Editorial Reviews. Review. “Fascinating.” (AV Club) “Reads like a celebrity memoir infused with and Cautionary Tales of a Former Playboy Bunny - Kindle edition by Holly Madison. Add Audible book to your download for just $ the Rabbit Hole Curious Adventures and Cautionary Tales of a Former Playboy Bunny" by Holly Madison available from Rakuten Kobo. About this book. Holly Madison (left) has released a book detailing her life at the Playboy Mansion . Here she poses with her then "The Girls Next Door" co-stars.
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Free Pdf Book ownload Free PDF Books Online search Best Popular eBooks Writer: Visit is Holly Madison Page IDENTITY: The shocking, never-before-told story of the bizarre world inside the legendary Playboy Mansion—and, finally, the secret truth about the man who holds the. Hef offered Madison a quaalude out of a crumpled tissue on her first night Hef was also known to hate red lipstick, Madison says in her book.
Madison recalls Wilkinson as "the fakest person I've ever met" and claims she demanded a "really big room" once she moved into the mansion. After a blowup feud where Wilkinson pretended not to know Madison, the two haven't spoken.
Madison tried to start a family with Hef—even though he was pushing Living in Hef's "twisted world" led Madison into a deep depression, and nearly a year after moving into the mansion, she had a suicidal moment in the bathtub. At the time, it was more money than I'd ever know what to do with… But I didn't want it.
I actually pitied him for stooping to that level. How does he keep up with them all? In fact, it was like a bedazzled, twisted prison where the inmates developed their own hazing and hierarchy and where the release back into society was the equivalent of being excommunicated.
How would the other girlfriends react to my death? Among the seven girlfriends, I had only one friend: Bridget Marquardt. The climate inside the mansion was toxic.
I rarely left the mansion, so making it home in time for curfew was never an issue either. Not to mention, it would mean less competition. Yep, they would be glad I was gone. Would Hef even feel bad when he heard the news?
He would surely never concede that my misery had anything to do with him or the life he provided. Would he even miss me? No, I was certain I was just another warm body—as we all were. Just another blonde, I could hear him say. Internally, I decided he would label it a devastating accident. His main concern would be navigating Playboy out of any sort of PR crisis.
A small memorial might even be held at the mansion, but it would glorify my days at Playboy and with Hef, once again promoting the idea that life inside those walls was nothing short of paradise.
And just like that, I would be swept under the rug with every other scandal and ghost that once plagued Hugh Hefner. I think that knowing my death would be in vain convinced me not to go through with it. Thankfully the only thing greater than my need to escape was my desire to share my experience.
If I sunk my head below the water and went to sleep, no one would ever know the truth. Someday I would be whole again. Begin at the beginning, the King said, very gravely, and go on till you come to the end.
Slowly, the large iron gates surrounding the infamous compound creaked open and our shuttle began its ascent up the steep driveway. My nose was pressed so tightly against the window—anxious to spot any sign of the luxurious Holmby Hills estate expertly hidden by the lush foliage—that my makeup smudged on the glass.
Over my shoulder, I heard a fellow partygoer point out the first glimpse of the 20,square-foot Gothic Tudor that was steadily coming into view. There it is! I craned my neck to spot the roof and fixed my eyes on the horizon as the mansion began to surface.
Like an early morning sunrise, it was magic. The estate—situated on five rolling acres in one of L. My large eyes widened, trying to fully absorb this moment. As the shuttle reached the top of the driveway, my girlfriend Heather spotted the infamous Playmates at Play sign and nudged me in the ribs.
We both burst into laughter. We were positively giddy. We are actually here , I thought.
I made it to the mansion. It had become a goal of mine to see the inside of these walls, and I told myself that I could now happily check that one off the bucket list. I even wondered if I would meet Gatsby himself. There were less than 10, residents in my hometown, and my high school graduating class was smaller than the guest list to most Hollywood parties since then, it has seen a boost in tourism thanks in part to the Twilight movies, but let me assure you, there was no Edward Cullen sauntering through my lunchroom.
After graduation, I moved 30 miles away to attend Portland State University. Immediately, my mind started to wander.
Apparently, according to the report, the magazine had been conducting a nationwide on the road search for the Millennium Playmate. A gigantic tour bus traveled the United States and Canada , stopping in 45 cities testing candidates. It sounded like just the opportunity I was looking for! I even remember my mom and dad studying the front cover of a Playboy once to find the hidden rabbit head.
As a kid, you think that sounds like a pretty fun game, but we were quickly told that it was for adults only. One day my sister and I were scouring the house for any Christmas presents my mom may have hidden when we came across a few Playboy s that had been hidden away. We flipped through in absolute hysterics, pointing out all the bare butts. I was a kid, so I thought it was hilarious!
It was a reputable magazine with a storied history, so it felt edgy but also somehow safe. Naturally, I too had pipe dreams about one day being in the magazine. According to the news report, the process was quite simple: In my defense, I lived in Oregon. Why would I need a bikini? And when I say things were tight financially, I mean they were tight. But I decided it was about time to make an investment in my future.
After calling the number, getting the address where the bus would be stationed, and securing an audition time the following week, I went shopping. After scouring the racks for the best deal, I decided on a silver metallic bikini that was both sexy but also one that I felt reasonably comfortable in.
Before the audition, I figured I should probably get some kind of tan. I went to the nearby tanning salon and had my first experience with a tanning bed. I was terrified of going to my audition bright red, so I asked for the lowest possible voltage. As I pulled into the address I had been given, I spotted the tour bus immediately.
It was so large that it stood out like a sore thumb in the hotel parking lot it was stationed in. When I arrived, I was ushered inside the hotel lobby with the other potential playmates to fill out some paperwork before stepping onto the bus for the audition. Over my new metallic bikini, I wore a barely above-the-knee black miniskirt and a white button-down blouse in hopes of capturing that girl next door image photographers were apparently looking for.
And, to be honest, it was also the sexiest outfit I owned. But I figured that since editors were hoping to discover new talent, they were expecting girls to be relatively inexperienced. On the bus, I envisioned a few stylists helping candidates with hair and makeup touch-ups and a distinguished photographer guiding the amateur models into the most flattering poses.
It was Playboy , after all. After a few minutes of waiting, I was escorted to the gigantic foot-long tour bus with two other girls. We were made to wait in the ultra-lux living room area, which was wrapped in leather with a seven-foot movie screen in the back. A man with a clipboard walked into the room and greeted us.
He gave us a brief history of the magazine and then asked that we go around the room and introduce ourselves and say why we were there. One girl looked like a Pamela Anderson—inspired stripper with white poufy hair, a clingy silvery dress, and clear-plastic platform heels and appeared to have brought her pimp with her.
For a moment, I remember wondering if she was actually a female impersonator. The man with the clipboard smiled and nodded, pretending not to have heard this response more than 20, times already. And me and my best friend have a bet on who would become one first.
I want to be Miss April. For some reason, each of us believed we were total shoo-ins. I mean, I really thought I had a shot. Knowing what I know now, though, none of us ever stood a chance.
It was like an episode of Hoarders. But perhaps in his case it would be more appropriately titled Whore-ders. This passage is essentially the book in microcosm.
Everything is there: But these were more like gold spray-painted handcuffs full of rust, since her glamorous life was oddly short on money, even if it was long on luxury and indulgences. Playboy does, and Hefner merely rents it. Madison was so disturbed by their awful behavior that she felt duty-bound to write an unrelentingly mean-spirited book where she constantly derides them as slutty, cheap, greedy, mercenary, stupid, tacky, and wrong.
Also actual, literal whores.
She suggests that some of the other women are trying to sneak crystal meth into the mansion as well. The author tries to convince herself, and by extension the reader, that at various points in her relationship with Hefner, she genuinely loved him and wanted to be his wife and only partner. Hefner comes off terribly here.
In Down The Rabbit Hole , Hefner is condescending, sexist, and patronizing at best and emotionally abusive at worst. In a shocking turn of events, the man with the Hot Topic aesthetic turns out to be an insanely demanding, narcissistic maniac as well.