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By Andrea Peyser
July 6, 2015

Holly Madison does not deserve our sympathy

If a dame dresses like a tart, imbibes like a stevedore and engages in consensual sex with a man old enough to be her grandfather in exchange for snazzy clothes, a warm bed in a Los Angeles mansion and unlimited boob jobs, what would you call her?

Some of us might use a term that describes a bleached blonde of easy virtue and killer abs whose services are for hire to the highest bidder. But if the “girl” (she refers to herself and other women as infantilized humans) is Holly Madison — formerly Holly Sue Cullen — of Alaska, and the dirty old man lying atop her pink flannel pajama-clad form is Hugh Hefner, she paints herself as a poor, innocent victim.

I feel ill.

Madison, a college dropout and former Hooters waitress, became the No. 1 girlfriend of Hefner, the Playboy Enterprises founder who started Playboy magazine in 1953. Now 35 and married with a 2-year-old daughter, Rainbow, Madison is seeing her fortunes fade with advancing age and lack of talent. So she’s desperately trying to stretch her 15 minutes of fame into a half-hour, writing a tell-all book, “Down the Rabbit Hole: Curious Adventures and Cautionary Tales of a Former Playboy Bunny” (Dey Street).

In it, she describes, in cringe-worthy detail, her first sleepover at the Playboy Mansion in 2001, when she was 21 years old. About to be evicted from her apartment for failing to pay rent, she invited herself to tag along to nightclubs with her soon-to-be sugar daddy and some of his girlfriends, turned down Hef’s offer of a Quaalude, but freely drank vodka and champagne.

She viciously emasculates her host (pictured with her in 2007), describing Hef as a sad senior citizen who was hard of hearing, who bopped without rhythm to the high-decibel club music, and who lived in a decaying spread.

That night, she climbed into Hef’s bed, where the “girls” gathered in matching pink flannel PJs, as Hef preferred, as two large TVs blared pornography. She engaged in a quickie with Hef before he moved on to other females. She disclosed that he always finished the sex act solo.

“I remember feeling really s-?-tty about it the next day,” she said in an interview with The Post’s Maureen Callahan.

A representative for Hefner, now 89, e-mailed me a statement from the man who enticed generations of kids to peep with flashlights under the covers at magazine pictures of naked women. He took the high road.

“Over the course of my life, I’ve had more than my fair share of romantic relationships with wonderful women,” he said. “Many moved on to live happy, healthy and productive lives and, I’m pleased to say, remain dear friends today.

“Sadly, there are a few who have chosen to rewrite history in an attempt to stay in the spotlight. I guess, as the old saying goes: You can’t win ’em all!”

The twice-divorced Hefner has been married since 2012 to Crystal Harris, 29, who left him at the altar a year earlier, telling Howard Stern in a 2011 radio interview that her now-spouse lasted “two seconds” in the sack and that she was “not turned on” by the octogenarian. (The model later said she regretted saying this and blamed her publicist for letting things “get switched and turned around.”)

Madison moved into the Playboy Mansion and worked her way up to become Hef’s main squeeze. She wrote that she had to obey mansion rules, such as seeing no boyfriends other than Hef. But she enjoyed perks, including free plastic surgery, clothes and the use of a high-end hair salon. She appeared in a reality show on the E! network with Hef and the Playmates, “The Girls Next Door.’’

But Madison grew depressed, she writes. After Hef denied her request to see a psychiatrist, she began seeing one behind his back. She walked away from Hef’s lair in 2009 after she got an offer to compete on ABC’s “Dancing With the Stars.” (She lost.)

There are many women and girls who deserve sympathy — females sold as children into marriages with grown men, those forced into sex slavery. Holly Madison schemed and plotted to become a kept woman.

“The only thing he ever gave me is a little bit of fame,” she said.

“Fame is not always worth it.”

What would I call this kind of woman? Harlot? (Worse?)

But, hey — if the flannel pajamas fit . . .