The World Just Got a Little Less Sexy—Hugh Hefner (1926-2017)
“The interesting thing is how one guy, through living out his own fantasies, is living out the fantasies of so many other people.” — Hugh Hefner
The chapter in my book that engenders the most questions is the one where I attend a party at the Playboy Mansion. Despite the fact that the Mansion probably peaked in terms of social relevance in the mid-1980s, it still held a mystique. But yesterday, the world got a little less sexy with the passing of Hugh Marsden Hefner at the age of 91.
Hef was born in Chicago in 1926. After serving in the Army and graduating from the University of Illinois, he found work as a copywriter for Esquire. After being denied a raise, he left Esquire in 1952 and raised a small sum of money to launch his own men’s magazine. He originally intended to call it Stag Party, but following the threat of a trademark suit from an outdoor publication, chose the name Playboy. The first undated issue was published in December, 1953, featured nude photos of Marilyn Monroe from a 1949 calendar shoot, and sold out in weeks. An iconic American brand was born.
In 1974, Hef bought a 22,000 square foot Gothic-Tudor style house situated on over five acres in the Holmby Hills area of Los Angeles, bordering the LA Country Club, and named it the Playboy Mansion West. The rest is history. Fueled by the wild, sexually-uninhibited parties that Hef hosted there over the next four decades, the Playboy Mansion entered American pop culture as the embodiment of hedonism. It was no surprise that when I wrote my tale of adventure as a single, thirty-something guy, attending a party at the Mansion was at the top of my wish list.
At that party, I encountered Hef, who was 83 at the time. He trundled out late in the evening and sat in a cabana with a coterie of a half dozen Playmates, clad in his trademark pajamas. He seemed tired and slightly out of it, but that didn’t stop him from making out with each of those Playmates over the course of the next hour. It was memorable, but I also found the scene a little sad. Hef was like the old lion at the circus: past his prime and tired, trotted out to pose and put on a show for the assembled masses. Still, the guy was having more fun than probably any other 83-year old in history, so I didn’t feel that bad for him.
In recent years, parties at the Mansion mostly faded into history as an ailing Hef kept an increasingly low profile. His passing on September 28 represents the literal end of an era; the Mansion was sold for $100 million in August 2016. The buyer, private equity investor Daren Metropoulos, agreed to let Hef stay in the house for the remainder of his life. Sadly, I assume it will now be a matter of months before the heavy construction equipment arrives to begin renovating the grounds, forever consigning spots like the infamous Grotto to the dustbin of sexual history.
So if you want the inside story on what it was like to party at the Mansion, you’ll have to read about it—The Best Year Ever is a great start. But first, raise a glass—or a little blue pill—to the swingingest dude of them all—Hugh Hefner. Hef, you were one of a kind. RIP.
