It's fitting that the only nudity The Enabler saw on our first trip to the Playboy Mansion was a lone fat dude in tighty-whiteys yelling for a pack of frightened bottle blonds to join him in the grotto's hot tub. This is a column about dashed expectations, so we hope all you 12-year-old boys are sitting down for this: The dream is over.

There's a stratum of folk at the fringes of the entertainment and media industries who at some point will be invited to Hugh Hefner's mansion for a PR junket. The Enabler went courtesy of Byblos, a hotel in St. Tropez we could never, ever afford.

After an intentionally roundabout shuttle ride, we arrived at the backyard of Chez Hef greeted not by mustachioed louts and topless Midwestern coeds, but all the trappings of L.A. post-yuppiedom: sushi, weak cocktails and scary Russians.

The Enabler finagled our way into the renowned stone grotto of adolescent myth and witnessed a bearded businessman in a suit all over a plump diva in a strapless gown.

But aside from the portly guy in his BVDs, nobody got into the pool or pulled any real shenanigans, apart from purging in the bathroom and singing along to "Summer Nights." Corporate event or not, we had to mourn what was -- to our suburban pre-teen minds -- the Babylon of Los Angeles. Next time, we're going commando.



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