Kiss and Tell (8 page)

MODELING IN MONTREAL.

Appearing in
Playboy
was such a scandalous thing back then, especially coming from where I came from. My dad, bless his heart, was all for it. He was totally supportive. When I told him about it he said, “Hell yeah, go for it. What are you waiting for, a car to hit you?” That certainly put it all into perspective for me. Anyone could have an accident like his any day of their life. Life’s all about taking chances. Living your best life. Doing what makes you happy. I wasn’t going to worry about what other people thought. No one was going to stop me from having adventures.

Dad had been recuperating well, and it was ironic that just as he was about to have his driver’s license reinstated, he died of angina before the November issue actually came out. But he knew all about it, and I’m sorry that he never saw my layout. Not that I wanted my dad to view naked photos of me, but I would have loved for him to see
Playboy
and know that I had done it, that I was going for it, whatever “it” was!

After my initial visit to the Mansion for the Midsummer Night’s Dream party where I met Hef for the first time, I started coming to L.A. on frequent trips from Toronto and getting friendlier with everyone. The second or third time I was there, Hef called me in to the library and sat me down. He said, “Sondra and I were wondering…,” and I thought, “Oh, my God. Here it comes. What is my answer going to be?” Because I knew what the question was. I was petrified and excited at the same time. The Playboy Mansion was a completely different environment from anywhere else. It was so secluded and private, a whole other world. You could basically start over once you got inside the gate, which was very attractive to me at this point in my life. In those days there were no paparazzi, no public photos; the gossip never traveled beyond the immediate little world of Playboy Mansion West—probably because whoever you were with didn’t want anyone to know, either.

The question was on the table: “Would you consider spending some time with us?” And I answered yes. Why not?—I had an open mind; I had nothing to lose. Christ, I could say no, and do what? Go back home to Canada? Or say yes, and see what developed. So I said sure. I stayed for a little while, spent some time with both of them, then headed home. I still had Ronnie, my boyfriend back in Toronto—though clearly I wasn’t too serious about him. He was getting very nervous, because the writing was on the wall.

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One day soon after I had returned to Canada, I got a message on my answering machine that said, “Hi darling, this is Hef. I really miss you and was wondering if you’d come down here and live with me.” He had made the decision to let Sondra go. He wanted me to be his main girlfriend. Though I didn’t have any idea what that would entail, I was still thrilled. I flew down in a heartbeat. I left my car behind—the first car I had ever owned, a little Mazda, bought with my Playmate money. Later, when Hef had gotten to know me better, he thought that I would be a good candidate for Playmate of the Year. I couldn’t believe it when he broke the news. I knew that the Playmate of the Year was given one hundred thousand dollars and a new Porsche. I was over the moon. Plus, I got the guy! I was hardly off that mink ranch, and here I had the car, the money, the guy, and a new life in L.A.!

MODELING FURS, OF COURSE, IN CANADA.

Unfortunately, neither Sondra nor Ronnie could see the beauty of this new situation. Ron was not happy, and we parted. Even though he wound up playing football somewhere in the United States, we eventually lost touch. I’m sure Sondra felt betrayed, like I had plotted the whole thing out. But really, I had fallen in love, and so had Hef. I’m sure she must have known that nothing permanent would come from a love affair with the most confirmed bachelor in the world. I certainly didn’t think that way, but I wasn’t about to miss this ride, wherever it was going.

Chapter Five

One and a Hef

I
t was a very heady, exciting ride. It was wild, fast and loose. No one had heard of AIDS, word on the street was that cocaine wasn’t addictive, and smoking and drinking were the norm. There was a carefree feeling of “Why not?” It was a different era. Nowadays you really have to think about who you’re with, because you’re taking your life in your hands having sex with somebody new; you’re sleeping with every person they ever slept with. Those thoughts just weren’t present at that time. “Hell yeah, I’m there!” was my attitude.

Usually I thought that whatever people were getting from me, I was getting something in return; it’s a mutual give-and-get situation. It was that way with Hef, too. I certainly never thought he was going to marry me. That wasn’t the deal, though for a time in the back of this girl’s mind was the thought that it wouldn’t be out of the question for me. But truly, it wasn’t that kind of relationship. It was sexual attention and excitement and good times, though I can honestly say I loved him. Not in the same way I love Gene, not the way you love the father of your children, when you know that you want to be with him forever. Even living at the Playboy Mansion I could see the day when sitting around, partying, drinking, and doing whatever nonsense we felt like doing was not going to be all that I needed. The relationship didn’t have that permanent feeling. It was intense in a different way. It was all so shiny and new and thrilling. I didn’t know what I wanted to do or be, but I thought this was certainly a good start. A lot of girls who pose for
Playboy
think that’s the be all to end all—the pinnacle, the big prize. Not me. It was just the beginning of a whole new life for me.

PUBLICITY PHOTO FOR MY PLAYMATE OF THE YEAR 1981.

MOM, ME AND TRACY AT THE PLAYMATE OF THE YEAR LUNCHEON.

I now had what was practically my very own father figure as a devoted love interest and all new friends. No one in L.A. knew (or cared) anything about what I had done before. They had no preconceived notions about what I was like or what I should do. I was completely new in a new country, starting over. I skipped most of my publicity tour for Playmate of the Year because Hef didn’t want me out of his sight. To this day I think I won Playmate of the Year because back in those days Hef made the final decision. I’m glad it worked that way, because my pictures were much different than the other eleven girls. I wasn’t voluptuous or sexy-looking. I wasn’t a raunchy, sexy babe from California, all tanned and toned, ripping off my bikini in the pictures. I mean, we grew our pubic hair in so people wouldn’t see too much! That was the Canadian way—cover up!

My attitudes were all turning and changing. Now I was running around half-naked all the time and feeling great about it. It was very liberating. There is a certain conservative part of Canada that was so British, and to an extent still is, and that mindset was (and is) still with me. You don’t do that.
What would the neighbors think? Nice girls don’t…

I was learning that nice girls do. And you know what? Sometimes nice girls do it better. All these girls were nice—all these people are nice, and we do. And we’re gonna, and I’m gonna! And we did. We partied all night and slept all day, and just generally did whatever we felt like at the time with whomever we felt like. “Love the one you’re with!”

However, my warning lights came on when I started to drink quite a bit. It was no surprise, given the history of alcohol abuse in my family, that I liked to drink. Shots, beers, B-52s, and things we mixed up and invented—I had a very high tolerance for alcohol, something I hadn’t previously been aware of, because I hadn’t ever imbibed much before. Well, my Dutch boyfriend and I had done some drinking, but before I hit California there hadn’t been much major partying in my life. This was a whole new level of hedonism.

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I also started experimenting with cocaine, which wasn’t anything Hef encouraged or endorsed. He wasn’t very happy about it, but I was having a fine time. My friends and I all did cocaine to stay up and drank to fall asleep. It was a vicious circle, but we were young and stupid and didn’t feel any worse for the wear. When you’re 24 years old and get loaded, it’s not like you need to take time to recover. And you look fine, too. Those were wild, wild times; I saw the most incredible things going on. They probably were not that wild compared to today’s L.A. standards, but imagine how I felt, seeing a guy with two girls in the swimming pool, while I sat up on the roof spying, cracking up…
Wow, look at that; look at that!
Usually it was someone famous, and by that I mean extremely famous, the kind of person easily recognizable by most American people.

It was quite interesting to see a famous television actress or popular male movie star and realize that she or he had weaknesses, faults, and a very real human side. When you think of a famous person, you don’t generally visualize him or her naked and entwined with a bunch of other people, but now I did. I had a completely different view. It was the ultimate private party, a closed circle; the Mansion was a place where famous people could do what they wanted and be left alone to do it. A major film actress and her producer husband used to troll the Mansion for girls to bring home. You could wander out to the Jacuzzi at any hour of the day or night and see mini-orgies—tangled-up bodies and arms and limbs. It would be dark and hard to see, and you’d get up closer and say to yourself,
Look what they’re doing! My God, what Fm doing isn’t so bad!
At some point it really is all relative, depending on where you are and what your environment is. I wasn’t judging. I was having fun, though the small-town girl in me came out every once in a while.

I saw everyone I had ever dreamed of meeting at the parties at the Mansion. Bill Cosby was a regular. James Caan, John Belushi, Dan Ackroyd, Robin Williams, Peter Lawford, Leslie Nielsen, Jack Nicholson, Warren Beatty… each star more famous than the last. All kinds of different, diverse people were in this one space, all focusing on one thing: sex. There would be hundreds of guys hanging out in silk pajamas, plus hundreds of women in their underwear at any of the larger parties. Happy, wild and uninhibited.

It’s funny. A lot of people I know from those days have selective lapses of memory. I certainly do! Not to mention that there are a few nights I don’t remember at all. The lifestyle at the time—having a butler bring you breakfast at three in the afternoon, if you desired, or dinner at 9am because you were just going to sleep—was truly decadent. I didn’t stay naive for long. In fact, I got spoiled pretty quickly. I was wearing the white robe, and I was happy. The white robe was the symbol of acceptance into the inner sanctum; you were going to visit you-know-who. Guests wore colored robes and were confined to the outer perimeters.

Not too long after I had settled into my new lifestyle, my sister Tracy left home and came looking for me. She was the baby, and I had stayed in touch with her. She was just 16 years old when she left home. It was actually supposed to be just a visit to the Mansion, but she arrived, took one look around, and never went back. I had mixed feelings about this; I was torn because I wanted her nearby, of course, but she was only 16. Then again, I remembered what I had been doing when I was that age. But she was a whole different animal. Having had my mother’s undivided attention, she was the last to leave home, much more inexperienced and “younger” than I had been at that age. I did my best to keep an eye on her, but I wasn’t ready to be a mother figure by any stretch.

ME, TRACY (16 YEARS OLD) AND SISTER SARA.

Hef and I shared a bedroom just like any regular couple, lounging in bed eating Delmonico steak or melon balls off trays. (He loved melon, but only in balls.) Every afternoon when we woke up Hef’s regular breakfast, according to his specifications, would arrive—and now, so did mine. We resided in his huge master suite, which had two stories and its own private video library. We had a wide selection of homemade porno movies for viewing, some of them starring me. People think the tapes Pamela and Paris made were racy…I hope mine never get out!

This inner suite also held all his scrapbooks and archives of his life at the Mansion. Hef did plenty of work there; but needless to say, there was also plenty of play. The master suite was usually open. Though it did have locks, I had a key. Of course there were security cameras all over the Mansion. I’ve got to hand it to his videographer—Barney is his name—he has seen some stuff he could never repeat in his life. What a job—Hef’s videographer. Barney is a very sweet man.

I usually woke up around one or two in the afternoon, depending on how late we’d been up the night before and who had been with us. Hef would head off to his wing of offices to conduct his daily business with the magazine, and I was left to my own devices. First thing I’d run to Tracy’s room down the hall and wake her up. She generally stayed up even later than I did, so she was privy to everything that went on after Hef and I went to bed. It was pretty racy stuff for a young girl to see; she got a swift education. Tracy made friends with the Mansion’s social secretaries and butlers and they all had a great time together. When I managed to get up in time, Tracy and I would have our favorite breakfast, the California bagel, then take a swim, see what the other Playmates were doing, and generally come up with some kind of trouble to get into that day.