“SO YOU SAY, ‘I’M Holly, I was one of Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends at the Playboy Mansion,’ ” directed Freddie, a DWTS field producer, from behind the camera.
“Umm,” I stalled. “I don’t really want to say that. Can I say something else?”
“That’s what they have here for you to say,” Freddie said, looking down at his notes. “I mean, that’s how people know you.”
He didn’t mean it as a jab; there’s no way he could fully appreciate how negative that association was to me or that I was so eager to separate myself from Hef.
“Can I say, ‘I’m Holly, I starred on the television show The Girls Next Door’?” I meekly and politely suggested, praying he would take the bait. I was so grateful for the opportunity and—despite the contract and grueling blisters—I was still slightly terrified the rug could be pulled out from under me, so I didn’t want to go against even their smallest wish, but I just couldn’t be labeled as Hef’s ex. Not this time.
Silence.
Obviously this wasn’t my first foray into reality television and I knew the executive producers had given Freddie the sound bites they wanted to hear. It was his job to make sure we stuck to the script.
He thought about it a minute longer.
“Why don’t you say, ‘Hi, I’m Holly, I was one of Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends at the Playboy Mansion on the show The Girls Next Door,’ ” Freddie suggested, hoping this would satisfy my concerns.
“I’m not going to say the girlfriend part,” I said through a sheepish smile. I knew I was pushing the envelope. I didn’t want to be difficult, but I had to finally stand up for my own dignity and self-respect. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired of being branded that way. I mean, no one else would introduce themselves as somebody’s ex-girlfriend or boyfriend, you know?”
“Okay. If you absolutely don’t want to say it,” Freddie conceded with a shrug.
In the end, I introduced myself as “I’m Holly Madison. I’ve been on the cover of Playboy four times and I starred in a reality series called The Girls Next Door.”
Producers got their Playboy reference and I was able to stand Hef-free for the first time. One battle down, countless more to go . . .
Being branded as “Hef’s ex” was a label that would continue to haunt me for years, but one I would always fight against. I refused to let that be the most defining thing in my life.
Besides the one-time introduction and a legitimately funny Playboy-related joke (where fellow contestant Belinda Carlisle said, “I’m the former Miss August,” then contestant Denise Richards said, “I was Miss December,” and then they cut to me saying, “I’ve been Miss February, March, September, and November”), I was able to steer clear of any Hef/Playboy references throughout my run on the series.
When an entertainment news program came to film one of my rehearsals, the interviewer asked, “What do you have to say to Hef wishing you well on Dancing with the Stars?”
He must have read the perplexed look on my face, because I hadn’t heard anything from Hef since landing on the show.
“We taped a message from him and we want to hear what you have to say in return,” he explained through forced excitement.
“What’s going on?” I asked my manager disappointedly, looking over my shoulder at him for help.
“Hey, guys, this is really inappropriate,” he immediately jumped in. He then suggested the interviewer wrap up the segment.
Of course it would have been great for Hef to wish me well, but I wasn’t really buying it. If he wanted to say “good luck,” he could have easily gotten ahold of me. Instead, he used the opportunity to make a public statement and capitalize on the chance to look like the perfect gentleman. The whole thing felt insincere to me. A few months earlier, after Kendra announced her engagement, Hef publicly stated that she’d be getting married at the mansion and he’d be the one walking her down the aisle . . . before Kendra even fully agreed to it! (Kendra later insisted that her brother give her away. It was creepy enough that she had to get married at her ex-boyfriend’s house.)
Did I really expect any different from Hef? He had been a public icon for more than half a century, but still, after all this time, he felt the need to milk every possible publicity opportunity bone-dry. Wounded by the mass exodus of his “beloved” girlfriends, Hef was struggling to avoid looking like he wasn’t in absolute control of the situation. It wasn’t enough that he had already restocked the pantry with three younger, blonder girls, he needed to stay publicly involved in Kendra’s and my new ventures as if he were still orchestrating our lives.
Who knows, maybe he meant well, but his behavior was suffocating and it motivated me to run even farther and farther away from my past.
I realized that Dancing could end any week for me, so I couldn’t allow myself to become complacent. As much as I wanted to completely submerge myself in the show and enjoy every moment, I needed to quickly identify my next opportunity and strike while the iron was still hot. I suggested to my manager that we reach out to the Crazy Horse Paris again to see if they were interested in reopening our discussions.
“I have something else that I think you might be a good fit for,” he countered. “There’s a new show opening at Planet Hollywood called Peepshow and they’re looking to replace the lead every three months.”
From what I had read about Peepshow in Robin Leach’s column in the Las Vegas Sun, I knew it was a Broadway-influenced revue with a sexy fairy-tale theme and a sultry “Bo Peep” as the lead character (hence the show’s name). I’d seen some early marketing of the show around Las Vegas and didn’t find the ads particularly appealing. In the posters, a shadowy, mysterious looking Bo Peep and a sinister looking Red Riding Hood lurked on a black background, the Bo Peep wearing a stock Trashy Lingerie corset. (Of course, when I finally saw the show, I realized how little those posters captured its essence and style.) While it didn’t sound very enticing (especially considering that I was looking for something more long term), I agreed to take a look once I could get back to Las Vegas.
In the end, I lasted about a month on Dancing with the Stars and had simultaneously gotten myself into the best shape of my life. With all that dancing, I could eat anything I wanted (McDonald’s French fries with barbecue sauce, anyone?) and I still had a six-pack. After my elimination, I embarked on a whirlwind press tour: appearing on Jimmy Kimmel Live (where Jimmy introduced me as one of Hef’s girlfriends. Oy vey!) before being flown to New York for a bunch of interviews and appearances.
I knew that I’d be returning to DWTS in another short month to perform on the finale along with the other eliminated contestants, so I was determined to have secured my next gig before then. If I could announce my future plans on the finale, in front of 22 million viewers, it would be perfect!
With a few weeks to collect my thoughts, I made a special trip to Las Vegas to catch a performance of Peepshow. During my short stint there, I fell in love with the newly renovated Planet Hollywood Resort and Casino. The Peepshow Theater held an impressive 1,500 patrons (most burlesque shows I had seen capped at around 300).
Wow, I thought. They’re really taking this show seriously.
The theater itself was remodeled specifically for Peepshow, which told me that both the producers and the hotel intended for the show to stick around for a while. Large, exquisite props that looked like laced corsets beautifully covered the lobby’s ceiling as mirrored walls glistened and glimmered around us like disco balls lined with plush white Hollywood Regency settees. Around the theater, the “peeping” keyhole motif was everywhere, and three large runways jetted out from the stage into the audience. As the lights dimmed and the show began, larger-than-life LED screens glowed behind the stage showcasing a magnificent black-and-white video of its current star, Kelly Monaco (a fellow DWTS alum, former Playmate, and soap actress). At the time, the show had two headliners: the other was former Spice Girl Mel B., who played the role of “Peep Diva.” Kelly finally entered the stage wrapped in white ac
robat’s silk hanging 30 feet above the ground. The routines, dance numbers, and acrobatics were jaw dropping. Even though the best routines didn’t even feature Bo Peep, it didn’t matter. I was seriously impressed.
It felt somehow as if the part of Bo Peep had been written specifically for me. The character begins as a modern-day woman who can’t find love. After drifting off to sleep one night, she finds herself in dreamland being led through a series of vignettes—each teaching her how to be confident and sexy. In the end, she finds her man only after finding herself.
As the performers took their final bows at the show’s end, I leaned over and shouted in my manager’s ear (over the deafening applause): “I want in!”
CHAPTER 14
“What do you know about this business?” the King said to Alice.
“Nothing,” said Alice.
“Nothing whatever?” persisted the King.
“Nothing whatever,” said Alice.
—Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
It turned out that Peepshow wasn’t just any small potatoes Vegas revue, this was serious business—and the creator and mastermind behind the production was none other than Tony-award-winning choreographer Jerry Mitchell. I knew that this could be just the opportunity I’d been hoping for. I officially threw my hat in the ring the next day. Auditions and interviews for the show were extensive and brought me back to Las Vegas regularly over the next few weeks.
“Do you guys mind waiting in the other room?” I asked my manager and my friends Angel and Alison. I was preparing for my final Peepshow audition in front of the show’s director.
“Oh yeah, no problem,” Alison said, motioning everybody into the next room.
The role required me to wear the skimpiest of costumes, which I wore as part of the audition process, and I was still a little self-conscious (despite my new DWTS physique) and wanted some privacy. Contrary to popular belief, just because I had posed nude for a magazine doesn’t mean I am the most confident, exhibitionistic person in the world. In fact, I was nervous that I wouldn’t look good enough to be cast. What if I had cellulite? What if my body looked too “fake”? Seven years of being reminded that I never looked quite good enough was a hard burden to shake.
Plus, I felt sort of dumb performing the choreography while weaving around all the furniture in the cramped hotel suite. I know it seems counterintuitive that I was that nervous for the audition, since I was so eager to perform nightly for a large live audience, but there was something comforting about knowing that I’d be on a large stage, far removed from the crowd (with the appropriate distance between us . . . and, of course, flattering lighting!).
“What if I have tattoos?” I asked Jerry nervously. “And bruises? I bruise really easily—should I be wearing body makeup?”
“Not unless you want to.” He shrugged, with his signature warm smile. “Tattoos and things don’t really matter to me. It’s more important that everyone in the cast is different, unique, and comfortable in their own skin.”
While that should have sounded reassuring, I was far from comfortable in my own skin. I’d spent most of my adult life at the mansion, being required to clone the other women around me, so the idea of being “unique” was alien. I had a hard time believing that “unique” was really something anyone would want to see. I couldn’t even wrap my head around what was unique about me. More and more I worried I wasn’t right for the part.
After performing the choreography I had learned my audition was done. Though the producers would assure my manager that I had done great in the audition, I had no idea if they really thought that or if they were just giving him a polite answer. I wasn’t particularly confident about my chances. As the month went by, more names were being floated into consideration and it was rumored that Lindsay Lohan was the front-runner.
I’m screwed, I thought, my confidence quickly deflating. They’ll definitely pick her! Imagine the publicity they could get!
One of my Peepshow callbacks happened to land on Hef’s birthday weekend, which he traditionally celebrated at the Palms in Las Vegas. Mary let me know that Bridget, Kendra, and I had been invited to attend. Naturally, part of me wanted to stay as far away from the man and his party as possible. But, at the same time, you have to understand that I’d been out of the mansion for only about six months at this point, and while I was increasingly coming to terms with the hell Hef had put me through, there was still a part of me that wanted to be able to walk away on “good terms,” with a clean slate, like all his other ex-girlfriends. I didn’t want anything from Hef . . . except perhaps for him to stop bad-mouthing me. Plus, I wanted to see Bridget and Kendra. Bridget was planning on singing “Happy Birthday” at Moon Nightclub for the second half of the festivities that night and I wanted to support her. Be that as it may, I agreed to attend the soiree only if I could have my own booth. It was proposed that I join Hef in his booth, but I needed to stand my ground as an individual. I was sick of the attempts to recruit me back into the harem.
I had heard through the grapevine that Crystal Harris had become Hef’s new main girlfriend. I was thrilled that he had “fallen in love” again. I hoped her presence on his arm (and the fact that they had just started filming GND season six) would take some of the pressure off me. The friends of Hef’s that had previously been so supportive of me had recently become less kind, believing I had somehow left him in the lurch. Now maybe things would be different. For my part, I was only interested in moving forward with positivity, despite anything that had happened in the past.
The wind was whipping wildly across the Palms Place pool. Since it was considered a pool party, I chose to wear a black skull-print bikini and denim skirt, but I may have been better served with a windbreaker! It was awesome seeing the other girls again. Kendra complimented me on my new abs and it was great to meet Hank and to see Bridget’s new beau, Nick Carpenter. When Hef finally arrived at the party, new girlfriends in tow, Bridget, Kendra, and I went to say hello and wish him a happy birthday. I greeted Karissa and Kristina, who were warm and friendly, and then said hello to Hef, who looked more pale than usual, but otherwise seemed to be in a relatively good mood. Next I introduced myself to his new “main girlfriend,” who was occupying the seat to his left.
“Hi, I’m Holly,” I said with a big smile, sticking out my hand. Remembering how people used to treat me, I made a conscious effort to go out of my way to be kind.
“Hiiiii,” she said in a forced singsong voice, offering me a limp, weak handshake.
Was that a sneer on her face or is the midday sun causing her to squint? I wondered.
Immediately my gut told me that something was up with this girl, but I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. She was young and new to all the commotion surrounding Hef. I chose to dismiss her shitty first impression as poor social skills and not the snobbishness that it felt like.
Hef’s photographer, Elayne, lined us all up for a photo. As the former girlfriends, Bridget, Kendra, and I lined up next to the new girls, but were directed by Hef and the photographers to stand next to Hef instead. I felt bad that the new girlfriends were being shoved aside for the “famous” ex-girlfriends. I’d been shoved aside so many times myself in these situations and remembered how awful it felt. After the photos were snapped, Hef and the Shannon twins said good-bye as they were whisked away for press interviews. Crystal couldn’t even be bothered to look in our direction.
“YOU GOT IT!” my manager gleefully shouted.
“What?” I squealed into my cell phone, hardly able to believe what I was hearing.
Just a few days before my return for the Dancing with the Stars season finale, I received word that I had landed the part of Bo Peep for a three-month stint in Las Vegas. I was absolutely over the moon and determined to work hard, promote my butt off, and with luck find a way to become a more permanent part of the production.
The turnaround for production was quick and required me to get out to Las Vegas immediately followi
ng the DWTS finale. As I busied myself with packing the few things I had in my Santa Monica condo, I got a call from the Shannon twins. They wanted to see if I would meet them for lunch in Beverly Hills. Sure, the twins had a crazy reputation, but I liked them. They had always been nice to me and I assumed they wanted some advice on navigating the mansion—and Hef. Like I said earlier, you don’t get a mansion operations manual when you move in, so I was happy to help them any way I could.
“We want you to come back,” Kristina blurted out, not five minutes after we sat down at Il Pastaio.
“Yeah, come back,” Karissa whined, their words almost overlapping. These two literally finished each other’s sentences.
“I can’t come back; I’ve already made a decision to move on,” I said sympathetically, picking up a piece of bread out of the basket. “Why, what’s wrong?”
I knew something must be askew for the twins to be asking my help.
The girls went on to say that they thought Crystal was mean, scowls appearing on their faces. Apparently, Hef’s newest girlfriend wasn’t too good at making friends. They even went on to say she was mean to Hef, though they didn’t give specific examples.
“Really?” I asked. In the past, I’ve witnessed some of Hef’s more vocal girlfriends fight back or disobey, but never were they outwardly mean to him (not to his face, anyway). I wasn’t sure what the twins meant when they said she was “mean”; it was just clear that they didn’t like living with her.
One of the twins chimed in that Hef was really sick and not doing well before the other one took over, saying that he had fallen down in his bathroom the other day and wet himself.
Down the Rabbit Hole: Curious Adventures and Cautionary Tales of a Former Playboy Bunny Page 28