After easily twenty years of looking, I finally saw the house of my dreams. It’s a huge mansion in Beverly Hills, California. It’s actually a copy of one in London. The mansion was the brainchild of a rich tycoon from the ’20s who liked the design so much he built one just like it here in California where he lived until he stopped living. The second owner bought it in the ’60s and installed all the modern conveniences of life like central air. But the most outstanding feature he added was The Bunnies.
Saying that visiting the Playboy Mansion was cool is a textbook example of understatement. Like most red-blooded American men, the Playboy mansion represents your one-stop mecca, nirvana and holy land all wrapped up in one silicone-padded asylum.
As such, just visiting the place makes you the alpha male among your circle of friends. No matter where they’ve been, you have the trump card.
So it shouldn’t amaze anyone that when I scammed tickets to a party in this shrine to adolescent fantasy, I was more that a little excited.
Wisely, Playboy wouldn’t let us drive to the mansion directly — due to the parking nightmare that would inevitably ensue — so we took cabs to UCLA where a shuttle bus picked us up. We half expected them to blindfold us so we couldn’t find our way back.
Once passing muster, our bus of losers wound its way up the long driveway, around the outside perimeter of the grounds and up to the circular driveway in front next to a Grecian fountain. We climbed off the bus and were immediately greeted by Hef’s “people.” Female people, that is. We assumed that, at one point or another, they were each photographed sprawled out across satin bed sheets in sexy lingerie and heels (sadly, for tonight’s party they all wore street clothes).
They welcomed us cheerily and ushered us to the patio/pool area where there was already about 60 guys, one of which was a bartender. Making a beeline for him, we began quaffing free libations. We scouted out the few attractive women scattered through the crowd of testosterone-fueled lechers and, without exception, they were small framed and large bosomed, straining the fabric of their bunny-head baby tees.
We poked our head into the currently empty, but world-famous “Grotto” (if those heated jets could talk…). Then wandered across the patio to the catering tent and hooked up with one such cute blond with short-cropped, spiky hair and a drink in her hand.
She was offering tours of the grounds. We gladly took her up on this offer and soon, a line of drooling troglodytes ambled aimlessly behind her as she headed for a path around the property. She pointed out Hef’s bedroom and other rooms inside the house they wisely didn’t let us enter.
The second stop on the tour was a bird cage/sanctuary which housed many species of birds from all over the world. Or so she assured us as it was 8pm and pitch black already. We were made the same assurances when we went past the monkey house, as well.
Leaving the monkey area, one of the no-life cretins in our group identified our spiky-haired guide as Julie McCullough. Apparently, she had starred on Growing Pains as Kirk Cameron’s girlfriend.
The tour continued, circling the fauna-laden grounds on a paved path that encompassed a small building.
Inside was a game-room, with classic video arcade games including a Playboy pinball machine. Also inside the house, there was a green room and a blue room which we were told provided couples with privacy for fornication at Hef’s “real” parties, the kind we were not currently at.
Continuing along the path, we were led past private tennis courts and 3 huge satellite dishes, on towards the House Barbi Benton had built, for what reason I don’t remember. But it was now dank and had reptiles in it.
On the way back to the house, we ran into another tour being led by none other than Angel Boris, the former centerfold-turned-actress who starred in our Teva TV spot. Surprisingly enough, she remembered us, and we reminisced about the time we paid her lots of money to be seen with us.
We ended the tour back where the buses first let us off. The grounds weren’t as large as you would think, but it was a nice place regardless. Then we chatted Angel up after her tour ended back at the bar. Soon enough, they announced some kind of sweepstakes or something that we didn’t win and we got our drunken pictures with Angel and her centerfold friends.
Overall, the Mansion was impressive, cool and more then lived up to my expectations in the same way seeing “Star Wars” for the first time did. I was, however, extremely disappointed that the girls didn’t wear their Bunny costumes, or get naked, for the party. But since it was only about 50 degrees out in LA that night, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Nor could I afford to be picky since I was there under semi-false pretenses.
Still, despite the Bunnies’ obvious cache and indisputable “talents,” there wasn’t a single girl there that I would trade for my wife (throw in three or four and I might reconsider). Hopefully she would feel the same way after going to the Chippendale’s mansion. (Do they have one?)
Whatever my wife may lack in sheer cup-size (not very much, frankly), she more than makes up for in the “finds me attractive” department, something which was nonexistent in the Bunnies. She certainly has most of the same qualifications, falling short only in the “entitled prima donna” and “peroxide blond hair/brown roots” areas.
Ultimately, my excursion into the Mansion was definitely a high-point, but it really had no effect on my current level of happiness or satisfaction.
One of the things I learned as I passed out of adolescence into, well, late adolescence is that there is more to happiness than a sweet pair of silicone implants, and that you shouldn’t use someone else’s benchmark of happiness as your own.
Afterward, my co-worker and I went to a strip-club.