If last year was all about Pam & Tommy (the Disney+ miniseries), 2023 is surely the year that Pamela Anderson reclaims the narrative over her fascinating life story, once and for all.
As a model for Playboy magazine in the early '90s, Anderson embodied a fresh, all-American mode of sexuality; young, blonde, and having the time of her life. Everyone wanted to party with Pamela, and as her fame rocketed – appearing on the cover of Playboy no less than 11 times and starring in Baywatch – they were prepared to go to more extreme lengths for a stake in the action.
In 1996, a sex tape of Anderson and her-then husband, Tommy Lee, was leaked to the public, an incomprehensible act of violence, which later provided the source material for the 2022 miniseries. Anderson's consent was not deemed important enough to stop the distribution of the sex tape or the miniseries, describing the latter as “salt on the wound” (per Variety).
Anderson occupies a peculiar space in the public imagination; her artistry is seemingly inseparable from her sexuality; in turn, her sexuality – or at least the way in which it's perceived – elicits nostalgia for the Hugh Hefner era of Playboy; an uncomfortable association, to say the least. As the founder and editor-in-chief of Playboy magazine, Hefner resided in luxurious mansions alongside his “playmates,” who were often his sexual partners – as well as his employees. In Secrets of Playboy, a documentary about his reign over the brand, former playmates – including Holly Madison and PJ Masten – accused Hefner of grooming, sexual abuse, and coercion.
In an interview with The Times, Anderson identified Hefner as the only person ever to treat her with respect, a hard statement for many of us to reckon with. Still, as she's shown time and time again, Anderson is not in the business of glossing over her edges to appease others.
Here, Pamela shares an extract from her new memoir, Love, Pamela, about that fateful first day at the Playboy mansion (and how Hugh Hefner welcomed her):
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 [Grabowski, Playboy magazine's West Coast photography editor] 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.
Love, Pamela by Pamela Anderson is published by Headline priced £20.00 out today (31st January), available at all good bookshops.
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