Turkish Delight, Hugh Hefner and the Playboy Club

…Over a drink, he told me that his name was Adhem Sulieman. He was an aerospace engineer working for Boeing; he lived in Queens; he was unmarried and just wanted to live a fabulous life. I asked him why he’d come to America from Turkey, knowing nothing whatsoever about his country. He explained that when the money given to Turkey from the Truman Doctrine and the Marshall Plan began to run out, the prime minister had turned to Moscow to get some Communist funding. That had infuriated the Generals who were American-oriented, and so there’d been a bloody coup, with lots of people sacked from the Army, the Judiciary and Academia. And many had lost their heads in bloody executions. So Adhem had decided that he’d clear out, and live in a country which didn’t execute its leaders. I didn’t remind him that this was precisely what an American had just done to President Kennedy.

And so our conversation continued. Talking to Adhem was so easy and uncomplicated and utterly delightful. He was witty, charming and graceful, both in mind and in body. Talking with him was so different from talking with Bill Hudson.

For the life of me, I can’t remember seeing my girlfriend again that evening, nor how I got home, nor thanking Ethel for looking after my kids, nor feeding them breakfast the following day, nor working at Bloomingdales any time that week. I know I must have done all these things, but I just can’t remember. All I can recall is that my brain was flooded with images of Adhem and the wondrous night we’d spent dancing.

And on our third date, while I was talking to him about how difficult life was for a single mom, Adhem said to me, “Y’know darling, you should become a Playboy Bunny. With your beautiful face and knockout body, I’m sure they’d take you.”

“Playboy? What’s Playboy?” I asked.

Remember, this is 1963 and Playboy was just getting known. I certainly hadn’t heard of the clubs, nor the bunnies, and the name Hugh Hefner, or Hef as he was known to everybody in the know, was unknown to me.

“You’ve never heard of Bunnies?” he said, surprised by my naiveté.

I sipped my drink, and said, “Only bunnies I’ve heard of are chocolate bunnies I buy my kids at Easter time.”

Adhem burst out laughing. “Oh…chocolate bunny. That’s good. Really good. If you go for an interview at the Playboy Club, the one they’ve recently opened on 59th street, you should use that. Tell them that you’re applying for a job as Hef’s latest Chocolate Bunny.”

He thought it was hilarious. I had no idea what he was talking about. But I trusted him, and so one day soon after, he picked me up from my job at Bloomingdales, and drove me across town to the Playboy Club. It had already been opened for a year, and was close to where I worked.

Somewhat dubious, a bit nervous and totally unused to the plush and luxurious surroundings of the place, I was shown into the office where Keith Hefner, Hugh’s brother, was sitting behind an enormous teak desk, with a stack of files and photos spread all over the surface. He looked at me, and I could see that he was a bit surprised. Every other girl there, girls applying for positions as Bunnies, were tall and blond or redhead or brunette with glowing white skin.

And in I walk, diminutive, straight from Bloomingdales in my navy pencil straight skirt and cream colored blouse, my hair tidy but not done up properly, flat shoes because I’d been standing in heels all day and my legs were tired, and walking across the floor of his office as if I was there unwilling, being interviewed on sufferance. The other girls, all gorgeous and who today would be described as ‘Barbie-like’, must have sashayed across, showing off tits and ass and looking alluring.

Me? I didn’t know how to strut my stuff, and the only showing off I’d done in the past three years was to cook a beautiful evening meal. But I walked across towards him, like a Bloomingdales sales woman, not able to strut, even if I had wanted to.

But Adhem had told me what to say to capture their attention. I sat in the chair, even before he’d invited me to, gave him my most devastating smile, and said in the most confident voice I knew how, “Hi Mr. Hefner, I’m Francine, and I’m your Chocolate Bunny.”

He looked up from his files, stared me in the face, and burst out laughing.

“Say that again,” he said.

And I repeated it, but with a different intonation, so that it didn’t sound like a line I’d learned for a school play.

“Chocolate Bunny. Oh, that’s good, Francine. Very good. Keep up that attitude, and we’ll both make money. Ok, you’re hired. Come back tomorrow for a costume fitting and you can start the Bunny Training Classes immediately.”

And that was it. I was hired. And so began a long and beautiful friendship between me and Playboy.

But two weeks later, after I’d quit Bloomingdales for a new, exotic and rewarding career, I nearly brought my whole world crashing down around my feet.

Yep, I failed Bunny School.

Not because of brains, beauty or bravura!

Not because of poise, purpose and persistence.

I failed because I couldn’t sashay like the rest of the intake of tall, languidly beautiful, voluptuous and erotic girls. You’d think that training to be a Bunny was easy, wouldn’t you? Well, you’d be wrong. Just because a Playboy Bunny looked at ease carrying trays of drinks and food to tables, gliding their way around a room and mincing their tight little asses from ogling customer to customer, doesn’t for one minute mean that it was easy.

Most of the girls had natural rhythm, height and the poise of a catwalk model. I had rhythm and poise, but not the strength, to balance a heavy tray on one hand held high above my head while maneuvering around happy and celebrating men in a smoky atmosphere where I was looking like bait on the end of a fishhook. The truth is that despite the fact that we were deliberately dressed seductively, very few men were overt and rude; in fact, most of the men who entered the Playboy clubs were in awe of us, and tended to treat us like porcelain dolls. DM

‘The Chocolate Bunny — The life and loves of Francesca Emerson’ is available for R280.00 from Bridge Books.