Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Life after Hef
One of Hef’s former playmates has revealed that her sex life in the Playboy Mansion was less than exhilarating:
“The sex was very routine and something I don't think any of the girls really enjoyed,” reflects Holly Madison. “We just wanted to get it over with.”
My advice to Hef would be to take her evaluation as a compliment. Many things in life are routine, including picking one’s teeth and grooming one’s chest hairs. It doesn’t necessarily mean they are foul or depraved activities. When you think of the things Holly might have said, Hef got off very lightly. A less charitable and magnanimous lady might have insinuated that submitting to his desires was like being ravished by a hairy old goat. This is by no means a routine event at altitudes lower than the Sierra Nevada foothills.
A far more damaging revelation was that Hef refused to let Holly consult a psychiatrist while she was in the mansion:
“He knew they'd advise me to leave,” she explained. “It wasn't about what was best for me. It was about him maintaining control.”
This is like hiring Mexicans to work on a cactus farm and refusing to let them get medical attention when they are pricked. Had I been the president of the American sex workers’ union, I would have organised a picket outside the mansion to protest against this violation of basic employment rights. Is it too late to sue Hef for this outrage? Pecuniary damages would not be sufficient. Nothing less than a public caning of his leathery buttocks would be just compensation.
I’ve often wondered whether it’s possible for Hef’s consorts to have a normal life after leaving the mansion. Their situation is similar to Japanese people who’ve appeared in game shows where the contestants have to perform tasks that test their endurance, such as eating worms or licking frogs. However beautiful the playmates are (and Holly is certainly a dish), the evil torments they’ve suffered must continue to haunt them.
No one could blame them for turning to lesbianism, but if they’re still attracted to men, they would need to find someone completely free of the human tendency to blame the victim rather than the perpetrator. Maybe an army doctor who specialises in treating post-traumatic stress disorder would make the ideal husband. A woman who’s having flashbacks and nightmares needs to share her bed with a man who maintains his composure when she’s tossing in her sleep.
As for Hef, one has to pity an old codger who tries to live up to his former reputation by having group sex with girls who are embarrassed by the sight of his mangy old todger. Maybe he thinks he’s doing them a favour by letting them rub their breasts into his toothless face. May the archangel Beelzebub give him the good sense to retire to a wheelchair and discover the delights of voyeurism. I can’t think of a more fitting and dignified way of ending a life of celebrated debauchery.
Labels: Hugh Hefner, playmates, post-traumatic stress disorder
