Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes by Kristi Lynn Davis

Author:Kristi Lynn Davis [Davis, Kristi Lynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shaw House Publishing
Published: 2015-11-03T08:00:00+00:00

Come join in the fun at

Hef and Kimberley’s

Midsummer Night’s Dream

Playboy Mansion West

August 13, 1993

8 p.m.

Sleepwear of course.

I am going to the Playboy Pajama Party! But what on earth will I wear? Deciding that boxer shorts and an old T-shirt probably wouldn’t do, I made a quick trip to Victoria’s Secret for more appropriate sleepwear. I opted for a conservative, classy, forest-green satin pajamas pantsuit and left the top unbuttoned enough to reveal a lacy green, push-up bra. Sexy and classy but not too trashy. I can live with that.

I’d never been to an adult pajama party, let alone one at Hef’s. This could be the pajama party to end all pajama parties! As a youngster, I’d get so excited when invited to a friend’s sleepover. But as the night wore on, especially if we turned off the lights to have a séance, I’d get scared and want to go back to my mommy and the comfort of my own home. I was feeling a bit the same way now, not knowing what would go down at this sexy shindig. And there could be a lot going down at a Playboy party. Am I prepared for this?

I arrived at The Mansion, left my car with the valet, and was ushered not into the building, but to the backyard. The entire grounds, including the pool and waterfall, were enclosed in a forty-feet-high tent and were decorated like a Middle Eastern harem room with thousands of multicolored satin pillows strewn about the ground. The transformation was astounding. Tall tables stood laden with decadent refreshments. I adored the chocolate-dipped strawberries.

But I abhorred the old geezers in bathrobes dancing with young ladies dressed (barely) in lacy, thong lingerie. (I assume they were models from the magazine.) It just didn’t seem right. I was clearly an overdressed prude by comparison. Other than the gray-haired grandpas cavorting with females young enough to be their granddaughters, I didn’t notice any particularly sordid pajama games going on. No one was playing “truth or dare,” as far as I could tell. I wasn’t asked to participate in a séance where some poor victim lies flat on her back and people try to levitate her using only two fingers each while chanting, “White as a ghost. Stiff as a board.” No spin the bottle. Instead, hundreds of people in sleepwear were drinking and eating and laughing and talking and mingling much like at any other outrageously resplendent, celebrity, adult pajama party in Hollywood.

Not knowing a soul and feeling awkwardly alone, I scanned the room for any of my Rock & Roll gal pals. They were nowhere to be seen. Surely Scott Baio was somewhere nearby; he was often spotted at The Mansion. What would I say to him? “Hey, Chachi! I used to love wa wa watching you [“wa wa wa” was his catchphrase] on Happy Days. Wha wha whatcha been up to since the seventies?” The only face that looked familiar was that of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who stood head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd (He was literally a few heads taller than everyone else).

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