Here is a truth: I have never purchased a Playboy magazine. Don't get me wrong, I have looked at a lot of them.
I even read a few.
My room back at the fraternity had a huge collection of Playboys and similar ilk. The box came with the room. Of course I perused, I was a 19 year-old guy attending an all-male college. Duh.
Back in those salad days of my youth my fraternity pledge brothers and I embarked on a long weekend road trip. We ended up at The Playboy Club in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. One of the guys' father had a membership key, so we headed over in small groups. The rest of us settled down in a local bar. Since one had to dress in decent clothing to go to the Club, we took turns showering in the single motel room we rented for thirteen guys.
The Playboy Club was opulent. The women were beautiful beyond imagination. The bouncers were huge, ex NFL-types ready to break a miscreant college boy in half for even thinking about pulling on that cute little bunny tail. I remember an old guy doing magic tricks at our table. I remember our waitress was remarkably flat-chested for a Playboy Bunny. Mostly I remember that a beer cost five bucks. That does not seem so outrageous now, but in 1980 you could buy an entire case of beer for not much more than that. Individually and collectively we poor college kids decided the scenery wasn't worth the cost and sauntered back to the cheap roadhouse down the road to get uproariously drunk.
The Playboy Club adventure was just part of a crazy road trip that included peeing on the shoulder of the Dan Ryan, getting tossed from a hotel, punching a dog, and evacuating a fraternity house on fire in the middle of the night.