Thrilling to you, Daddy, who are wealthy and have never been desperate for fifty dollars (with which to reclaim a battered secondhand repossessed car), near penniless since you have no employment other than starlet or model, where men call the shots, pay cash and no tips; you, who might if you wish scatter gold coins on the pavement for beggars to scramble after; you, a gentleman of a certain age, class, stature who will adore Marilyn as long as she resembles her young self and never ages. And in this form, as a PlastiPlutoniumLuxe creation, Marilyn is guaranteed to never age.

Can’t blame you, Daddy. No!—never blame you.

For as you age, it’s all the more crucial for you to keep a gorgeous young woman by your side, as a reminder that, though aging, you are (somehow) still young, indeed you are no more than my age, for a woman must be the mirror of a man’s soul, otherwise—who cares for her? Why care for her?

No! I am not being sarcastic. Certainly I am not being shrill.

I am breathless, breathy. My voice is a little-girl voice—feathery soft. You must incline your head to hear. Kingly, you lower yourself to me that you might raise me, a beggar maid in disguise, to your own level.

No one blames you! Of course not—no.

Marilyn understood. Marilyn forgave. Marilyn never blamed Daddy, never blamed her own mystery Daddy, who’d abandoned her mother (and her) when she was a baby, in 1926. Never bitter, Miss Golden Dreams has made a career of the opposite of bitter, for men do not like bitter, and who can blame them?—not Marilyn!

Not bitter that I’d earned millions of dollars for strangers, but not for myself. Not bitter, since I’ve become an icon and a collectible—that’s enough glory for me.

I was the very first Playboy centerfold—in December 1953. Hugh Hefner had seen pictures of me, he had to have me as his first centerfold—guaranteeing success for Playboy—but he never got around to paying me, not a penny.

(Don’t believe me? That Mr. Hefner didn’t give me a penny? See, he’d bought the right to the photograph from the photographer for $500. Not a thing to do with me.)

(Which doesn’t mean that Hugh Hefner wasn’t crazy for me. For sure, he was.)

(Oh, Mr. Hefner was romantic! After I died, he paid $75,000 to purchase the cemetery plot right beside me, and when he died, in 2017, at the age of ninety-one, he was buried there—right beside me. His Marilyn.)

(I know, it’s strange. It’s hard to believe. That Hugh Hefner could be crazy for me, pay $75,000 to be buried beside me, but never pay me a penny for the use of “Marilyn.” You just shake your head, bemused—men!)