For the Sake of the Blog.
By A. Ramos
I’m fully aware that the parties at the Playboy Mansion are no longer considered as cool and prestigious as they once were…or classy, but when my Irish super model friend Tiffany invited me to Midsummers, I figured I might as well check out one of the last official Playboy parties at the mansion. Since a lot of people still think the parties are really cool…mostly older Hollywood men, guys who don’t live in Hollywood…and I guess every guy who hasn’t been to one, I’ll go ahead and elaborate.
Back in the day, when Hugh Hefner was a young Playboy, first introducing the world to what would be the phenomenon of sexy bunnies, he would host several themed parties at the mansion, complete with the most elite guest list in LA, the utmost VIP service imaginable, and of course, women dressed up as sexy bunnies. Now the mansion is often rented out for parties, which require a horrendously long shuttle ride to get to, miniscule décor, raging house music, and a fairly large amount of creepy men and skanky girls. Note: I didn’t say all…I said large amount.
However, like I said before, I knew this was an official Hugh party so decided I should check it out. Except I decided this the day of, after my third beer with my little brother at Connie and Ted’s, one hour before I was supposed to be going to the Sunset Music Festival…
Hollywood Blvd. was way too far to go to for a costume, so we chugged another beer and I dragged my little brother with me to Trashy Lingerie on La Cienaga. He walked in and walked right back out. I picked every fairy-looking thing I saw in the dark, sketchy lingerie shop, where the only other customers were two men, and the creepy, rude owner who sat playing a game on his phone, and rushed to try them on. The first one fit, and I was drunk, so I took it.
Creepy, rude owner rolled off the couch like his job was just so fucking hard, and rang the total up with a calculator…$280…for two tiny pieces of cloth. Awesome. I decided to not think about it, and instead think about how many different Halloween costumes I could use yellow lingerie for. As I was leaving, the rude owner snickered and said, “love tourists”… HA. I turned around, looked at him, and very politely said, “I’m not a tourist, I’m in a rush, but I’ll be sure to blog about how gross you are.” Thou shall not scorn the writer, asshole.
I rushed home where my brother more than willingly poured us a glass of wine while I fumbled to get ready. Then I got a call from my friend who was picking me up…”Hey you didn’t tell me you were at your apartment and not the house…” he said. WTF?!?! I was speechless. I had been house sitting my boss’ house all week, and he had dropped me off there one night, but I had very specifically given my apartment address earlier, yet he STILL went to the house…and my boss was there!!! While I was in the middle of yelling at him for his negligence, I could hear the painful sounds of incoming text messages that I knew were from my boss.
After having to assure my boss that this guy had merely dropped me off one night while I was staying there, and getting the ultimate embarrassing text, “Keep your guy life out of my house please”, I felt so nauseated that I cancelled on the concert. Instead I decided to walk to Pink Taco on Sunset to meet up with a few friends that were there. My CAA lit agent/”bro” was there with Amanda, the owner of Arsenic Magazine, so I told them what happened over a glass of wine, which only made me feel more nauseated.
I didn’t even care about not going to the concert, but of course my bro had two VIP tickets that he wasn’t going to use, so I decided to be a nice big sister and take my (real) little brother before I had to leave to get ready for the Playboy party.
We attempted walking, failed, and got a taxi down the street, where we quickly walked to the main stage VIP area. It was awful, I only even saw two people I knew, so we walked back out to leave. I cabbed back home, drank about five Red Bulls, and attempted getting ready for the party. Luckily the Dublin girls were also late, allowing me excessive amounts of time to make unnecessary alterations to my hair and makeup. I put on my outfit and realized that I was pretty much naked, which is acceptable at the Playboy mansion, but not for walking outside my apartment or anywhere else I might end up, so I shoved a pair of leggings and a tank top in my Chanel, and pulled on a peacoat even though it was hot outside.
When we finally got to the parking garage at UCLA where check in was, we were ushered to a second station where they had us write down our names and emails on a sticker and then forced us to take an individual Poloroid. “Um, is this optional?” I asked the fat Mexican guy with the camera. “No, it’s for Hugh, in case he wants to invite you back to another party…I’m sure he’ll be inviting you back.” EW, really!? I couldn’t help it, my non-filtered mouth fired back with, “HA, I’m only going so I can blog about it.” Ugh.
We got on the rancid smelling shuttle, where I noticed a pile of business cards on one of the seats with a friend’s name on them, it was a good sign, that meant I’d know people at the party, I wondered if he put them there on purpose… Then, who should get on the bus, but two more friends who I had met through the guy I originally flew out to LA to see two years ago; a former original 90210 actor, Steve, and the director of Ironman 3, Shane Black. Somehow Steve had also previously met my Dublin model friends, so at least the long ass ride up to the mansion was entertaining.
When we finally got there, we made our way through the cameras in the foyer, out to the back yard. I have to admit, the ambience was impeccable. It looked like we were really in a Midsummer’s Night Dream, complete with fairy-tale-like décor…and people. The girls wore risqué fairy outfits, minus the few in regular lingerie who probably didn’t know what Midsummers is based off of…well to be fair, the invitation did say, “Sleepwear required”, which would also explain why the men were dressed in pajamas.
We immediately got drinks from the bar, and then I led the way to the bathrooms, avoiding eye contact with all of the sex crazed men on the way. But I couldn’t even stand in line for the bathroom without getting attacked, it was ridiculous! In the five minutes I attempted waiting for Tiffany outside of the bathroom, I got hit on by three men, invited to two pool parties, and saw one guy I used to date…scratch that, who I went on one date with and then stalked me.
I slipped out to the pool bar before I had a panic attack, and realized that standing alone near the famed grotto was about to be a far worse idea. But before I got pounced on by multiple penis predators, Jen came through the crowd out of nowhere. We accumulated Tiffany next, then the other two Dublin girls, and also found a guy friend who was floating around. I thought I was safe talking in our circle, but nope, every so often a guy would walk behind me and whisper not sweet nothings in my ear like, “You’re the hottest one here” and “You should be a centerfold”. EW.
Then I felt a soft finger slide lightly down my lower back…I turned immediately to slap whoever touched me and saw my ex French stalker walk by with his date, eyeing me like he thought for sure I’d be jealous. Idiot. I don’t understand some of the guys in this town. Oh wait, yes I do, since so many girls just throw themselves at them.
Anyway, we left the grotto area to go back to the tented area where the DJ was playing and where the “VIP” tables were set up. I saw this month’s playmate, who was wearing an outfit that looked like it was made out of a few pieces of black duct tape, but she obviously looked hot nonetheless…obviously since she was chosen to expose her body to the world including potentially, her family. Kendra was there, she’s much tinier than she looks on TV, and of course Hugh Hefner and his new 20-something year old wifey…I wonder if Kendra was jealous…just kidding, he’s obviously not her type.
So we stood in the VIP section, mostly getting hit on by random dudes, to whom I would strike back with my usual, “No, I’m not an actress, but I did sell the rights to my TV pilot, and just finished my screenplay, what do you do?” Unfortunately that only worked half the time, the other half of the time it just further intrigued them. And let me be clear, by intrigued, I mean that it fueled them to suggest ways they could “help” me with my writing, so to make it known that I’m not an industry climber, I simply dropped the ego-crushing bomb, “I’m signed with CAA.” And scared them all away.
I did meet a few good people thought. Like a publisher for something or the other, and an MTV something or the other, a bunch of people wanting to go to ridiculous mansion after parties, or to barbeques and yachts the next day…I’m still trying to figure out who half of the phone numbers are in my text inbox…good thing all these guys were smart enough to take photos with me and then offer to text it to me…Including one who I merely wanted a photo with because he was the only guy there without a shirt on (probably because he was the only one with a six pack) and it complemented my outfit. I wasn’t interested in this guy at all, nor would I ever be interested in any shirtless guy I met at the Playboy Mansion, but he took my phone anyway, claiming that he wanted to send himself the photo, and thus kidnapping my number. He then introduced me to two girls that walked up, I said hi, thinking nothing of it, until later when the duesh bag texted me saying, “Hey sexy, my girlfriend is bisexual…she thinks you’re really hot and wants to hang out…” ……REALLY?! Gross, but I guess I deserved that, being at a Playboy party and all, but wtf, all I wanted was a damn picture, not a freaking gang bang.
I hid in the corner at Jamie Foxx’s table after that, who as expected, had numerous women all over him. He seemed bored. A girl at the table forced me to take her number to go to his after party as well but I couldn’t fathom how that would be any less sketchy than what was already going on. My outfit wasn’t doing me any favors anti-attention wise, and I continued to find myself talking with various people, who at the time, I thought would be good connections, but now I can hardly remember and have to Facebook stalk the ones who were smart enough to send me their full names along with their photos…
So after “networking”, I started to realize the party was dwindling down. The only people I saw around me were even more nakeder girls, one in a completely see through lace onesie, and another in tassles and a tootoo, and progressively drunk and aggressive men. I pulled my typical old lady move and freaked out, texting anyone I knew that was up and loved me enough to save me from the monstrosity of a night that was ensuing.
Of course, everyone was already wasted at that point, and no one would pick us up, so I braced myself for the extremely long, soul-sucking journey home. Jen was drunk, and tried to convince me and all of the staff that she was a Playboy veteran and knew that we could leave through the South gate to get picked up, even though the guards were strictly ushering us to the front where the shuttles were. No, I didn’t have VIP access for once, and no, I was not at all mad about not having VIP access to the Playboy mansion.
When we finally got to the drop off area, Jen was going on about how we should have left out of the South gate, even though no one was allowed to leave that way, and that we were never going to get a taxi and should just go to an after party. Hell no. Then, who should she go up to and start asking about after parties, but shirtless duesh bag and his sexually aggressive girlfriend. HELL NO. I saw a taxi pulling up and ran to it, yelling for Jen to get in. The cab driver was supposed to be picking someone up, and Jen didn’t get my “play along” punch when I tried to say it was her who called, but I convinced him that I tip well and hijacked the ride.
After dropping Jen off, I finally got to my apartment $40 later, and passed out in my costume. I was so hungover when I woke up that I had to drink a beer before responding to the twenty text messages I had gotten between 4am and 9am. I have no idea why I think I’m a super human, but I proceeded to get dressed and meet up with a friend who had been at a party the night before for Diana Ross with Jennifer Lopez and various other celebrities that I can’t remember. After convincing him to also have a beer, he then convinced his friend that we should go to his beach house in Hermosa.
So we headed to his friend’s house in Bel Air, who by the way, owns a very large, very well known company, and was also at the Playboy party. Except oh wait, silly me, I didn’t drag a girl friend along with me and had to sit there while the two guys talked about all of the hot girls from the night before. Good thing one of his ten refrigerators was stocked with beer. Between listening to the guys go on about the hot ass Playmate who did lines off of a girls chest at an after party, and the personal freaking vineyard he had growing behind his freaking five car garage, I wanted to cry. Or drink more.
So I took three beers with me in the back seat, which came in handy while listening to the rest of the stories. I don’t by any means condone this type of behavior from men I date, but I wasn’t dating this guy, so I can say that this guy is a legitimate Playboy. Like I was secretly impressed with the shenanigans he pulled the night before.
When we got to the beach house, I wanted to cry again. It was a freaking five story, five bedroom, plus rooftop terrace, gym, and movie theater, house ON the beach. Like what the fuck, why can’t I be rich? I stopped hating him so much when he showed me the wine ‘fridge stocked with about thirty bottles of one of my favorite (very expensive) wines.
Then two German girls came over who were very sweet, we had a great conversation, just the three of us, since my friend went and passed out and the other guy decided he wanted to go for a bike ride on his $3000 bicycle. About an hour into the conversation I realized that one of the girls was one of the girls from the night before. I knew I should have worn my earmuffs in the car…
Anyway the aggressive weekend ended back at the Bel Air house where the boys and I stuffed our faces with pizza and pasta in exhausted silence, and then I somehow made it home and slept for eleven hours.