was crazy, spotting my dolls in his dressing room.

  Criss snapped that he had his own bobblehead coming out, shooting me a death glance.

  Who gets jealous of their girlfriend like that? I thought. We were supposed to be on the same team, but it was starting to feel more like we were in a one-sided “who is more famous” pissing contest.

  Before my last trip back to Los Angeles, I told Criss I planned to stay an extra day to take my car to the shop so that I could have some repairs done. He threw a fit, accused me of not caring about him, and told me I should put my car in his warehouse.

  Already Criss had suggested I begin storing my valuables in his safe—including my diamond watch and the two pieces of jewelry he’d already lavished on me. To me, my car was a reflection of my independence. It didn’t feel right locking it away—and, honestly, Criss’s apparent fascination with hoarding my valuables was beginning to make me uncomfortable. I canceled the car appointment and never mentioned it again—the last thing I wanted to do was put my car in his warehouse, and thankfully, I never did. Still, despite any trepidation that may have crept into my mind, I still wanted to believe we had a shot at making it together. It’s easy to stand on the outside now and list the ways this relationship was clearly doom
ed, but I didn’t have anything to compare it to. I had never been in a healthy, committed adult relationship before, so I didn’t even know what was missing. With all my doubts, Criss seemed passionately in love with me and that was what mattered to me at that time.

  The declarations of love from Criss flowed freely and he talked in front of his friends about wanting to settle down with me. He took me back home with him to Long Island to show me off to everyone he knew. As the holidays approached, I was treated like I was already a member of his family. Since we were both December babies, I began thinking ahead to our birthdays. Criss had already scheduled our joint birthday celebration to be held at his favorite night spot, LAX, but I also wanted to keep a tradition that I’d developed over the last several years: a trip to Disneyland with a group of friends. Near my birthday, Criss and I planned a day trip to the Magic Kingdom and invited my usual guest list, which included a few girls from the mansion.

  As the day grew closer, my mansion “friends” suddenly became unavailable.

  “You won’t believe it,” said one of the girls who lived at the Bunny House. “Hef heard you were going to Disneyland for your birthday and decided to take his new girlfriends the same day you’re going.”

  Seriously? I thought. Hef abandoned making the trek down to Anaheim years earlier. He suffered from chronic back pain, so having to walk more than a few steps at a time was incredibly uncomfortable for him. What are the chances that he all of sudden decided to go to Disneyland on the very same day I would be there celebrating my birthday? It was a pathetic attempt to get in my face and perhaps try to remind me of his earlier accusation: that the girls were my friends only as long as I was his girlfriend.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she grumbled. “He invited me to go with him and I feel like I can’t say no because I live in his house. This is really awkward.”