This article is adapted from Love, Pamela, by Pamela Anderson, published by HarperCollins. You can watch her new documentary, Pamela, a love story, beginning Jan. 31.
Playboy was an honor
And a privilege,
I never thought of it as immoral or salacious
but the unforeseen downside
was that it
may have set me up.
It was my choice,
I accepted
my fate.
It gave some
people the impetus, sadly,
to treat me
without respect.
But, I was more used to that.
I wasn’t going to be taken down—
I had already survived to this point—
Nothing could hurt me more
Than how I’d already been hurt—
Playboy was empowering—
It helped me in ways I could never articulate—
I took my power back—
I had to—
It was a chance to realize a new life,
A new adventure . . .
WHEN I LANDED IN LA, I WAS READY FOR ANYTHING. I IMAGINED there would be people walking around with parrots on their shoulders, neon palm trees, movie cameras on street corners. The city did not disappoint. I’d arrived on Gay Pride Day, and I couldn’t believe my eyes on the car ride from the airport—the intricate floats, the sky-high wigs, the vivid airbrushed makeup, the electric celebratory music, the glitter everywhere. Sensory overload, a dream. Just another day in the life, I thought.
My first day in LA would color me for the rest of my life. Playboy had put me up at the Bel Age Hotel in Beverly Hills. I wanted to call my mom right away, but I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to use the phone in the room for a long-distance call. I just stared at it. Thankfully, the phone rang, and I picked it up tentatively, like I was on another planet. With an edge of panic, I said, Hello?—in the same voice my mom uses when she answers the phone, like you’re expecting to get bad news. It was only Marilyn, calling to check on me, and to invite me to “fight night” at the Playboy Mansion. I said, Sorry, I’m not comfortable fighting anyone, and asked if I could call my mom. Marilyn assured me that I wasn’t expected to mud wrestle. It was just a small, private party to watch Mike Tyson fight on the big screen—and of course I could call my mom, all I had to do was dial nine to get an outside line.
Mommmmmm! I made it! I screamed into the phone. And then I told her, Not only do gay people exist, they walk around in pink hot pants, handcuffed together, and there is a parade here every day!
And all she could say was, Oh, sweetie, it sounds to me . . . like you’ve arrived!
ON THE ENTIRE PLANE RIDE, I’D HAD A BOOK CLUTCHED IN MY hand, a worn-out secondhand edition of Shirley MacLaine’s Out on a Limb. She spoke a lot of the Bodhi Tree bookstore, the place where her metaphysical journey began, and it was on my LA bucket list. So I couldn’t believe it when I saw her at the Russian tearoom in the hotel. I was staring at her, probably for too long, just to be sure it was her, and we exchanged suspicious looks. She glanced at me sharply, squinting in a way that I knew meant “fuck off.” I looked away, embarrassed.
But I still smiled to myself, taking it as a sign. Synchronicity. I took a breath and ordered anyway. Watching her peripherally was not a crime, and I was starving. The Russian tearoom was the hotel restaurant, where Marilyn had told me I could eat for free—I had never heard of room service. I ordered the borscht, which was a little different from my mom’s, as she didn’t use beets. And yet borscht is beet soup, the waiter assured me . . . strange. Later, while looking out the window of my hotel room, I was sure I saw Rick James getting out of a car, so I started to sing “Super Freak” while getting dressed. As I was stacking what few clothes I had neatly on the bed, I didn’t realize that I was preparing for what would be the rest of my “freaky” life.
That evening, a stretch limo waited at the curb to take me to the Mansion. As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I passed two beautiful men in an embrace, kissing. I said hello and they giggled and pointed. What? I said, and then realized they were pointing at my hair—a Sun In spray experiment gone wrong. My hair was the color of a manila envelope. Honey, one man said, that is not one of God’s colors, and he broke into laughter again. I had to laugh with the guys—but geez. I never intended to be blond, I just wanted sun-kissed highlights. Maybe I shouldn’t have dumped the entire bottle on my perfectly healthy chestnut locks that sunny day at the beach. Sorry, I said, I know it’s bad.
After a brief drive through the winding roads of Holmby Hills, the limo pulled up to the Rock, the security intercom in front of the Playboy Mansion on Charing Cross Road. The Rock spoke: Can I help you? The limo driver said, I have Miss Pamela Anderson. They asked for the color, make, and model of the car and then opened the gate. Once inside, a guard asked for the trunk to be opened and inspected it. I asked the driver if people hid in the trunk sometimes, trying to sneak in. Yes, he said in a matter-of-fact tone. I had been kidding.
The road curved around through perfectly manicured gardens, finally arriving at a circular drive that ringed a spouting fountain. When we reached the top of the driveway, there was a sign, playmates at play. The Mansion itself was like nothing I’d ever seen, a sprawling stone house, more like a castle. Like Disneyland, without the fireworks.
I was dressed in my nicest high-waisted acid-wash jeans and a Metallica T-shirt, little white runners on my feet, ankle socks with the fuzzy balls at the ankles. When I walked in the door, Marilyn greeted me in the foyer and started to make introductions. I wasn’t a pop culture fanatic—I rarely knew the names of people or the names of their characters. Was that Tony Curtis? James Caan? There’s Rambo, surrounded by pretty girls. I met so many people that night, names and faces I slightly recognized—Chachi, Spicoli, maybe, could that be Cher?—a whirlwind of personalities.
As Marilyn gave me a tour, I was taking it all in—the art, the steamy grotto, the game room. Then she led me to a seat at the bar and left me for a bit. She said she wouldn’t be far. I wanted an alcoholic cider, but the bartender didn’t know what I was talking about—too Canadian?—so I blushed and ordered a Coca-Cola instead. The bartender had some good jokes, and I was just starting to feel more at ease when . . . oh my God . . . I looked up to see Mr. Hefner as he came down the stairs smiling in his dark blue smoking jacket. Time felt slowed down as people greeted him. He was right in my line of view, maybe on purpose. He looked toward me, and we smiled at each other. I took a deep breath as he passed through his friends and brushed by gorgeous girls politely. But his energy and charm felt directed toward me. I had to look away—it made my skin burn, such a funny feeling. The inevitable shyness. Well, hello, Pamela, I heard you had an eventful journey, he said, his pipe teetering in his mouth. I loved the smell of the smoke—it comforted me—and the whole effect was enigmatic. He reminded me of a mythological figure. A Methuselah. With liquid eyes, he looked around at the other men in the room and said softly, Marilyn is going to take very good care of you. Don’t worry, darling, you’re safe here. Then he broke into a character, it seemed, and laughed his famous laugh, and said, Oh boy, we’re going to have to keep an eye on you. This felt like the epitome of chivalry, a true gentleman—elegant, passionate, so charming, and yet with that little-boy giggle. It’s hard to explain his laugh, but if you heard it once, you’d never forget it.
In an instant,
he became a caricature—
a trap.
I’d relate to that idea later—
being imprisoned by what people expected
or wanted—
Their fantasy of who I should be,
rudely disappointed
if I didn’t give it to them.
It affected almost all of my relationships—
not just the romantic ones.
The only ones who saw me through it all
were the wild ones,
The unsuspecting ones,
The artists.
Thank heaven for them
or I might not
be here at all.
