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When Hugh Hefner opened the first Playboy Club in Chicago in 1960, Dwight Eisenhower was in the White House, a woman’s place was in the home, and nice girls didn’t go to bars unescorted.Hefner’s seemingly harebrained scheme in that stuffy age was to dress pretty waitresses in tightly cut one-piece bathing suits, put floppy ears on their heads, pin fluffy white tails on their derrieres and call them “bunnies.” Then he used his magazine relentlessly to promote them as alluring symbols of sex and success, the twin goddesses in his hedonistic cosmology.

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But my God, nobody told me Hugh Hefner could barely get up.

On a low chair in the yellow gloaming of his oak-panelled study, Hefner, 84, is staring intently at the ceiling, and not in a good way. Apparently he ricked his lower back during a four-person orgy in the early 1980s and has been chaise-longue-avoidant ever since.

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Only spicy women fucked in the trailer park and made to please their man in smashing modes.It seems impossible now to look at the logo without thinking of an automobile air freshener. On the wall hang a pair of Hugh Hefner’s silk pajamas as well as his silk robe, a pair of his slippers and one of his pipes, all framed in Lucite, like the relics of a saint.Innumerable photos of Hef with bunnies and Hef with celebrities and Hef with Hefself contribute to the shrinelike atmosphere – love me, love my club.Walking downstairs to the Club itself you pass framed Playboy covers of the past, covers you probably remember: Here are the Girls of Russia, the Girls of Canada, the Girls of the Riviera.The covers inspire a wistful affection as emblems of your innocent youth, when women were pictures.At the foot of the stairs, you see your first bunny, a broad-shouldered, bleach-blond woman with tanned, muscular arms and an extraordinarily, in fact bizarrely, thin waist cinched into her black satin bunny bodice.

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