Kiss and Tell

KISS AND TELL

Shannon Tweed

With Julie McCarron

Foreword by Gene Simmons

Copyright © 2006 Simmons Books/Phoenix Press

Hardcover edition published copyright 2003 by Simmons Books/

New Millennium Press

All rights reserved. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except brief quotations in critical reviews and articles.

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 159-777-5177

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

Design: Kerry DeAngelis, KL Design

Simmons Books/Phoenix Press

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Dedication

I
want to dedicate this book first to Gene: the man I was looking for, the father of my beautiful children Nick and Sophie, and the man who keeps me grounded and safe, loved and needed.

To my kids, who accept me and love me in spite of my faults and flaws.

To my mother, Mrs. Louise Tweed—who forgives me for quitting school and sneaking out at night—for sacrificing the best years of her life to give us a better life. For not falling into despair. For keeping it together against insurmountable odds. For doing her absolute best! I love and admire her.

To my sister Tracy for being my best friend. To my niece Emily, just for being Emily.

To my friends, especially Janis Kay, for loving me (even when I’m fat!) and making me laugh.

To Dad, thank you!

To Hef, thanks for the memories.

Love to Kim; Kyla; Lance; Sara; Spencer; Nathan; Tarry; Keith Anders, Cole and Erin; Jeff; Casey; Cheryl; Ted; Jake; and Hunter.

GEORGE HURRELL PORTRAIT.

A Word from Gene Simmons

S
uddenly there she was. She was wearing a very revealing corset that just barely kept her beautiful breasts and ravishing figure inside. Just barely. She was standing with her sister a few feet away, looking at me. I was in my silk pajamas at the Playboy Mansion’s Midsummer Night’s Dream party. It happened to be on the night of my birthday, August 25th, and the event was an invitation-only affair for four hundred guests. The ratio of men to women was one to three (three women for every man). The men had to wear pajamas, the women as little as possible.

I had come there with two Playmates and wasn’t really looking to flirt with anyone else—I was busy. Then she walked up to me and looked me over. I must have said something, but she quickly turned and walked off. I was stunned. I found her instantly desirable and quickly forgot that I had come with two other ladies.

She walked by again and I threw her my best lines. My patois had worked many times in the past. Not this time. I watched her walk away again on her stiletto heels. She was as sexy from behind as she was from the front.

I found myself walking aimlessly around and finally settled inside the Mansion. I was looking at a Dali painting on the wall and heard a whistle. It was her. We sat down and started talking. I found myself looking into her eyes and actually having a conversation. I told her about myself. While I was listening to her voice, I felt my manhood stand rigidly erect against my silk pajamas. I didn’t dare stand up, although she wanted to go somewhere. We sat and continued to talk until things calmed down.

She invited me to go with her through a secret door to a basement wine cellar. We were there alone. I knew she was “inviting” me. Normally, I would have ravaged her right then and there. On the floor, on the pool table. Anywhere. But I did not. I can’t for the life of me figure out why.

I wanted to see her again.

That was 22 years ago. I’ve been living with her ever since.

I continue to paw at her, and she keeps smacking my hand away. I continue to tell her she is the most desirable woman in the world, because she is. She ignores me. When she was pregnant with Nicholas, all I wanted her to do was stay in bed with me. I found myself continually being aroused by her. When she slept. When she walked by. When she talked.

I was crazy about everything she did.

She, on the other hand, couldn’t stand the way I chewed my food and left crumbs all over the place. She hates how I rumple the sheets in our bed. She thinks I talk too much. Outside of home, I’m a very important person. At home, I’m usually in the way. And most shocking is that she doesn’t feel any reluctance to ask me to take out the garbage. Me! The God of Thunder. The guy with the lasciviously long tongue! The guy who is adored and desired by millions of fans throughout the world.

While on tour (I’m in a band called KISS) I call her every day. She never asked me to; I do it because I want to. And I usually find myself being cut short by her. She doesn’t like to chat. Our calls usually end with her saying, “Well, gotta go. Bye.”

She has never asked me where I’m going. She does not play the female “torture” game. She has been in my hotel room (on the few times she would join me on tour) when girls would call in the middle of the night. She would answer the phone, and they would run for the hills.

She does what she wants when she wants to, and doesn’t check with anyone to see if it’s okay to do it—me included. I usually ask her where she’s going and if I can come along. Often, the answer is no. I’m lucky if she lets me tag along to the movies with her. And when we’re watching the movie, she will often shush me when I whisper a comment to her.

We have never been married. We have two wonderful kids together: Sophie, who has robbed me of my soul, and Nicholas, who I hope to be like when I grow up.

She is everything I never knew I wanted. She makes me a better man. She gives me more freedom than I want. I love her more today than I did when we first met.

I had been reluctant to say “I love you” too much in the past. It always sounded like bad soap opera dialogue. “Honey” and “sweetheart” seemed to me to be clichés people uttered. I preferred to say what I meant and mean what I said. But every day when Sophie and Nicholas leave for school I find myself yelling after them, “I love you.” When Nicholas says something kind to me or when Sophie brings me a piece of toast, I well up with tears. When we watch a movie that centers around a family being reunited with their kids, my eyes fill up in the dark.

That’s when she turns to me and says, “You’re welcome.”

She calls me by many names:
Stinky, Stink, Stink-ola, Pops, Papparoonie, Popo
(which, to her delight, she found means “ass” in Hungarian),
Pappo, Pony, Boney
(I’m sure you can figure that one out),
Boney Maroney, My-Opia, O, Old
(she even wrote a little melody that goes something like “Older than time, older than wine… ,” etc., that she, her sister and my kids often sing to me),
Olie, Andre
(as in the Giant), and numerous others.

On tour, I’m The Demon. At home, I’m Stinky.

The reason I haven’t said her name yet is that she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like the sound of her first or last name. She doesn’t think she’s beautiful. She does not think she is special at all. But the truth is, Shannon Tweed, you are the most beautiful woman in the world.

Can I go to the movies with you???

Introduction

I
was considerably overdressed for my first party at the Playboy Mansion. At the famous annual Midsummer Night’s Dream celebration, where required attire for guests consists of pajamas, lingerie, or nothing, I wore a see-through peignoir—very Canadian of me. You know those Canadians: wild in the bedroom, but conservative in public. At least they were back then.

I had spent all day getting ready, freaking out about what I would wear and noticing that a couple of the other girls also preparing for the party were not wearing nearly as much as I was. I got the feeling they knew something I didn’t.

It was a hot August day in 1981 when I flew to L.A. I was a 24-year-old (that’s 17 American) pasty-white Canadian girl who had no idea what to expect. On the drive to the Playboy Mansion I got out of the car to touch a palm tree. I had never seen a live palm tree before. It looked bizarre and unreal—like an elephant’s foot. I’d never experienced such hot weather before, and the sultry summer heat made my clothes stick to me. Or was it nerves?

On my first evening at the Mansion—at the Midsummer Night’s Dream party—I was so anxious about the impression I would make, I couldn’t truly let loose and enjoy the evening. I felt a little old-fashioned and out of place. It was such a trendy party packed with major stars, and I was…well, I was me. So it’s hard to remember all the details of the evening. Suffice it say, I was dazzled—and overdressed.

The Playboy Mansion is an enormous Tudor-style home on six acres behind guarded gates in Holmby Hills, an exclusive L.A. neighborhood. When I first saw the Mansion, its vast grounds were tented for the party, and it looked like a fantasyland. Peacocks strolled the lush grass. Penned up or wandering freely on the grounds were monkeys, flamingos and all kinds of rare or wild animals. Colorful and exotic birds flew freely in an aviary. The ponds scattered over the grounds were stocked with koi fish. Bunnies and rabbits were everywhere. I had never attended a party of this magnitude. It was a mini-zoo—in more ways than one. And I had never seen a more beautiful, twinkling sight in my life.

There were hundreds of scantily-clad girls everywhere: tall girls, short girls, curvy girls, skinny girls, exotic girls, Asian girls, and African-American girls. I had never seen perfect done in so many ways. They had beauty in common, and they all seemed so uninhibited and relaxed. I had modeled lingerie in catalogs and newspaper ads at home in Canada, but I’d certainly never worn it out in public. (Remember, this was pre-Madonna.) It’s a completely different ball game when you’re walking around in person, jiggling while people watch. It was not like being photographed for still shots, where I felt a small sense of control over my image and unflattering pictures could be touched up or tossed. Fortunately I was young and didn’t have too much jiggle to worry about.

It’s well-known among Hollywood insiders that it is virtually impossible for an unknown guy to attend the Midsummer’s Night Dream party. Pretty girls were a different story. Even when a Playmate wanted to bring a male friend, it was frowned upon— still is. Naturally there were many of Hugh Hefner’s friends in attendance, and most of them were around his age. Hef was in his early fifties at the time—but there were no average Joes at this party. The magical event was held at Hugh Hefner’s home, so he had every right to invite whomever he wanted, including a couple of prominent male porn stars (I saw Harry Reems, who was one of the biggest at the time—in more ways than one). A number of major film and television actors were also present. What Hef wanted to do was invite his friends, plus a couple hundred gorgeous girls to keep them happy. The arrangement worked out very well for all involved.

I had to psych myself up to walk into a party of 500 nearly naked people. I was escorted by Playboy public relations representative Elizabeth, which calmed me somewhat. An A-list of actors, comedians, and musicians were all in attendance. That night I met Julie Andrews (Mary Poppins!), and her husband, director Blake Edwards, Bill Cosby, Sara Vaughn, Wayne Gretzky, Magic Johnson, Sugar Ray Leonard, Scott Baio, John Belushi, Robin Williams, Helen Gurley Brown, James Caan, Patrick Cassidy, and Wilt Chamberlain, among the partygoers.

MEETING PAUL NEWMAN!

I didn’t know a single person in the room before I arrived. Well, I knew Paul Newman, but he didn’t know me. My first thought on seeing him was that he was shorter than I had pictured. I soon learned that in real life every famous person was shorter than I expected, except for Clint Eastwood, who was larger than life. When you’re almost six feet tall, it’s hard to be impressed by anyone’s height, but I must say Wilt Chamberlain, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and Magic Johnson measured up!

I tried not to stare as I was introduced to the entertainers I’d seen all my life in the movies and on television. When we met face-to-face, I was literally looking down on people I considered icons, people I admired and had grown up watching. I was bigger than people who had won Academy Awards, though no one there knew my name. I’m sure I’m never smaller than anyone expects, and I’d later realize that was not always a good thing.

After I scouted around the party a bit, seeing famous faces everywhere I looked, I really needed a couple of stiff drinks. I downed them quickly, just to get the courage to continue making the rounds with Elizabeth, who was introducing me to everyone there as “Miss November 1981, Shannon Tweed from Canada.” I wondered if anyone would ever remember my name.

Shortly after I arrived at the party, a man approached me and said, “Hello, I’m Hugh.”
Wow, okay, my goodness,
I thought; he was coming on pretty strong, very flirty and touching me. He turned out to be Hugh O’Brien, the actor who played in a lot of old Westerns. I think he did that on purpose—that whole, “Hello, I’m Hugh” thing. I mean, come on, he was there and his name was Hugh and he was wearing pajamas. Naturally I assumed he was Hugh Hefner. I imagine that line worked pretty well for him over the years.

I did eventually meet the real Hugh Hefner that night, the man who would change my life, and believe me, he was so much more charismatic than some TV cowboy. He was the whole package—handsome, brillant, charming and, most important, very attentive. Half of the attraction for me is that the other person likes you. Why waste time trying to get a man to like you? I never want to work that hard at chemistry. For Hef and me it was there, and it showed. We were immediately enamored.

The two of us started talking and never really stopped. I had to wonder what he saw in me, a small-town dork. I certainly wasn’t a worldly L.A. girl. But overall I felt I was making a good impression; he didn’t leave my side for quite some time. His longtime girlfriend, Sondra, was floating around, and she too was very warm and welcoming. I liked them both very much. I liked everything about the Mansion. I envied Sondra living there, and I dreaded having to fly home to my small apartment, cheap car and waitressing jobs.

I stayed for a few days after the party in a guesthouse where girls stayed when they were visiting L.A. or shooting for the magazine. The morning—or should I say afternoon—after the party I walked over to the main mansion for breakfast and sat down in what was called the Mediterranean Room. A butler came out to take my order—certainly my first experience with household help on that level. I had been thinking I would pop into the kitchen and make some toast, though I was a bit nervous about going into somebody else’s kitchen, but the other girls steered me to the dining room, where I was free to order whatever I wanted.

I had never tried an avocado before, and bagels were not my usual fare, as Canadians were big on English muffins and toast, so I ordered a toasted bagel with bacon, lettuce, tomato, cream cheese, avocado, and sprouts. I thought it was quite sophisticated and Californian of me to try all of these new things in one sandwich. It was delicious, I loved it, and it would soon become my regular breakfast while in residence.

A new lifestyle was opening up before my eyes. As a fair-skinned girl I had never been a sun worshipper, and I had never intentionally been out in weather this hot, so I had to be extra careful. There were a couple of summers when I’d visited my grandparents’ cabin at Emma Lake in Saskatchewan, where I’d burned and freckled and peeled, but that was it for the sun thing. Even though I was almost translucent, I wanted to get with the new program and be a part of L.A. life. I put on my bathing suit and lay out at the pool with a few other girls, trying to do the California thing, and wishing I had those makeup people we used in the bathing suit ads.

Hef usually appeared around midday and stopped by the pool to chat with everyone. He always lingered to talk with me; we had definitely made a connection. Over the next couple of days I saw a little more of what life in the Playboy Mansion was like. There were regular movie screenings, poker and backgammon nights—all kinds of different events where Hef’s friends came over to his house and socialized. The Mansion was beautiful, the service was impeccable, and the celebrities were everywhere. They were the most amazing three days of my life. It was life on another planet: Planet Playboy.

I knew what everyone back home was thinking. My family was concerned at what I was getting myself into. My friends were rapidly disappearing—but during my three-day stay I’d already made some new friends. (I’m still close with two of them today. Monique St. Pierre was an exotic beauty with an easy laugh and a beautiful face and body. She had been Playmate of the Year in 1978 and was a regular at Mansion West gatherings. We became close pals and troublemakers during those party days, and had our first-born sons at the same time years later. I met another lifelong friend there, Wendy Leitman, whom I became very close to and still see today, when she’s not working as an attorney at Disney or taking care of her twins.) But at the time, all my old friends in Canada were speculating on my actions and criticizing me for taking the “easy way out.” I didn’t necessarily consider posing for
Playboy
the easy way out, but it was, to say the least, an interesting new path to follow. I wanted a new direction. I had been slinging drinks for six years and was looking for something new. It seemed with
Playboy
my luck was changing. I was up for the ride. I didn’t know what doors might open for me, but I knew I was going to turn the handle.