Everybody Curses, I Swear!

by Carrie Keagan

  Filming my four episode arc as Frosty was an incredible opportunity, and I made long-lasting friendships with the cast. Yes, I was wearing next to nothing, but I didn’t feed into any stereotype with my improvising. I focused on THE part and not my parts, if you catch my drift. This was an interesting corner me and my body had just been dropped off on. It can be a slippery slope between sordid and sexy and a fine line between edgy and predictable. I didn’t want to be predictable, or sordid, for that matter! I mean, there’s chest cleavage, butt cleavage, toe cleavage and, even, Wicked Weasel cleavage, and if you look closely enough, it’s just a line each person draws for themselves. So how do you decide which line you won’t cross? I stopped where I couldn’t get an A-lister to look me in the eye!

  Which is why when Playboy approached me during this hot streak, I faced a true crisis of conscience and the biggest challenge yet. This was a fork-in-the-road moment that would define me and dictate the direction of my career.

  “I’m a very modest person, so it’s not like me to brag about something. Umm … No. Uhh … Yeah, I’m not gonna do that. No fuck off, I’m not gonna do that!”

  —Larry David

  I was in my office one afternoon after the Los Angeles Times story came out with the photo of me wearing my signature silk PJs while taping an episode of In Bed with Carrie. My phone rang. “Hi, I’m from Playboy magazine,” a friendly voice, who I’ll call Veronica, greeted me on the other end of the line. “We’ve been following you in the press and we just saw your story in the Los Angeles Times, and I think you’re Playboy material. We’d love to offer you a spread in the magazine and potentially the cover.”

  Suddenly time stood still as I left my body and started dancing around the building, belting out the “Hallelujah” chorus at the top of my lungs. All of the parkour training I’d never had immediately kicked in, and I found myself running, climbing, swinging, mantling, vaulting, jumping, and rolling off of every wall and punching every ceiling. It was a magnificent volley of pure joy in the form of emotional cartwheels. I saw myself taking my place in the annals of Playboy history, and I imagined I was leading a parade filled with the decades of playmates that had come before me, all dancing in unison to Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” from Rocky III as I fake punched my way down Times Square. My entire life lit up like a festival of lights, twisting and twirling like the Scramble ride at an amusement park. It was as if everything in my life was leading me to this moment; the rush of anticipation was palpable!

  After a lengthy pause during which I was collecting myself and trying to close my stunned and gaping mouth to the soundtrack of Veronica repeating, “Are you still there? Hello! Did I lose you?,” I very calmly said, “While I am so deeply flattered, I’m sure you understand that I absolutely couldn’t possibly accept. It’s just not the right fit for me, but I can’t thank you enough for calling.”

  I hung up in a state of disbelief and started laughing hysterically. It was totally surreal. It’s that one moment that many, if not all, girls dream of their whole lives. I’m not saying that every girl wants to be in Playboy, but I’m willing to bet that pretty much every girl would love to be asked. Plus, they wanted to give me all kinds of money to be in their magazine! It was a mind-blowing moment, to say the least, and apparently it wasn’t over yet.

  Veronica called me back the next day, and we talked for a while longer. The more she spoke about the family atmosphere at Playboy and the camaraderie between the girls, the more interested I became. There is something very intoxicating about being appreciated and sought after. So I started softening up to the idea. She had me ass over teakettle with excitement over the prospect of doing a really high-end photo shoot with herself as the photographer and all the expertise that Playboy had to offer. I was loving every minute of the chase.

  But here was the rub. (Not that kind of rub, you perv!) After we hung up the phone and I had stopped trying to re-create a leap to a midair still-shot screaming “YES,” the reality of the situation started to sink in. Oh God! Did Playboy expect me to be topless? Duh! Or bottomless? Duh! Or completely bare-ass nekkid? DUH! The excitement of the moment had me so focused on having been asked that I had completely ignored considering the reality and consequences of actually going through with it. Issues that had somehow seemed irrelevant until after I hung up. So before I let myself go too far down the road towards this buck-naked buffet, I decided to get on the phone, again, with Veronica, knowing full well that this next call would be the end of this adventure. I explained to her that while I was beyond flattered, posing completely naked wasn’t in the cards for me. I was shocked when she explained to me that that wasn’t going to be a problem. WHAA?? They were completely fine with me doing more of a Maxim-type shoot, and we’d figure out exactly how much skin would be shown. I hung up the phone, feeling relieved and even more excited.

  “It’s super fuckin’ cool. It’s super fuckin’ funny. And it is a cock-knocker of a movie!”

  —Jessica Biel

  Fortunately, I had a publicist at this point, so I asked her to step in and do the hard part—negotiating the nudity. I told her, “Straight up, I do not want to get naked!” I said, “I’ll show some side boob, some ass cheek, maybe a hint of crack, but that’s it. There will be no photos of me bending over a table with a peek-a-boo backward glance that whispers, ‘Oh no, you can’t see my butthole, can you?’ or me playing a spread eagle psychoanalyst on a leather chaise with a ‘tell me about your father’ gaze, and there was no way I am going to be on all fours with my ass two feet above my head casually thumbing thru The Wall Street Journal because that’s how I like to read at home.” I continued, “If they’re not okay with that, I don’t need to do any of this.” I knew a little bit about the ins and outs of shooting for Playboy from the time I’d interviewed Playmate of the Year Kara Monaco at the Shark Tank, and she said that waxing was a personal preference, left up to each individual girl:

  “You can go full seventies bush if you wanted to?” I asked.

  “They wouldn’t care,” Kara explained. “They like it. I call it the fur bikini.”

  Hmm, my mind started wandering to merkins. I could have one in every color!

  My publicist relayed the terms of my disrobement to Veronica, then called me back, exasperated. “These are the strangest calls I’ve ever made. I mean, we’re talking about what percentage of an areola we’re allowed to show. Or how many inches of an ass crack! And I don’t even want to tell you how many times I’ve had to firmly state ‘no lips, no side lips, no hint of lips, NO FUCKING LIPS!’ I feel like I’m negotiating your deal to do a porno film or an episode of Californication!”

  I replied, “Welcome to Hollywood.”

  During the course of the next few weeks, negotiations inched forward without much drama, and Veronica had me feeling really good about the shoot. I was so excited that I arranged for my mom, who lived in Buffalo, and my sister Katie, who lived in Florida, to fly out for the occasion. They were so proud … actually, I’m not entirely sure if proud was the word they used, but they were very excited for me. And relieved that it wasn’t a coming out party for my Pikachu! Either way, they sure as shit weren’t going to miss it.

  It was a particularly sweet bonding moment for me and my sister. Growing up, we really hadn’t been that close. Like most sisters, we love-hated each other. You know, we made the requisite cameo appearance at birthdays, heartbreaks, and parental humiliations (for ammunition or blackmail). But for the most part, it was an uneasy peace with the occasional wardrobe skirmish thrown in for good measure. (Look! It was a cute cashmere sweater, and I could have sworn I got all the candle wax out.) Then, sadly and before I knew it, she met her prince charming, David, and moved away.

  Not that I blamed her for moving; David was a good-looking action-hero-brave super-cop who could easily have been Evel Knievel’s stunt double! (David, don’t let this go to your head and feel free to dip your balls in it!) And in case that wasn’t enough, she had two perfect kids in additi
on to becoming a stepmom to David’s beautiful and whip-smart daughter Alexis. First came Kira, who I’m sure will be running a billion-dollar corporation someday, and then came Rhys, who’s probably just a couple of years shy of winning the Olympic gold medal in gymnastics. Yeah, Katie found her bliss.

  Fortunately, as we got older, we forgot why we didn’t used to get along and rediscovered one another, which was the most wonderful and unexpected gift. The fact that she was going to take time out of her crazy schedule as a working mom to come out to be with me was just beyond amazing. Especially since it was also going to be her first time away from Kira, so I knew it wasn’t an easy decision for her. And that made it all mean so much more.

  Anyway, next up was the wardrobe fitting where my stylist, Niki, and Veronica would create the visual feast that was to be my spread. I arrived with great anticipation for the lingerie and bathing suits I was going to wear. But as soon as we got into it, a few red flags started going up. Niki, who was working under the impression that this was supposed to be a more-sexy-than-naked shoot, was handing me articles of clothing to try on. All the while, Veronica and her people were poo-pooing Niki’s ideas and basically handing me minuscule bits of sheer cloth saying, “You can just drape this in front of you!” A friendship bracelet would have provided more coverage!

  What the fuck was going on? Clearly, Veronica and I were not on the same page. I was growing fearful of the entire endeavor. I left the fitting feeling very uneasy and wanting to bail. This was not what we had agreed to. I frantically called Veronica and expressed my complete discomfort with the situation. At this point, we were weeks into this process, lawyers had been carefully negotiating the contract, the shoot was set, my family had bought their tickets, and I was emotionally pregnant with the idea of this shoot. I did not know what to do, and just when I was about to lose my shit … Veronica made a masterful maneuver. DUN-DUN-DUNNNNNNNN (that’s the universal sound effect for holy shit) … I got THE invite.

  Hef—Playboy founder Hugh Hefner for anyone living on a desert island for the last fifty years—invited me over for Sunday dinner and a movie at the legendary Playboy Mansion. Whaaaa? Veronica talked up how much Hef wanted to meet me and how excited he was about the photo shoot. Of course, I ate it all up because wow … it was fucking Hugh Hefner. The man is a legend, and with a hit show on television at the time, his myth and mystique was at an all-time high. So I started to forget about the wardrobe fiasco for a moment and got caught up in the thought of being the guest of honor at the Playboy Mansion. It wasn’t as if I had spent my entire life aspiring to reach this moment; if anything it was the opposite. But come the fuck on! This was a motherfucking cool-as-fuck, bucket-list moment! Both the balls and the jizz!! So I told Kourosh I was going to Sunday dinner, but I wasn’t going alone.

  “Not a problem!” he said without skipping a beat. As if that was going to be a hard sell.

  Leading up to the big day, I was really excited, but also somewhat anxious. I was flattered, thinking, Ooh they’re wooing me to be in the magazine! On the other hand, what if Hef, himself, confronted me about taking my clothes off? How would I turn him turn down without insulting him? But Veronica, who was an old hand at this, calmed my fears by laying another doozy on me. She told me not to worry about the fitting, that everything with the shoot would be the way I wanted it, and that Hef always met the women he was thinking of putting on the cover. HUH?? In my mind, life hit the brakes hard and screeched to a dramatic halt (with glass-breaking and cat-screaming in tow), and I thought, Say what?! Cover? Moi? I’ve got to tell you … if that wasn’t the smoothest move ever, I don’t know what is. In one sentence she had me go from “There’s no fucking way I’m getting naked for the fucking magazine” to “Well, I mean, nudity is the ultimate expression of art. Am I right?” In this town, negotiating is a lot like swimming for a shark: If you stop, you die.

  That day, I decided to dress sexy-adjacent, opting for blue jeans and a tank top. I decided I’d be most comfortable going as me, the girl next door, but with full hair and makeup, of course—I was meeting Hef. Be yourself first, last, and always; great words to live by. Unless, of course, you’re the guy behind the Craigslist casual encounters ad looking for a Big Beautiful Man (BBM) to come over, get naked, and stomp all over your son’s vintage model train set, pretending to be a growling horny Godzilla, while you sit in the corner in a “full” diaper, eating shrimp and pleasuring yourself. You, sir, can feel free to stop being yourself.

  I’m not sure what I expected as I was walking into the mansion, but I was kind of stunned. Apparently the clock had stopped at 10236 Charing Cross Road sometime in the mid-1970s. Everything from the carpets, to the drapes, to the furniture looked frozen in time. Like most things, reality often pales in comparison to the mythology, but I could not help but still be mesmerized by my surroundings. Hef hadn’t made his grand entrance yet, so Veronica and her husband gave us a tour of the mansion, the petting zoo, the famous grotto, the private dens, and the game house where I spent time in a hidden circular room surrounded by mirrors and big cushions. Let’s just say, the floor had a lot of bounce, if you know what I mean. It was quite something. Aside from playing with the monkeys at the zoo, my favorite part of the tour was the extensive history lesson that came with each location we were walking through. And by history lesson I mean who fucked who, where, and when. No detail was left unsaid, and no jizz-stain was left unanalyzed. It reminded me of the time Ken took us on his “Bullets and Blowjobs” tour of Hollywood. Which was basically a lighthearted look at LA with an emphasis on death and sex. Something he had cooked up for his family who was visiting from Germany for the first time. Ken was a fucking genius!!

  As we wandered through the mansion, I swear, if you listened closely, you could still hear the echoes of all the countless orgasms wafting through its hallowed halls. In some ways the mansion is one giant glorified fuck palace held together like a house of cards by the countless celebrity cumshots that have graffitied its walls. Yet, I have to admit, there’s a timeless beauty and elegance to the house that can only have come into existence through the cultural and historical revolution that was witnessed within it. You could feel the history all around you, but unfortunately, you could taste it, too. It was on your skin. It was in your hair. It coated the back of your throat!

  After the tour, we were invited into the dining room, where people had gathered. There was a big round table in the middle that could fit maybe thirty people, but there were only, maybe, a half a dozen of us there, which was pretty cool. Hef and Holly were still MIA, but Kendra and Bridget were there along with his pal, Oscar winning actor Martin Landau, who I was told was a regular. The eighty-year-old icon and star of the original Mission: Impossible TV series and the sci-fi classic Space: 1999, hung out and ate with us. I have to admit that was definitely a high point because that dude dated Marilyn Monroe and was friends with James Dean back in the day. The food service was very elegant and proper, and the vibe was really chill. Experiencing the mansion in that way was truly unique and special to me because no one was putting on a show for anyone. We were all just hanging. The experience felt quite real and tangible; I almost felt like one of the regulars.

  After dinner, it was finally time for me to meet Hef. There’s a big two-sided stairwell that comes down from the second floor into the main landing. It looks like something glorious from one of the mansions in Gone with the Wind. It was only appropriate that Hef would make his grand entrance coming down those stairs. I was made to wait at the bottom to one side so that I could witness the floating arrival of their resident deity. He was quite something to behold in his trademark burgundy smoking jacket and silk pajamas. Not since witnessing Gene Simmons in action, up close, had I seen a man recognize that he was more of a brand than a person. He was delightful and every bit aware of his iconic presence. Like the upholstery, he was a lot older and frailer than I thought he’d be. But he was incredibly nice and charming.

  I must admit, I was genuinely c
aught off guard when he knew who I was and why I was there. I honestly thought that meeting young girls at the mansion was perfunctory for him at this point. I was wrong. He took a little time to talk with me about how they had discovered me and showered me with gentle praise and kindness. He told me a couple of stories about the house, and we talked about the zoo and the grotto. I remember joking with him about there being more animals in the grotto than in the zoo. Afterwards, he invited us all into the screening room to watch one of his favorite classic films. The screening room had a huge fireplace, floor-to-ceiling wood paneling (and I’m talking early seventies not late seventies—the good shit!), an ornamental ceiling, and an old grand piano with pictures of ghosts from a time gone by and a life well lived. The few of us there nestled comfortably on old fabric couches that had been fucked into the comfort zone, waiting for the film to start. Hef then told a couple of stories after which we sank into the movie. And when it was over, he gracefully disappeared from whence he came.

  Over the course of my time there, I had played over in my head a million times what I’d say to Hef if my magazine spread came up. Ultimately deciding that I was going to politely agree to consider everything he’d say. No point in being rude. After all, his life had been dedicated to disrobing women, and no one should be criticized for loving their job. But to his credit, Hef never even brought it up. Was he a total gentleman? Or a master chess player who knew, from the countless other women around him with daddy issues, that disappointing him would be the worst kind of guilt? Well, I didn’t have daddy issues, so as cool as meeting Hef was, I still wasn’t going to take my kit off. Before leaving, I asked if I could see Hef to thank him for his hospitality and for a most memorable night. I was told that he had retired for the evening but that there was a box at the top of the infamous staircase with a slot in it and that I could leave a note for him there and slide it in. Apparently, it was a tradition for guests to leave thank-you notes or phone numbers for the aging lothario. I wrote him a sweet thank-you note, made the trek up those wondrous stairs, dropped it in the box, took one last look around, and left with a smile.