Julie Newmar Writes

Hugh Hefner’s 80th Birthday

Who was there? Bill Maher, Jerry Buss, Nicky and Paris Hilton, John Lovitz, Scott Baio, Nate Holden with a tall, very “blonde” blond, James Caan (shorter than I), the Donald (surprisingly tall)--- was it the scowl on his face or just his usual intensity? His body guard seemed to be enjoying himself more than he was.

I was picked up in a limo too long for the single lane streets of Beverly Hills and was handed a white envelope with a princely gift in it. This happened to me once before when I was 20 years old, but that’s another story. Terry Moore put the gift in my hand “from the investors”. We drove to the Four Seasons Hotel to pick up three gentlemen from Florida, real estate developers of course, who flew in for the party.

The Party! Yes, well! I’ve never seen so many naked girls. Their clothes had been painted on them by airbrush artists downstairs in the gym. I stood in Hefner’s baronial entrance hall to witness the bounding inrush of energy. The girls in glass slippers clicked out of minibuses assembled on some other launching pad. There was little attention given to anyone. Eyes flitted mostly from buttock to breast, not much to face, no need to. The noise was deafening. The girls kept themselves in groups or proceeded hand in hand. It took huge energy to maneuver the space. In the distance a stage with more body painted girls writhing to a deafening beat. A musical group from “Crash” suddenly enlivened the stage. One wanted to be where Hef and the Donald were. Suddenly a whoop and a cheer rose up. A luscious lovely had popped out of a cake doing a perfectly choreographed strip tease although I could barely see it because the hundreds of girls surrounding “the king” wore heels that put them well over six feet. The chosen ones, those darlings closest to him, were almost always in constant movement pleasuring themselves as much as the boss. They live there, have pajama parties that really rock so I’m told, now that Viagra is part of the fare.

The luscious lovely from the cake took almost everything off. She had breasts and everything to perfection. As there are paintings of his past favorites on the walls in the house, one gets the idea of just what that is. The protocol known to all is that there are fewer men invited, seven or eight girls to one man is the scene. Its fun to see a man in his 90s, maybe the scion of a Ralphs market, barely able to crawl, enjoying the scene. Occasional handfuls of big time celebrities come and go. There is always Tony Curtis, a breast man, and Chuck McCann. . . They stay and watch movies with Hef, “Casablanca” gets a yearly showing. The dress code was pajamas, a nightgown, or bra and panties, preferably less. I wore a barely-there Wolford body suit and a velvet skirt, custom designed Myrna Katz jewelry that was much admired, and a silver fox coat. I felt recherché, like Catherine Deneuve or someone who’s gone from pretty to beautiful. A quality for which the girls there often times admired in me. Frankly I love the sensuality of the place, the luscious food, drink, the excess. The girls felt safe, there was major security everywhere. But it’s kind of lonely for the women, no boyfriends allowed. A husband or two for some of the older playmates. None of whom had passed into the beautiful stage.

By midnight, the three men that I came with still had lust in their eyes, a little sweaty, they were no longer embarrassed by the pajamas they had grabbed off the line from a late night Ross clothing store along with a back-of-the-door hotel bath robe. I wished them well as I stepped in the limousine at 1:15 in the morning, “Do enjoy yourselves in the grotto, have a rollicking good time”, as I once had.

(originally posted at julienewmar.com, April 2007)