Tag Archives: playmate

TOUGH ENOUGH – KELLY’S NEW JOB

Bill Crow, blog, Kelly Tough, Miss October, Playboy, Playboy Magazine, playmate, William Crow, writer, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Posted: February 16, 2021 at 6:28 pm

In this excerpt from Tough Enough, my co-author Kelly Tough sinks deeper into a world of drugs and criminals:

For two years I lived with the manager of the Guildford Station, in an apartment above the bar. Continuing to waitress on amphetamines, I was a textbook functioning addict, barely functioning.

Splitting with the Station’s manager required a new address, so at 34, I moved in with Corey, a Guildford Station regular. Not as his girlfriend, but as Senior Director of Illegal Drug Distribution. Or gopher, however you looked at it. Corey was a hefty guy with a mean streak, long blond hair swept straight back because it thinned on top. His hair often fell forward, so he had the constant habit of jerking his head back and combing hair off his face with his fingers. He often showed kindness, setting up a basement suite for me. I sold cocaine and speed from the house, meeting buyers when Corey was out. It was a constant stream of addicts at the door, and many dangerous situations, but I wasn’t worried; we had an alarm and a safe, bear spray and lots of weapons. Not that I would ever use a weapon. I was also Corey’s mule, transporting drug shipments around town. Sometimes, Corey took me along to visit suppliers or watch him intimidate (well, torture) business associates. Corey liked having a Playmate working for him…everyone wanted to see Corey’s bunny.

Looking back, I now understand moving in with Corey was my tipping point. Not long before Corey, I was married, had a proper home, focussed on being a mom. Everyone in Corey’s world sold drugs or was a drug addict. The people I hung out with were criminals, Surrey underworld figures, biker gang members or members in training. These criminals, or people like them, were the type who took me in when Mum kicked me out at 13. These were people I was comfortable with.

I quit waitressing to work for Corey in the drug trade full-time. He didn’t pay me a salary, but took care of whatever I needed, housing, food, cigarettes, whatever. He also supplied free speed and its nasty younger brother, crystal meth, as much as I could handle, insuring I was constantly high. I wasn’t making pension contributions or planning for my future.

*

“Bunny, you’d be good at making clones,” said Corey. “That’s your new job.” Corey clicked a secret lever at the foot of the stairs, and the staircase rose so we could access the clone room, like Batman’s lair. We ducked our heads going in. Stacked trays of baby pot plants, rows of fluorescent lights, a long counter like the one in Mum’s gardening shed.

“We’ll get Sharon to come over and teach you.”

I loved making clones from day one, and I was great at it. They were my babies and I was the mom. In the windowless clone room, I’d talk to my plants, encouraging them to take root. It was warm and calming in there, like in the womb. Not Mum’s womb, but a womb where you felt safe and appreciated. I took cuttings from larger plants and transferred them to teensy pots. I’d turn my babies, lift them, check on them umpteen times a day. Every time I lifted a plant from its pot and saw a tiny curling root I’d say aloud, “Five dollars! That’s another five dollars.” The illegal pot producers bought as many clones as I could grow.

I could have happily lived at Corey’s place and tended baby pot plants until I died. But with all things related to Corey, money eventually became a bone of contention. After two years I was the best clone maker in Vancouver, but Corey refused to increase my pay.

“It’s only a dollar, Corey,” I said. “A dollar more for every clone. You keep raising your prices, but you pay me the same.”

“Look, Bunny, that’s what it pays. You’ve lived here for free, for three years, you’ve got a great deal. If you don’t like it, go get another fucking job.”

“It’s not fair and you know it. Christ, I’ve had enough of guys walking all over me. Just fucking pay me you cheap bastard!”

Corey simmered for a moment, and quietly said, “That’s it, Bunny. You’re done here. You’re lucky I’m letting you leave with all your fingers. Get the fuck out.”

Homeless, again. I immediately called Manny, a drug dealer I met at Corey’s. Manny owned a grow-op in Surrey, so I hoped we could arrange a work/shelter deal. He had a crush on me, so I wasn’t surprised when he said, “Yeah, you can stay at my place and look after my shit. C’mon over.” That was a relief, because I needed a home and someone to take care of my daily expenses. I offered my clone expertise, not my love or my body, and he seemed OK with that.

Playmate of the Month

blog, , , , , , , ,
Posted: October 11, 2020 at 2:36 pm

In this excerpt from “Tough”, 17-year-old Kelly frets in Vancouver, wondering if Hugh Hefner and the Playboy editorial team will choose her as a Playmate of the Month:

The day of the editorial meeting in LA, I sat in Mum’s kitchen all afternoon. I picked up the phone before its first ring ended, and Mary O’Connor said, “Congratulations Kelly. Your centerfold has been approved.”

“Oh my God, Mary.”

“It wasn’t God who decided. Well, almost. Anyway, we’ll get in touch soon to arrange the rest of your layout shots.”

“Mary, I can’t thank you enough. I’m so excited!”

“I almost forgot. Your money. You get ten thousand when your pictorial is published, but if you want, I can give you partial payment of two thousand now, and eight grand later.”

I’d never seen $2,000 before. “I’ll take the partial payment now, thank you.”

Two days later Federal Express delivered my check, and I told everyone I’d soon move back to Los Angeles to finish my photo spread. After waiting a month, I took a waitressing job I didn’t want. Another month later, those friends happy to know a soon-to-be, real-life Playboy Playmate stopped asking when I would be in the magazine. Instead, they made snide remarks under their breath, just loud enough to hear.

Unsurprisingly, Mum got in on the action. One night when I came home late from work, she was on the couch, watching television. Mum squeezed Otrivin, a nasal spray, into one nostril. She used Otrivin for many years, not knowing she was addicted to its ephedrine. Her eyes looked glassy. “How’s that big job of yours going, Kelly?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I thought it was just temporary. You were moving to LA at any moment.” Another squeeze of Otrivin into a giant sniff.

“I am, Mum. When they call me.”

“It doesn’t look like they’re calling you.”

“What do you want me to do about it? They said they’d call.”

“Did they say that? Or did you just make that up?”

“How can you say that Mum? You know I went to LA.”

“Lots of dreamers go to LA, Kelly. And lots lie when they come back with their tails between their legs.”

“I don’t believe you! Why do you want me to fail? You’ll see.”

“I’m already seeing what I always see.” Mum sprayed her nose once again and raised the volume on the television to end the conversation.

Three months after leaving Los Angeles, I finally admitted to myself Playboy wasn’t going to call. Hef changed his mind, or found someone younger and prettier to bed. It didn’t make sense…he said I was beautiful, flirted with me, and invited me, not anyone else, for a one-on-one. That had to count for something. I thought eventually I’d be Hef’s Number 1, queen of the Mansion, but it seemed he’d forgotten I was alive. That’s why I wasn’t expecting a call one afternoon before I went to work.

“Hi Kelly, this is Micki Garcia from Playmate Promotions. We wanted to ask you something.”

OK, this is it. I’m going to be a Playmate!

“Can you sing?” asked Micki.

I said ‘yes’ without knowing if I could. No one ever told me to stop singing along with the radio, but that didn’t mean I was good. I said ‘yes’ because it was my chance to get back to the Mansion and Hef. I would have said I could juggle while skydiving to return to the Playboy lifestyle.

“Would you be interested in flying down and trying out for the Singing Playmates?” asked Micki.

“Singing Playmates? What’s that?” 

Notorious Outlaw Motorcycle Gang

Bill Crow, blog, cartoon, Kelly Tough, Miss October, Playboy, playmate, Stories, William Crow, writer, writing, , , , , , , , , , ,
Posted: January 17, 2020 at 4:00 pm

It was harder and harder to get the chemicals we needed to make crystal meth. Barrels of ephedrine, we used to be able to get them easy, and they were cheap. Something like $500. But the prices kept going up and up, and then there was a big drug bust, so the prices doubled again. The new cost of one big blue barrel of ephedrine was $60,000, if you could get one. This caused things to be a little dry for crystal meth users (me) and crystal meth cookers (also me). So I wasn’t surprised to hear Jamie discuss his plan at his house with Wrench and Mullet Mike.

The three men crowded around a scarred coffee table, covered in empty bottles, cigarette butts and baggies of various drugs.

“The girl needs to be rescued, Jamie,” said Mullet Mike.

“Yeah,” said Wrench. “The cook’s holding her in that house and she has her kids there too. That cocksucker cook’s gotta pay for that.” 

Jamie fired up a joint and let the smoke wrap around his face a bit before answering. “OK, let’s go get her. And since he’s cooking, and we’ll be there anyway, we’ll just take whatever else he has on hand.” The other two men laughed like Jamie made the best joke ever. “We’ll go tonight. And Bunny, you’re driving.”

I often drove for Jamie’s little capers. Not for what I might get out of it, but just because these guys were my friends. I had my own pickup truck, and I was the only one with a driver’s license. Most of the people I knew had criminal records and were careful because of warrants. They were secretive about where they went, what they were doing. Cars and licenses had too many records attached. And cars were a burden to look after; it was just easier to steal one, or ask me.

About 4am I cut the lights of my truck as I drove the last 100 feet to the meth cook’s house. It was a quiet residential neighbourhood with a primary school down the street and basketball nets on driveways. You would never guess there was a major drug operation going on in that house; it had a garden, and a wicker mailbox, and looked just like the others. Jamie, Wrench and Mullet Mike slipped on balaclavas. They openly carried guns.

“Bunny, you stay here.” Jamie waited for the other two guys to go around the back of the house and then Jamie let himself in the unlocked front door. Unlocked?

There was nothing to do in my truck while I waited. I didn’t understand what could be taking so long. There was no screaming, which was good for a change. I expected that after a few minutes they’d come out with the girl and maybe a couple of bags of crystal meth. I must have nodded off and woke with a start to realize they’d been in the house for a couple of hours. After all that time I still wasn’t worried about what might have happened to Jamie. Nothing ever happened to Jamie. He was the reason bad stuff happened to other criminals.

Jamie walked out the front door and came to the driver’s side window. He was sweating quite a bit. “Bunny, open up the tailgate and the cab. We gotta get this shit out of here.” Jamie returned to the house.

When he next came out, Jamie was struggling, carrying a 50 gallon barrel. Only Jamie could carry a 50 gallon barrel by himself. The other guys carried pails in each hand, something spilling out at each step. By the smell alone, I knew it was wet crystal meth. It had been cooked, but was still in liquid form.

“What the fuck? We’re taking all this?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Jamie. “And there’s more. I figure it’s about a million bucks worth.” Jamie went inside and retrieved three more barrels. When the fourth barrel and several buckets were loaded, Wrench came out of the house holding the hand of a 20-year-old girl. She wasn’t dragged out, but she didn’t look happy to be rescued either. She didn’t look like much of anything, with a vacant, haunted look on her face common with addicts.

“Are you all right? I heard we were supposed to come and get you,” I said. The girl had started crying, and was talking, but it was mostly nonsense. There was something in there about her kids being at her mother’s place, so that made me feel better. The girl looked really worried, and only then I figured out it was an inside job. The story about saving a trapped girl was fake. She was Wrench’s connection, and she must have told him the address and when to come when the cook wouldn’t be there. No wonder the door was unlocked. The girl just realized the consequences of crossing the cook’s boss. 

By the time I pulled away, the sun was up and it was 730 Monday morning. We had to drive the crystal meth to a safe house across town, Pete Woodson’s place, and we were in bumper to bumper rush hour traffic. Every time I came to a stop, some of the crystal meth sloshed onto the floor of the cab. The kind of chemicals you don’t want splashing in your truck: red phosphorus, ephedrine, iodine. The stink was overwhelming and I worried the other drivers could smell it from their cars too. It’s not like we were racing past each other; there were drivers right beside me, sitting still in traffic. If I got caught there, I was in big trouble with the cops. My car, my name, I’m done.

The girl looked like she had been up for days, which wasn’t unusual for a crystal meth addict. She continued to cry, so I said, “It’s OK, we’re going to a safe house, right? We’ll go somewhere where no one will know where we are.” 

As soon as we got to Pete’s place across town, and carried the crystal meth into the house through the garage door so no one would see, I asked Jamie for my cut.

“Sure, Bunny, sure,” Jamie said. “You can have this.” Jamie threw me a small package.

“An eight-ball? All you’re giving me is an eight-ball? I don’t want that. I want money.” An eight-ball is 3.5 grams of drugs, worth about 100 dollars.

“That’s what you’re getting,” said Jamie. “If you want money, you can just sell that.” I didn’t want to complain too much because there was lots of crystal meth in that house, and I knew that by hanging around, I could use it for free. Even though we had all been up all night, we immediately began putting the wet crystal meth in filters and drying it. We’d only know how much we had when it was all dry, which would take a couple of days.

No sooner was it dry, the owner of the stolen crystal meth discovered who had his product. Neither the owner nor the thief were happy to discover the identity of the other.

“The Notorious Outlaw Motorcycle Gang?” asked Jamie. “We stole a million bucks of meth from the Notorious Outlaw Motorcycle Gang?”

“Yeah,” said Pete. He had come to the house because the Notorious Outlaw Motorcycle Gang asked him to be their go-between with Jamie. Normally they’d just kill whoever crossed them, but since it was Jamie, they needed a different approach. “I can tell you they weren’t too pleased to hear it was you, either. You know they’re afraid of you.”

“They might be afraid, but they won’t let me just keep it. What a fuckin’ mess.” Jamie flopped onto the couch and crossed his motorcycle boots on the coffee table.

“I was talking to their guy, and he was shitting too, because it was you,” said Pete. “But he tried to act all brave like, and he said if you just give back the twenty keys you stole, they’ll let you off. They won’t kill you.”

“Twenty keys?” asked Jamie. “They want back their twenty keys?”

“Uh-huh. That’s what the cook said he had when you got there.”

Jaime let out a howl. “Those fuckin’ cooks. They all lie. He had thirty keys. He planned to sell ten on the side, I bet. He probably does that every batch. Sure, I’ll give them twenty keys back. I’ll just keep the other ten, and the boys will never fuckin’ know.”

Kelly and Dorothy

blog, cartoon, comic, Hef, Hugh Hefner, Kelly Tough, Miss October, Playboy, Playboy Magazine, playmate, tough,dorothy stratten,smoking,cigarette,playmate,playmate of the year, writer, writing, , , , , , , , , ,
Posted: November 14, 2019 at 4:57 pm

Coincidentally, Kelly Tough (Miss October 1981) went to school with Dorothy Stratten (Playmate of the Year 1980). Dorothy was murdered by her jealous husband at just 20. In my next excerpt from “Tough,” Kelly and Dorothy build their friendship:

“The walls in my school weren’t smooth; stacked cinder blocks, thickly painted white so you could still see the outlines of each brick. There were posters for the weekend dance and flyers for school clubs I would never join, stick-tacked to the walls. I walked alone in the corridor, and caught a faint wisp of smoke. We were only allowed cigarettes in the smoke pit outside, but I could tell someone was smoking in the girls’ restroom. I really, really needed a cigarette, and thought maybe I could bum one. 

Even before I pushed the heavy restroom door, the kind with an oblong steel plate instead of a doorknob, I heard the giggly chit-chatter of several girls. As I entered, three faces turned my way and all talking stopped. I knew these three: in my head I called them the Milk Bone Girls, the ringleaders of the dog-biscuit-throwing gang which included my sister. They hadn’t thrown anything at me for years, and now, in high school, the power balance had shifted. I was now known at school as wild, undisciplined with no parental supervision, kind of a badass. At 14, I had the fully developed body of a woman, and the interest of the older boys. I made the Milk Bone Girls look (and feel) like children in comparison. All three girls lowered their gaze and made a beeline toward the door, which I still held open. As the last former bully shuffled past, I lunged at her with just my head, the rest of my body immobile. She flinched, and a flush of satisfaction washed over me.

The source of the smoke sat amidst the sink pipes under the restroom counter. Dorothy Hoogstraten was a girl I knew since kindergarten. She sat under the sinks when she smoked because she didn’t want to get caught; I never understood how sitting under there would help. Dorothy wore what she wore for years, a pale blue ski jacket with white trim. I expect she wore it so long because her family was poor, her mom raising her and her siblings alone. She had long strawberry hair, and never used makeup because she didn’t need it or didn’t care. Just like me, she attracted the attention of boys, but never got asked out. I didn’t want to get asked out…I knew what sex was and I didn’t want anything to do with that.

“Hey,” said Dorothy.

“Hi. Can I have a drag?”

“Yeah.”

I crawled down beside her, not for the first time. We often shared cigarettes under there, sometimes hers, sometimes mine, whoever could scrounge them. We weren’t really friends, just cig buddies. We mostly sat together in silence, but neither of us said much in school either. Dorothy had been shy and guarded since kindergarten. I rarely talked to kids at school because my life was different; I wasn’t doing homework and watching Starsky & Hutch at night like them. I worked in night clubs until 3am. How could my classmates relate to that? 

Just two loners, sitting under the counter, passing a cigarette back and forth. Even though we weren’t close, Dorothy was never one of the bad people, never one of the bullies. She knew what the bullies had done to me for years. I was comfortable sharing a cigarette with her, comfortable sitting under the counter with her, comfortable not talking. The closest person I had to being a true friend who wasn’t a friend at all. I couldn’t imagine then how this quasi-friendship would play out in the future.”

Excerpt from “Tough”

blog, Kelly Tough, Miss October, Playboy, Playboy Magazine, playmate, Stories, , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Posted: September 21, 2019 at 3:42 pm

In the upcoming book I’m writing with Kelly Tough (Miss October 1981), Kelly recalls some childhood trauma:

Sitting in the middle row of my Grade Two classroom, trying to be invisible. The cool kids sat in the back and the keeners in the front, and I was neither of those. For the thousandth time I stared blankly at the alphabet row above the blackboard, 26 squares, each with a capital and lower case letter, and a picture of something that started with that letter. Apple to zebra, except the ‘P’ was missing because Brian Castel stole it and drew a penis on the other side and the teacher caught him trying to sneak it back into place. School was torture for several reasons. I was the new kid, and on welfare, and the other kids never let me forget it. I had blotchy skin and stringy hair. It didn’t help that Dawne, a year behind me in school, was pretty while I was ugly,  smart while I struggled. The fact that Dawne was also new and on welfare didn’t seem to register with anyone. The kids chose me as the weaker sister and aimed all their teasing and abuse my way, progressively worse each day.

I had mixed emotions as the recess bell rang. I liked to play tetherball, depending on who played that day. The game could take a nasty turn in a flash. By the time I got to the tetherball pole at the back of the playground, I could see most of my usual tormentors, including my sister,  already assembled. I turned on my heel to escape, but too late; I’d been spotted. Uh-oh.

“Hey, Smelly Kelly, where’re you going?, said one of the girls from Grade Three. Most of the girls called me Smelly Kelly because I have a brown birthmark the size of a nickel on my ankle; the kids decided it looked like a plop of poo. “Don’t you want to play with us?”

The situation looked grim, but it would be worse to refuse. “Uh, yeah.” I shuffled up to the group and hoped they’d forget I was there.

Tetherball at my school was based on the pyramid system. There was one kid at the top, then two kids at the next level, then three at the next. No matter how many levels there were, I was predictably on the bottom. When it was my turn to play, I always had to battle the girl at the top of the pyramid, Marcie McCormack. She was two grades ahead of me, bulky and mean. Marcie bullied me the most, and tetherball afforded her another opportunity to humiliate me. She pounded that ball so it swung on its rope so fast it was impossible to hit back. All I could see was a white blur as I pathetically stabbed everywhere the ball wasn’t. Marcie was setting me up for her standard move, one I fell for every time. With her most vicious and powerful blow, she smashed the ball so it swung directly at my temple, knocking me to the ground. 

I lay with one side of my face in the dirt, pebbles pressing into my cheek. 

One of Marcie’s henchwomen bent over and poked me in the ribs to see if I was dead.

“That was a big mistake, Karen,” said a girl out of my view. “You just touched Smelly Kelly. Now you have fleas!”

“No way! Look!” Karen rolled up her sleeve and I knew what was there without looking. She had ‘SFP’ written in blue ink on her forearm, a practice that had spread thorough the school like wildfire. Super Flea Protection. With this indelible safeguard, Karen could touch me without receiving a flea infestation. 

As the girls erupted in laughter, I saw Dawne with my one available eye, pointing at where my t-shirt had risen slightly.

“I’m telling Mum, I’m telling Mum, you’re not wearing an undershirt!”, said Dawne.

“Shut your face, Dawne,” I screamed.

“An undershirt?”, said Marcie. “Only little kids, and poor people wear undershirts!” The girls howled.

“I’m telling M…” Before Dawne could finish her threat, I lunged at her, grabbed her hair, and pulled her to the dirt. We wrestled and punched and scratched, making non-human screeches like racoons. The crowd egged us on, but I rolled off of Dawne when she started crying. I rose slowly, hoping the bell would ring. Someone pushed Marcie into me but I didn’t fall.

“You pushed me, Smelly Kelly,” said Marcie.

“No I didn’t. You pushed me.” I knew that was a mistake, but either way I was doomed. Marcie said nothing, a thin smile on her lips. With one hand she grabbed my hair, and with the other, the collar of my jacket. She swung me around in a circle a couple of times like the Olympic hammer throw and let go. I flew through the air, bounced in the dirt and rolled twice. The bell rang and the girls, including Dawne, giggled as they walked past me. 

I thought my ordeal for the day was over. When I entered the school, covered in dirt and dust, Marcie jumped from behind a pillar and punched me with all her might in the shoulder. Just a regular recess.

 I watched the hands of the wall clock slowly inch ahead the rest of the afternoon while Miss Lawson droned on about times tables and division. It seemed like a waste of time since I wasn’t planning on multiplying or dividing anything when I was older; I turned my brain off so it wouldn’t get full of stuff I’d never need. I awoke from this dreamlike state when the bell rang and the floor squealed from 30 chairs sliding away from desks. Everyone talked at once, well, 29 children talked at once, chattering about their plans after school. Children  grouped in twos and threes to walk home together, to hang out at each other’s houses until dinnertime, where moms made them hot chocolate and peanut butter cookies. There weren’t any moms making hot chocolate at my house. I held my spiral binder close to my chest and walked alone, hoping the kids would forget about picking on me for the rest of the day.

On the way home, I usually stayed off the main streets as much as possible, even though this made the walk longer. I thought no one knew I used a long alley past the school, but something whizzed close past my head. Did someone just throw a rock at me? A rock ambush wouldn’t be unusual. The next missile hit my cheek and rebounded to my feet. It wasn’t a rock, but a dog biscuit. A Milk Bone dog biscuit because I was a dog. A dog with fleas, if recess was any indication. As I examined the biscuit, a volley of ten or twenty biscuits bombarded me from behind a peeling wooden fence. And another volley. Not as painful as the rocks I often endured, but those biscuits were still hard enough to sting. The real sting, however, came from the barks and muffled laughter of several girls behind the fence.  Dawne’s pink scrunchie, the one Mum bought her at Value Village but told her was new, bobbed above the fence’s top.