TOO FAT TO FIT IN? My life as a size 18 Playboy Bunny
How does it feel to be the biggest Playboy Bunny on the casino floor? Cosmopolitan’s Catriona Innes dons ears and a tail to find out… ›
The year is 1998 and I’ve just bought my first Playboy T-shirt. I am 13 years old. My grandma says I am “yet to lose my puppy blubber”, and an uncle tells me it’s a “shame I’m not as slim as my sister”. The boys who sit behind me in biology class are blunter: I am fat.
Fat girls can’t wear Playboy T-shirts. This black, sleeveless item – with ‘PLAYBOY’ spelled out in rhinestones – is the latest piece of clothing that, according to them, I am not allowed to wear. Before this came the denim shorts, and the diamanté thong that I proudly displayed pulled out from underneath a pair of low-slung lightblue jeans (hey, it was the late ’90s). I threw all those garments to the back of my wardrobe and replaced them with less attention-grabbing items… and an overwhelming sense that life would be much easier if I were thinner.
I’m thinking of this now, as I stand in a black basque on the casino floor of The Playboy Club. I’ve got one foot in front of the other, my hand resting on a newly carved waist. Perching on my bum is a fluffy white tail, and my name is emblazoned proudly on the white cuffs that curl around my wrists. What would those boys see?
This, I should say, is not a weightloss story. I did not shed dress sizes to prove those boys wrong. Beneath the corset lies a body that may have grown up, but has never slimmed down; almost two decades have passed and I’ve not really lost my blubber. My measurements say I’m a size 16 (or 18, depending on the brand), but I don’t consider myself fat. Some people might. When mannequins my size (and that of the UK average) were introduced in shops, chief medical officer Sally Davies said they made “obesity acceptable”. And my BMI certainly categorises me as that.
So yes, I do still think, occasionally, life would be easier if I were thinner – mostly when standing under fluorescent changing-room lights.
But, slowly, society is beginning to call out the idea that your size dictates what you can (and can’t) wear. Or indeed what you do with your life. Professions once considered out of bounds for the plus-sized are opening up – personal trainers, lifeguards, yoga instructors, ballerinas and models strutting our catwalks. Even Barbie now comes in three ‘curvier’ sizes.
Which is why I found myself not so much ‘pouring,’ but ‘squidging’ my body into what is probably the most ‘fat-girls-can’t-wear-that’ outfit of all time: the Playboy Bunny costume. It’s no secret that Bunnies in the ’60s, when the first Playboy Club opened, were expected to meet incredibly strict image guidelines: they were weighed before every shift, and if they gained even a pound, their job was at risk.
Over time, this meant that what was once seen as glamorous became tacky and outdated. One by one, the clubs began to close; now only a few remain, including a casino and cocktail bar here in London. It’s at this Mayfair joint that I find myself essentially auditioning to join the Bunnies – the brand is on the cusp of a revival (a New York club is set to open later this year) and I’m intrigued to find out if, like Mattel, they’re willing to ditch their old beauty standards and embrace the new.
I start by learning what Head Bunny Natalie is looking for. There are more than 70 Bunnies on her rota, working in one of two roles. I could be a ‘Bunny Valet,’ clad in red, serving food and cocktails. Or train to be a croupier, clad in black and overseeing the bets (some run into millions) on blackjack and roulette tables. The latter involves excellent maths skills. I proudly tell her I know my three and five times tables… turns out I’d need to learn eight, 11, 17 and 35 as well. Oh.
The one thing she is not looking for is a particular body shape or size. She seems slightly bored by my question as to whether I could be a bigger Bunny. She says there already are a few working in the club. I look around: I can’t see any. I’m perching on a wide, red leather chair, which makes me sit like a king (and crave a cigar), and I feel like I’ve been transported back in time as I watch Bunny ears float past me, complete with little black uniforms, pristine collars and cuffs – and, of course, those famed perfect
proportions: tiny waists, breasts as round and firm as bagels and long, long legs. But, still, Natalie says I have what it takes. I’m hired.
EARNING MY EARS
The ‘Bunny Hutch’ – a bubblegumpink room with grey crushed-velvet seats and Hollywood-style lighted vanity mirrors – is where the Bunnies prepare for their shifts. It’s also where Feyi, the in-house seamstress, spends her days either creating themed outfits for special events (in October, the Bunnies wear pink for Breast Cancer Awareness, and at New Year, they dressed up like gold glitter balls), or adjusting the existing costumes, depending on weight fluctuations.
“Just after Christmas is my busiest time,” she tells me, her hair turning from black to electric-blue to purple, depending on how the light catches it.“The girls come in and say,‘Feyi, have you adjusted my costume? Made it smaller?’ Yeah, right! Because I love to make more work for myself!”
On the door, just before you leave to start your shift, is a mirror with the outline of a ‘Perfect Bunny’ on it. Rules include: ears should be worn at all times (‘human’ ears should not be shown), make-up should include foundation, blusher, smoky eyes and false lashes, and your costume must be clean and well-fitting.
I’m here to become my version of that ideal: Feyi is creating for me, like she does for all new Bunnies, a custom-made costume. I look at myself in the mirror. How will she manage? My body seeps out from the outline. This feeling of doubt, I’m told, is what every Bunny goes through.“All the new Bunnies will say, ‘I need a boob job,’ or ‘I need to lose weight,’” she says. “But then they see themselves in the costume…”
Feyi speaks in her own special language: my waist is being “snatched” and the special control tights (of which, guidelines insist, I must wear two pairs) will “schlerp” me in, she says. At one point, she tells me, “I’m just going to move your waist here,” as if it were a cup of coffee, and she was moving it to another place where it wouldn’t spill.
Over the course of three-and-a-bit hours, she becomes my new favourite person: somehow, despite standing in just a pair of tights, surrounded by beautiful naked women (at one point, there’s a perfectly pink nipple
“On the door is a mirror with the outline of a ’Perfect Bunny’ on it”