Another white limo drove me on La Brea for miles. At a stop light, suddenly the door opened and I was joined in the backseat by Playboy figurehead Hugh Hefner. He was wearing his customary silk smoking jacket over pajamas and in the dark-tinted light of the back seat I could barely see the scars along his jawline from his many face lifts. Heff's voice was a rasp on wood. The Playboy brand is suffering from dilution.
Boobs are no more titillating than a shoulder or a kneecap.
The erotic is defined by context. I can't keep it up with these twins forever, it'll kill me. I need The Ring to fan the pro-monogamy flame, against which Playboy can stand in defiant opposition. It was a deal with the devil. I trusted my instincts.