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8/21/08
It's Good to be Hugh Hefner

8/10/08, Sunday

The word was, that this is Hefner‘s last Midsummer’s Night’s Eve Party.

It had an Arabian Night’s theme, with huge tents, dragon-tailed out into the garden, looming over the spa, and over the unisex “changing rooms” which are lined with shadowy grey mirrors, in front of which girls apply make-up. I am escorted by Rick Tinnehan, the handsome, tall astronaut friend of Delores del Monte, a 1954 playmate. The three of us visit the grotto. “No hanky-panky here,” Delores says. “Then it’s not like the ‘70’s”, I say, “not as I remember it.” “Hush. Here, have your picture taken.” As she recites rules of the new decorum, a nearby couple disrobe to their swimsuits, and enter the warm water. They wade past the underground coves-of-intrigue before emerging into the dazzling light of the party outside. Men are in pajamas—no tuxes, no regular garb at this party. The girls are in frou frou ballet skirts, or nude with painted bodies, teetering in very high heels, with stockings perhaps, but not much more above or below. With enormous breasts which don’t move, taut tummies and long legs, these are the best bodies on the beach. It’s everything you’ve heard, and worthy of the pricy admission, a razzling, dazzling collection of walking, talking female sex coquettes.

“Hello, I’m Tom Sturges, Preston Sturges’s son.” I am relieved to take my eyes away from all that girl candy and talk to someone real. “I’m totally comfortable, I have no fear, I like who I am.” His assurances about himself helped to redirect my attention even further, wanting to hear more of what was behind this highly self-qualified person. “My father died when I was three. I’m one of his seven children.” “He must have loved women,” I remarked, hoping I can share in a lifetime of wisdom during this abrupt encounter. “Strong women,” he flashed back. “Strong women were at the center of every film my father made.” He professed to know more about this famous man than any of his siblings. And more about the parent-child relationship. “We must treat children with great respect.” For Tom, respect was the key word. Every encounter with children, he tells me, in what seems like the result of a lifetime challenge, is to ameliorate the conflicts between child and parent. “There must be no yelling, calm voice, and above all respect. Children deserve respect.” I agreed.

Mary O’Connor is there, Hef’s First Lady and lodestar of all activity at the mansion. She received the most hugs from Hef’s more intimate friends. She is tall, dressed in daintily flowered crepe chiffon, with natural grey curly hair, no body surgery, and the saltiest mouth at the Kingdom of Playboy. I can see why people swarmed to her. She is trusted, one of the points in his crown. I stay by her side at the front entrance of the mansion. Why not, it is soothing to have some of the enthusiasm that was lavished on her spill over onto me.

The ‘70’s crowd—yes, those in their 70’s—sit at gold-covered tables, eating Alaskan crab legs, savory shrimp, lamb chops, sugary confections. The service is perfect: invisible, and right on time. Jane Russell’s hearing aide, as usual, over amplifies the music, which drives her upstairs to the quieter sanctum of Hef’s baronial dining room.

Hef himself, sits on a low cushioned throne within a glass-beaded seraglio, surrounded by his bevy of beauties, who constantly change seats to be near him. He is generous in his attention to each of them, sweetly kissing the tip of a nose here, stroking a cheek there. Handsome black bodyguards clear the way for more ladies seeking esteem-raising shots of power from the power shot himself. In front of him, the dance floor glitters, filled with beautiful women undulating beneath coruscating laser lights, their bodies in peak form for whatever may come. The praise from their lips is lavish no matter who you are. The very atmosphere is redolent with promised pleasures.

It takes money, plenty of it, to be part of this bacchanal. The forty year old computer entrepreneur I met lives or has to live in the Cayman Islands. Men fly here in private planes, securing entrance to the party with a “friend” of Hefner’s. It isn’t cheap, though arrangements could be made. A lot of memories are being created on this night.

As my brother says, we should honor Hef for his role in kicking off the first of the major humanistic revolutions of our time. Before black, or women’s, or gay liberation, he initiated the renaissance in awareness that we humans can be genuinely fulfilled as sexual beings.

He is the King after all. It’s good to be Hugh Hefner. Oh, yeah.


Julie Newmar Writes

 
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