Read Online Down the Rabbit Hole by Holly Madison - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Holly Madison
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parties?â
This guy clearly had no shame. Needless to say, I told him no.
After my friendsâ less-than-supportive reaction, I was too terrified to tell anyone else. I was naïve enough to believe that the decisions I made in the relative privacy of that dark cave of a bedroom would remain just that: private. I was by no means prepared for the large scarlet letter that had been branded on my chest.
I knew my close friends and family wouldnât approve, but I had already made the decision. Listening to their words of warning and disappointment would only make me feel worse. To be totally honest, I was already ashamed enough and I wanted to delay any further conversations until I had a better understating of what my life would be like.
Any remaining doubts about my decision vanished when, on an early morning about a week after I had moved in, Vicky stormed into my room screaming: âWeâve been bombed! Weâve been bombed!â
It was September 11, 2001.
âNew York and the Pentagon,â she shrieked. âWeâve been bombed!â
I hobbled into the bathroom feeling sick to my stomach and paralyzed with fear. I imagined that terrorists had bombs aimed at every major city in America. Were we next? In that instant, I couldnât have been more grateful to be inside this great big, safe house.
Of course I soon discovered that we hadnât actually been bombed: but the reality was no less scary. Terrorists hijacked four American airliners and crashed two of them into the World Trade Center towers in lower Manhattan (as well as one into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., and one in rural Pennsylvania).
Thank God Iâm here, I thought. I would have been so much more scared had I been out on my own, couch surfing or worse.
The first few nights I slept in Bedroom 3âone of the biggest guest rooms in the mansion with three beds and a private bathroom, but like all the other guest rooms in the house, relatively plain. Strangely, it also doubled as a bedroom for Hefâs two sons Marston and Cooper (who were 9 and 10, respectively, at the time) if they ever were to spend the night in the mansion. Though they never stayed over while I was there, there were still toys scattered across the bedroom floorâwhich made for an incredibly odd and, frankly, creepy juxtaposition.
April was also residing in Bedroom 3, and she intimidated the hell out of me. She was taller and bigger boned than Hefâs usual type and had an in-your-face personality. I had heard she used to be a stripper even though Playboy has a somewhat hypocritical âno stripperâ policy when it comes to Hefâs idea of the wholesome Playmate image. She also had a constant need to be the center of attentionâand would do whatever she needed to keep the spotlight on her, no matter how raunchy. She also made zero effort to hide the fact that she felt I was intruding on her space.
That week, another girlfriend, Adrianna, announced her departure. It was assumed that April would move into her old room (Bedroom 5) and I would be staying in the shared room. April was new to the mansion herself, but since she had moved in several months before me, still had seniority when it came to rooms. Bedroom 5 was one of the smallest rooms, but it was private. And as I would quickly learn, privacy was key when it came to surviving the mansion mayhem.
April, however, had another idea. She asked Hef if she could have Bedroom 3 to herself. The mansion was not without its fair share of politics, and when it came to the girlfriends, you had to put in your time and work your way up the totem pole when it came to certain privileges, particularly rooms. New girls who immediately began demanding certain luxuries were seen as âpushyâ or âungrateful.â Bedroom 3 was meant to house three girls; April scoring it for herself would have been a major coup.
Surprisingly, Hef approved her request.
I moved out later that
This guy clearly had no shame. Needless to say, I told him no.
After my friendsâ less-than-supportive reaction, I was too terrified to tell anyone else. I was naïve enough to believe that the decisions I made in the relative privacy of that dark cave of a bedroom would remain just that: private. I was by no means prepared for the large scarlet letter that had been branded on my chest.
I knew my close friends and family wouldnât approve, but I had already made the decision. Listening to their words of warning and disappointment would only make me feel worse. To be totally honest, I was already ashamed enough and I wanted to delay any further conversations until I had a better understating of what my life would be like.
Any remaining doubts about my decision vanished when, on an early morning about a week after I had moved in, Vicky stormed into my room screaming: âWeâve been bombed! Weâve been bombed!â
It was September 11, 2001.
âNew York and the Pentagon,â she shrieked. âWeâve been bombed!â
I hobbled into the bathroom feeling sick to my stomach and paralyzed with fear. I imagined that terrorists had bombs aimed at every major city in America. Were we next? In that instant, I couldnât have been more grateful to be inside this great big, safe house.
Of course I soon discovered that we hadnât actually been bombed: but the reality was no less scary. Terrorists hijacked four American airliners and crashed two of them into the World Trade Center towers in lower Manhattan (as well as one into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., and one in rural Pennsylvania).
Thank God Iâm here, I thought. I would have been so much more scared had I been out on my own, couch surfing or worse.
The first few nights I slept in Bedroom 3âone of the biggest guest rooms in the mansion with three beds and a private bathroom, but like all the other guest rooms in the house, relatively plain. Strangely, it also doubled as a bedroom for Hefâs two sons Marston and Cooper (who were 9 and 10, respectively, at the time) if they ever were to spend the night in the mansion. Though they never stayed over while I was there, there were still toys scattered across the bedroom floorâwhich made for an incredibly odd and, frankly, creepy juxtaposition.
April was also residing in Bedroom 3, and she intimidated the hell out of me. She was taller and bigger boned than Hefâs usual type and had an in-your-face personality. I had heard she used to be a stripper even though Playboy has a somewhat hypocritical âno stripperâ policy when it comes to Hefâs idea of the wholesome Playmate image. She also had a constant need to be the center of attentionâand would do whatever she needed to keep the spotlight on her, no matter how raunchy. She also made zero effort to hide the fact that she felt I was intruding on her space.
That week, another girlfriend, Adrianna, announced her departure. It was assumed that April would move into her old room (Bedroom 5) and I would be staying in the shared room. April was new to the mansion herself, but since she had moved in several months before me, still had seniority when it came to rooms. Bedroom 5 was one of the smallest rooms, but it was private. And as I would quickly learn, privacy was key when it came to surviving the mansion mayhem.
April, however, had another idea. She asked Hef if she could have Bedroom 3 to herself. The mansion was not without its fair share of politics, and when it came to the girlfriends, you had to put in your time and work your way up the totem pole when it came to certain privileges, particularly rooms. New girls who immediately began demanding certain luxuries were seen as âpushyâ or âungrateful.â Bedroom 3 was meant to house three girls; April scoring it for herself would have been a major coup.
Surprisingly, Hef approved her request.
I moved out later that
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