Sunday, November 11, 2007

Screw Kinsey

I drove all the way to Indiana to meet with Dr. Alfred Kinsey. It took me three days. Perhaps that sounds impressive to you, but it certainly didn't bowl them over at the institute. In fact, I was denied an audience with His Sexual Majesty several times over the course of the next two days. And it's all because of Lisabet and her big mouth.

I'm so furious right now, I can't even write any smut.

And if I can't write it and Lisabet isn't allowed to write it, Amalgamated is about to fall behind in order fulfillment. Plus, when I got back to the office, I learned that Jen Cross is going through another one of her dry spells, and has fled to her mountain cabin for two weeks. She usually comes back fairly rejuvenated but who the hell has two weeks to wait for that to happen? I've either got to hire a new writer -- or give in to Marilyn's persistent pleading and finally allow her to pen a story.

No. I won't do it. She's not going to win me over with that relentless niceness. If she wants to write so bad, why doesn't she have her daddy buy off some editor at a big publishing house?

Chris reminded me that Liz Coldwell is available. She's finished her Burlesque of Yesteryear Tour and can give us some time. Well, hot dog! Liz is a hoot -- just a great gal who's been around the block a few times, and loves to weave her own wild past into the stories she writes. She once fucked the living daylights out of Dwight Eisenhower and Winston Churchill simultaneously while they were backstage at some ceremony where she was to pop out of a cake. Can you believe it? She claims Churchill is hung like a horse.

I just called her and she's on her way now. Thank goodness. She'll be just the infusion of life Amalgamated needs at the moment, although I'll really have to make sure she doesn't regale the staff too much with all her old stories. Although if she's got one or two about Dr. Kinsey, I'm all ears. Voyeuristic bastard.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

I prefer stories to people


When I think about the idiocy that surrounds me, it's little wonder that any work gets done at all here at Amalgamated.

First, it turns out that Jonny was away from his desk when Dr. Kinsey came to visit. Lest you think that I begrudge any employee a simple bathroom break or a quick smoke, let me tell you that Jonny was not engaged in either of those activities. Rather, it seems that Greg had challenged him to a splooge-shooting contest on the roof, and that's where he was. For two hours. (Yes, that's a lot of splooge but Jonny is a big guy...)

And so I reprimanded Jonny. Had he been a staff writer, I would have used the paddle, but because he's merely a receptionist, I spoke sternly. I think a paddle would only serve to titillate the guy, anyway.

Jonny was suitably contrite and so I moved on to my next order of business, even though I'm certain the building management will be on my ass about the incident. I may have to get Marilyn to clean it up.


Next, I tried to reach the Kinsey people. I got the run-around, as you might expect from a sex research group who probably spends most of its time hanging up on 14-year-old boys calling to find out what everybody is wearing and who they might be fucking. I left several messages, none of which were returned. Today, however, I received a letter from Alfred Kinsey himself:

Dear Ms. Vivant,

I dropped in on your intriguing place of business recently and would love to have talked with you but your employees could not locate you. I spent an enlightening hour with Ms. Lisabet Sarai, who supplied me with copious amounts of information, not the least of which was that you encourage sexual exploration among your staff.

Initially, I was encouraged by this news. Rarely in American business do we see such an open, permissive policy. Of concern, however, was Ms. Sarai's explanation of that policy. When I learned that you discourage emotional connections between your employees, I realized that perhaps your establishment was nothing more than a house of ill repute, in which case, it would not qualify for further consideration in my next research effort.

I hope you will understand my decision. Best wishes in your erotica-writing pursuits.

Sincerely,
Alfred Kinsey


Immediately upon reading the letter, I spanked Lisabet mercilessly. Never have I imposed discipline quite so vigorously! Turns out, however, that her screams were actually requests for more, and so I stopped. I sent her home and I've told her I don't want to see her in the offices again until further notice.

I've decided to just go to the Kinsey Institute myself and save this situation. Wish me luck. I'll write again from there.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

When Kinsey calls


I'll return to our tour soon, but I wanted to update you on where things stand with the Kinsey people.

To my amazement, Alfred Kinsey came to the Amalgamated offices on the very day that Greg had Donna tied up. I know this because Lisabet wasted no time in telling me -- the moment Dr. Kinsey left the premises.

Of course, Lisabet thought he was reporter or a federal investigator. This suspicion inspired her to spill her guts to the man.

LISABET: So I don't know who he is and he was very mysterious about who sent him here, but I answered all his questions.

ME: Lisabet, I thought you understood that staff is to refer all visitors to me.

(This is not the first time Lisabet has been all too willing to divulge Amalgamated secrets to strangers. Or nasty, narrow-minded assholes who are looking for reasons to shut my business down and make it an example of God's indignation toward sexual activity outside marriage.)

LISABET: Oh, I'm sure he was fine, although he did take a lot of notes.. It's not like we're doing anything illegal here, are we?

ME: You're lucky this time, Lisabet. Dr. Kinsey is a world-renowned sex researcher and wants to interview me for his next book. What did you tell him?

(At this news, she is visibly disappointed and can barely look me in the eye.)

LISABET: Well, he asked me about the sex acts that occur here in the building and who is engaged in them. He got curious when he saw Donna tied up, I guess. And Greg was massaging her breasts, I think. Anyway, I told him that you're a great boss and that you encourage us to fuck one another whenever we're facing writer's block. And I made sure to tell him your policy about employees who fall in love.

ME: And so he was left with the impression that sex goes on between employees and that I discourage emotional connections.

LISABET: Oh yes. I made sure he understood that Amalgamated reflects your own personal views on relationships.

ME: And where did you get information? I never said that, nor did I give any employee reason to believe it. Lisabet, I really feel you misrepresented me as well as Amalgamated in your disclosures to Dr. Kinsey. Considering that you were never given permission to speak on my behalf, I'm afraid I'm going to have to put you on formal warning. No stories for you for one week. You will assist Chris in whatever administrative tasks he has.

She's furious, of course, but I am beside myself. It wouldn't surprise me if Dr. Kinsey removes me from consideration for his book. I need to get in touch with him immediately if I'm going to save this opportunity. Damn Lisabet.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

All about Greg


I've mentioned Greg Wharton a few times on these pages, and I've probably provided sufficient context clues for you to conclude that the man is a hound. But let me take this opportunity to give you his full story, so you won't be left guessing when I write about him in the future.

I don't care what kinds of rumors you've heard to the contrary -- Greg is a certified rascal. Please do not think me unkind when I describe him that way. He is proud of his conquests and believes that they inspire his writing. Based on what I've seen him produce at Amalgamated, I'd be hard-pressed to disagree with him.

He is the epitome of charm. It is impossible to dislike him. Even though his portfolio was rather sparse when I interviewed him, I found him completely delightful. He flirted with me mercilessly, which rarely endears me to a job candidate, and yet I could do nothing but hire him by the end of the interview. Now, I did look at his writing samples and believed them to be good, but they played only a partial role in my decision to make him a staff writer.

Prior to working at Amalgamated, Greg sold anarchist materials from the back of his truck. I'm not kidding. It was a small press, obviously, but it did well, mostly because of the incongruity of his charm against the incendiary subject matter he peddled. He never got arrested because nobody believed he could be anything but a good, patriotic, football-playing American. I'd call it a disguise, but it isn't: this affable but lecherous guy is a true original. (And frankly, I think he's still selling his books after hours. I don't ask and he doesn't tell.)

Since he's been here, Greg has slept with five different female writers (four of which are still employed here), two men, and flirted with just about everybody. Jonny reported to me recently that he saw Greg jerking off on the roof, just for kicks, and although I have no qualms about employee orgasms on company property, I do need to remind Greg that our neighbors may not be so open-minded.

I provide ample orgasm spaces here at Amalgamated and he'll have to restrict his sploogisms to those areas. I'll speak to him tomorrow about it.

What's that? You're wondering why Greg has chosen to work at Amalgamated rather than become a gigolo? The health benefits are much better here, I think.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

Method writing?


Just as I was leaving the lounge area, I happened upon this scene.

In a normal office, such an image would be cause for alarm. Not at Amalgamated. And not when Donna George Storey is involved. Donna is not content to imagine what she writes about -- she needs to experience everything.

Last month, for instance, she had to write a story about a horny housewife. Well, there went Donna to the local Safeway, dressed in typical suburban garb tailored to reflect her libidinous state of mind: high heels (but not too high), a hip-hugging dress (that was just tight enough to inspire a double-take), and a neckline that did more than suggest cleavage (without shouting it, of course). She did this for a week, calling me from the payphone in front of the store instead of coming into the office to punch her time card. She spent the day struggling with grocery bags in order to draw the assistance of strong, helpful men; squeezing produce ad nauseum and asking provocative questions about ripeness; and acquiring items from deep cases and low shelves that would require her to bend over as much as possible. Did this experiment garner her the results she desired? You bet. Donna not only got laid every day but she drenched a pair of panties every few hours. She wrote a fabulous story for a very satisfied client.

Needless to say, I have to be careful what I assign to Donna. Her safety could be at stake, all in the name of research.

This month, she is working on a detective story where the femme fatale gets her comeuppance by being kidnapped, tied up, and sexually tortured. Greg was more than happy to assist with her quest for knowledge. Just as I was walking by, I heard him say: "Open your mouth again, sweetheart, and it'll be time for me to fuck you between your tits."

Sometimes I wonder how Greg finds the time to get his work done. And yet, he does.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

In the lounge



We're hardly all work and no play here at Amalgamated. In fact, ask any writer (even outside of these walls) and you'll learn that creativity is not confined to the time spent before a typewriter. Heavens no. Here are Laney and Crystal relaxing in Amalgamated's ultra-comfortable lounge area, discussing the finer points of an erotic story Laney's been working on about truck stop prostitutes fighting for the affections of big rig drivers on the New Jersey turnpike.

The lounge is an ideal place to have these kinds of tete a tetes. Although sex is not prohibited here, neither is it encouraged, mostly because I find that the "family" that screws together ... is destined for trouble. Flings, afternoon quickies, and meaningless affairs of the recreational variety are mere stress reducers and pose no problem to the morale or productivity of the staff. But the human heart being what it is, sometimes actual relationships result and that's where workplace unrest begins.

Writers who work for me are required to keep their amorous activities outside the parameters of their jobs. Fuck your co-workers silly, masturbate ad nauseum, and consume pornography until you're blue in the balls, but fall in love and you're out on your ass.

I'm strict about it, too. Just ask Conchita. She was a budding young talent with a flair for bondage and a perfect attendance record. But she took up with Arturo (a file clerk who hugged the shadows so closely, no photograph has ever been taken of him), got Cupid's arrow lodged in her crotch, and before long, there were screaming matches and accusations flying across the office. I had to let them both go, but to this day, Conchita phones me, begging for the chance to write customized erotica again. She is a restless woman who can only find temporary relief in the sound of her own castanets.

Anyway, back to the lounge. I wish I had color film like they have in the movies to show you the red leather seats and the black lacquer occasional tables. Low-wattage table lamps provide a pleasant, homey atmosphere that contrasts with the all-business tone I like to set elsewhere in the plant. After 4:00, I even serve cocktails (one per writer, as I don't want any of them driving home drunk). Every day, a different writer takes turns serving them. It's just one of the many ways the staff of Amalgamated lives life to the fullest!

Saturday, October 13, 2007

I need a break


...so I'm going to show you a little more of the Amalgamated plant.

Let's see, you've seen the Penis Room, and the file room. Today, I'd like to show you the Womb Room.

How do we come up with these names, is probably your first question. Just as the shape of the room inspired the Penis Room's name, this one -- with its wide proportions and tendency to be warm and moist -- was a natural choice to be named the Womb Room. Nothing terribly complicated about that.

But to ensure consistency -- because every great production plant is founded on principles of standardization -- we create stories in this room where pussies play an important role . (If cocks are king, the story is written in the Penis Room.) I don't know whether you know this about writers, but they thrive on inspiration. If that inspiration comes in the shape of the room they write in, studies have shown they are 37 percent more productive and likely to continue to writing to orgasmic completion.

Notice, too, that Amalgamated ensures the utmost comfort for its writers: the chairs have wheels, the florescents are nice and bright, and there is adequate space between the writers' work areas for them to move about freely. Some of the writers have complained that the wheels make it hard to anchor themselves while masturbating, but my goodness, that's what the lounge areas are for! I don't expect my workers to write and fantasize/masturbate at their desks! What kind of ogre do they think I am? (We'll get to the lounge areas in a later post, by the way.)

Please note, too, that the writers are working on the latest typographical equipment. These Sexograph-3000s not only type, they function as teletype machines, vibrators, and mini-bars!

It's no wonder Amalgamated enjoys such a high employee retention rate.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Back in the saddle


Words cannot describe how happy I am to be back. If we had a conveyor belt for our stories, I'd be riding it right now.

Turns out that Chris's recommendation for a replacement for Penelope was excellent indeed. My interview with Kristina went so well that I hired her on the spot. It may be premature to say this, but I don't get the sense that she poses any unique personnel challenges -- she's pleasant, her portfolio is nicely padded with steamy smut, and there are no alarming gaps in her employment history. Time will tell, but she has already begun to apply herself to her first story -- the one that Penelope left incomplete. Marilyn took the blow with her usual grace and has gone out of her way to be nice to Kristina. I wish Marilyn would just take the hint and stick to her office tasks instead of dreaming of the glamorous world of erotica writing.

The sign-up sheet outside my office is, as I predicted, long. Six people need to speak to me. Bryn thought her position as Writer in Residence would earn her some privileges but alas, it does not. Anyway, I know what she wants to talk about and even the tray of brownies she brought in will have no influence on my eventual decision to appoint her to the No. 2 position at Amalgamated.

First on the sign-up sheet was M. Christian. Looking paler than usual, he slunk into my office, looked furtively around, and must have decided it was safe to stay because he then sat down.

ME: What can I do for you today, M?

M: I need protection.

ME: From what?

M: Them! The ones I told you about. They're using dopplegangers now. They know how. And I'm their test subject. I knew it was only a matter of time.

(I have always refused to believe that M is actually nuts, but when he uttered those words, I began to have serious doubts. Nevertheless, I continued listening.)

ME: Dopplegangers. Hmmm. That's serious. I mean, how can I know that I'm not talking to your doppleganger right now?

M: (eyes widening) Let me give you some proof. Amalgamated is my refuge and it's vital that I have your trust.

ME: All right. What do you propose?

M: Dopplegangers take on the opposite sexual urges of their subjects. It's the only trait they cannot emulate.

ME: Well, M, we've never been sexual. How would I know what the opposite of you is -- and that it's not your doppleganger showing me his stuff right now?

M: (turning red) You don't, Sage. You don't know. But I will find a solution to this problem and get back to you. But in the meantime, if anyone comes looking for me, may I have your promise that you will not reveal my whereabouts.

ME: It isn't George Putnam who's looking for you, is it?

M: Goodness, no.

ME: IRS?

M: No.

ME: FBI?

M: Certainly not.

ME: Then you have my assurance, M. But there are lots of other people here and one of them might squeal. Why don't we give you your own room until this drama boils over?

M: (tears welling up) Oh, Sage. How can I ever thank you?

Well, certainly, I intend to think of some highly gratifying way that M. can thank me, but for the time being, I've got start looking at this big envelope that just arrived from the Kinsey people.

Saturday, October 6, 2007

Pining for the office


Being stuck at home for the past week has really made me realize how much I miss the erotica plant. I miss nurturing the sexy stories, feeding the fertile minds of the writers, and struggling to keep costs low. Although I love my ultra-modern home (that the lucrative industry of erotica built), I find I work better when I'm down at the plant, overseeing production.

I'm feeling much better now and it's a good thing, too, because when I go in on Monday, there's a lot to deal with. Here's a sample of the crises that have been put on hold until I get back:
1. As a result of Cate spurning her advances, Penelope has quit. And she was mid-story, so I'll need to find someone who can pick up where she left off. Marilyn has volunteered, of course, but that's out of the question. Chris thinks he has a good lead, so I'll have to see about that when I'm in the office. With the holidays coming right up, I can't afford to be down one writer.
2. Bryn has pressured me daily about the importance of having a No. 2 who can fill in for me for those rare occasions when I'm out of commission. This is the first time in 9 years that I've been out of commission, mind you, and as long as there are telephones, I really don't see where there's a problem. But "for the good of Amalgamated" and to "keep up morale," Bryn has tendered the prospect of herself as the person I can rely on in the event that I'm unable to report to work. I find myself actually considering it.
3. I've been editing stories all week, and it's plain to see that the time has come for me to sit down with Tenille and review what it is we do here at Amalgamated. She is prolific, yes, but every damn story reads like it's Wuthering Heights. If you've ever wondered what Cathy and Heathcliff would be like if they were two young men bartering for blowjobs in a back alley, I invite you to read her latest story.
4. The biggest issue right now is this: Dr. Alfred Kinsey has invited me to participate in his research on the human female! This is a significant invitation, and yet by accepting, I expose myself to possible scrutiny by the Citizens Against Pornography or that damn George Putnam. I'll use the weekend to think about it.

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

Sick day



Well, I'm laid up (so to speak), thanks to that little cat-fight between Marcy and Penelope. I did something to my back and supine is the only position that feels right. Luckily, it's a position I'm more than a little familiar with.

Marilyn phoned to see how I was doing. Chris checked in to find out which stories are due today and which writers he needs to nag to get them wrapped up and sent. He expedites the binding and mailing process for all stories, but he takes his cues from me.

But it was Bryn who showed up at my door with homemade soup, soothing words -- and two adorable puppies! She even offered to take care of them. All I have to do is enjoy them and "feel their love," she assured me. Bryn is a lifesaver and even though she makes me feel like Bette Davis in All About Eve, I indulge her effusive idolatry because I'm simply dying to see how far she might go with it. Does she expect to usurp me as president of Amalgamated? She's a good writer and certainly that's why I hired her, but to say she is ambitious would be a gross understatement.

Last month, for instance, I caught her sitting in my chair with her feet on the desk. She thought I'd gone out for the afternoon to meet with the Dungeonaires, an s/m group that wants to give away Amalgamated gift certificates at their next Bonadage or Bust party. I made a joke of how comfortable she looked sitting there and she got all flustered at first but then quickly said that she was testing the chair to make sure it didn't squeak any longer. And then she showed me the oil can she'd used to lubricate the noisy parts. Damn if she didn't do a fine job. Nevertheless, it was a little disconcerting to see her at my desk.

So anyway, back to the present. She's been a writer at Amalgamated for 3 years and I have promoted her twice. She came in as a staff writer, then became a senior staff writer, and then proposed a new position: Writer in Residence.

Huh? Writer in Residence? This isn't Amalgamated University, for crying out loud.

But I do enjoy indulging people's delusions -- it's a foible of mine, you might say -- so I agreed to it. Now I'm wondering, though, if that was a wise decision. Nobody else knows that that is Bryn's title, so I don't have to worry about jealous co-workers. And she didn't even want more more money. But that "residence" bit has an ominous quality about it. As if she's moving in or something...

Saturday, September 29, 2007

More interruptions



Well, just before I was about to show you another room here at the plant, a cat fight broke out in the middle of the Penis Room. Quelle surprise: Marcy and Penelope were at it again.

This happens often enough for me to be getting tired of it. I don't care if they rip one another's hair out, but cat fights like this are seriously disruptive to the rest of the staff. Sometimes I think I'm the only one around here who gives a damn about productivity. Tenille is running a bit behind on her threesome in an elevator tale, while Jen and Gwen are in that stage where they're outlining and researching their next stories. M. Christian, of course, can write through anything, and didn't even seem to notice that Marcy and Penelope were rolling around on the floor leaving claw marks on each other.

Greg certainly wasn't going to step in and break things up because, as he once told me, "When girls fight, there's always a possibility that clothes will come off, and I'm sure not getting in the way of that." Why I don't fire his lecherous ass, I don't know. But that's another story.

And what are these ladies fighting about? I didn't have to ask -- it's always the same. They were fighting over Cate Shea, the femme fatale with a penchant for butchy babes.

Marcy and Penelope may not look like butches in the above photo (it was taken last year by Greg), but let me just say that if you met either of them, they'd leave you cowering. I employ them both and vouch for their writing skills, but I wouldn't want to run into either of them in a dark alley. Or a biker bar. But hey, that's just me. I'm more the smart-cocktails-at-a-swanky-bar-with-a-sophisticated-stud-on-my-arm type.

And will Cate give either of them the time of day? Therein lies the problem, not only will she, but she has on several occasions. She lets Marcy give her massages here at the office, and more than once she's allowed Penelope to test a sex toy out on her. I don't know if she's formally dated either of them outside of work, but I suspect she has. Today's fight, according to Lisabet, resulted when Marcy offered to give her a ride home, as well as a "pussy licking you'll never forget."

Cate is playing them both, if you ask me. She loves the attention, though she plays the victim beautifully. She never tries to break up these fights -- she just looks on with this smug yet helpless expression on her face.

I called out for Jonny's help to break up the scuffle, which is ironic considering I hired him primarily to keep the riff-raff out, not settle internal disputes. In the ensuing jostling, however, Marcy and Penelope knocked me off my sensible pumps and I landed on my backside.

"Marcy and Penelope, go home and cool off!" I yelled from the floor. "And don't come back until you can behave like grown-ups!"

Lisabet was writing something down in a notebook while Jonny escorted them both out the door. Greg was still salivating. I shot Cate a menacing look and told her to get back to work. As punishment, I'm going to stop giving her lesbian stories to write.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Earning the right to write erotica



In the coming months, you'll probably witness a fair number of blog posts where I mention Marilyn. She is both nemesis and helpmate.

I mean, look at her. Does she look like she's suffered a day in her life? No, of course she doesn't. Not that I like it when people suffer, but I have serious doubts that a person can be self-actualized or sympathetic to others if they have never experienced hardship. And Marilyn has had nary a ruffle in her perfect life.

And yet she is as nice as she can be. She is kind, courteous, loyal, thoughtful, and pleasant. And obviously, beautiful. Men love her. Women want to hate her but can't.

Marilyn wants to be a writer. So, her uncle Obediah, who just happens to be on my board of directors, got her a job here at Amalgamated.

Now let me tell you a little something about me. I don't like being told what to do. If somebody shoves a writer down my throat, I'm not inclined to appreciate that writer. In Marilyn's case, I don't believe for two seconds that she can write and I'm not going to waste my time indulging this pretty little rich girl's whim at the expense of denying real writers the opportunity to practice their craft.

She's so polite, though. Every few weeks, she'll ask me if she can write a Quickie, just so I can see what she's capable of. I put her off, without fail. But I must say she's a resilient little thing -- she never complains. She has even tried to get me to read poems and little vignettes she's written, but I tell her I hate poems -- which I do -- and tell her I have no time to read the work of aspiring writers. I deal only with professionals.

So what does she do around here? Everything. On the maid's day off, she cleans toilets. When Chris needs help with filing, she files. When Jason needs help selecting a lipstick shade for his latest drag outfit, she provides good advice. When Crystal bores everyone to tears with her talk of movie stars and fame, Marilyn listens as if she hasn't heard it a thousand times before.

Writing erotica is a privilege, not a right. And Marilyn will have to earn it. I'll show her fancy uncle who's boss.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

The rest of the tour


Please forgive me. I got distracted by personnel matters after I promised you a tour of the plant. Let's continue with that, shall we?

As it is at most businesses, documentation and filing is vital here at Amalgamated. Every story order that comes in is immediately copied in triplicate, stamped with the date received, and filed according to fetish and then by client last name.

Why triplicate? Because one gets filed in our archives, one goes to the customer, and one gets doctored completely in the event that the client needs to show a law enforcement official that pornography was neither requested nor received. We think it's important to go the extra mile for our customers. It's probably why we have so much repeat business. They appreciate those little touches.

Our files are vast, as this photo indicates. After ten years of writing for thousands of people, we have certainly kept our filing staff busy. Here you see Marilyn and Chris discussing the relative merits of arranging the filing towers by state, then fetish, then client name.

Chris is my office manager but he's also a fine writer, so I figure I'm really getting double duty out of him. When he isn't implementing a new system, writing up an employee for some infraction of the dress code he wrote and I never officially approved, or analyzing the relative merits of tape versus staples, he writes gothic romance non pareil. He can be difficult to manage, but I never have to worry about anything getting misplaced.

More on Marilyn when next we meet.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Man of mystery



M. Christian was late again today.

But at least today I know why. On my way in to the office, I saw him at the newsstand. (I photographed him in case he denies being there. See him there in the raincoat?) Much of the time, he wasn't even reading, but poking around the various periodicals, sort of aimlessly looking for something that clearly wasn't even there. Maybe I've seen too many movies, but it looked to me like he was waiting for somebody. But not wanting to seem like he was waiting for somebody.

After 10 minutes or so, I drove on to the office. (I adore driving ever since I got my Nash Rambler!)


Well, it was another hour before M. Christian came into the office. Jonny nodded at him when he arrived but ol' M. had nothing but a distracted grumble to toss his way. (And no, I don't know his first name. He will not divulge it. All his employment references say "M" and even the social security administration knows him only by that mysterious initial.) I called him into my office right away.

ME: M., I'm concerned. You've been late several times in the past month. Are you feeling well?

M. CHRISTIAN: I'm fine.

ME: I hope you know you can tell me anything. You are more than just a writer to me.

M. CHRISTIAN: I can't tell you anything. How do I know you're not one of them?

ME: One of who?

M. CHRISTIAN: (blinks a few times as if a bright light is pointed at his face) It doesn't matter. (looks off at something behind me)

ME: But it does matter. I'm concerned about you. Do you need to get laid?

M. CHRISTIAN: (shakes head, leans toward me and whispers) No, no. Not that. That's how they'll get me, don't you see? That's how they get in. Whenever I surrender, they get access. I can't risk it. The only sex I can afford to have is on paper. Please don't ask me about this again.

ME: All right. I got an order today for a robot orgy. Would you like to write it?

M. CHRISTIAN: Yes, please. Flesh ..... blood.... dangerous.....

I gave him the order and he went off to his typewriter. I'll leave him alone, of course, but I still haven't addressed the whole lateness issue. If he writes a great orgy scene, maybe I'll let the matter slide. I wonder who he thinks is after him. As long as it isn't the Decency Police or the Citizens Against Pornography, I don't really give a damn. If any little green men show up for M. Christian, I figure Jonny will take care of them. I'd still like to know what he was doing at that magazine stand this morning. Poor hunted bastard.

Laney had her eye on us while we were in the conference room. I know she's going to want to know what happened. She's not going to rest until she gets M. Christian's cock down her throat.

And Greg isn't going to let M. Christian get there before he does.

A growing personnel problem

Getting a receptionist has taken a real load off my mind. With so many urgent, throbbing matters to take care of in any given day, I can't afford to dedicate so much time to one issue.

Stories aren't the only thing I'm thinking about. Any business with employees has employee problems. For the fourth time this month, for instance, M. Christian reported late to work.

Now, I'm not big on time clocks. I find them demeaning, in fact. But the rest of the staff manages to arrive on time, so why can't he? (Amalgamated is staffed 24 hours a day, by the way. Better than 50 percent of our requests are of an emergency nature, making it imperative to have writers available to you, the horny client, at all hours.)

He's a big name in the industry and I was lucky to get him. I know that. I also know that he has many demands on his time outside of his life at Amalgamated. Does that explain why he skulks around here like the cops are after him? Or why he always looks like he invented something that would annihilate mankind and sold it for less than it was worth?

I don't know what to do with him. I'd say he just needs to get laid, but I don't think he'd be able to discard his paranoia long enough to enjoy a decent orgasm. Laney once offered to give him a blowjob while he wrote, but he just grunted at her. I myself suggested that some time between the breasts of his choice might be a therapeutic pastime. He sneered at me as if to say that he'd known breasts in his past but they had betrayed him such that he never wanted any more of them.

He's a tortured soul, but he won't talk about it. But I simply must address this tardiness issue. Wish me luck. I just hope I don't set off some trigger in his angst-ridden head that will cause him to tell me to take this job and shove it.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Receptionist hired


Thanks to a friendly but discreet tip from one of you (thanks, Rocco!), I'm happy to report that I've found the ideal receptionist for Amalgamated.

Jonny Topaz comes highly recommended by all the drinking and dining establishments he's worked for. Our interview was short but enlightening.

ME: Do you have a resume, Mr. Topaz?

JONNY: In my business, a man's word is his bond, Miss Vivant.

ME: It's good to know I can trust you, but what about your work experience? Where have you been employed? What kind of work have you done?

JONNY: I been around. Here and there, doing what was necessary. I work for as long as any particular job takes. I see things through, you know? I don't think a classy lady like yourself would be familiar with the joints where I worked.

ME: What did you do at these ... joints?


JONNY: I eliminate the dangerous element, if you know what I mean. I keep the undesirables away.

Well, that did it for me. I hired him on the spot. Now when curiosity seekers get off the elevator and think they can wander into our offices, our receptionist will make sure they have a bona fide right to be here.

Did I mention that Mr. Topaz has a charming accent? I think he might be from the Bronx. New Yorkers are so cosmopolitan, don't you think?

Monday, September 17, 2007

Location, location, location

Amalgamated takes up an entire floor of the building we rent space in. At first, I leased only one room, but that didn't work out so well because at least once a day, some rube would get off the elevator and casually wander into our offices, either with a camera dangling from his neck or a his tongue hanging out of his mouth. So, I eventually just rented the whole floor so that only people with real business to conduct with me or my staff can ... get off ... on our floor. I don't know what those guys were expecting to find but they always left disappointed to discover that I run a reputable, respectable business.

I mean, I have to. Or George Putnam will be making my life a living hell:



This guy is serious, and he's paid more than one visit to the offices of Amalgamated. I even considered moving our office at one point to throw him off our scent. He's been sniffing around on three different occasions, and all three times, I observed him talking with Lisabet in an overly officious capacity. Now, in my experience, a man of his ilk gets chummy with a woman in the sex business for one of two reasons:

He wants to partake of whatever sexual service she might be providing
or
The woman is a mole and he's getting the latest updates from her

Now, I'm not accusing Lisabet of anything, you understand, but I've got my eye on her. Her work is good and it's always on time, but if ever find out that the FBI or CIA or even that the Citizens Against Pornography have a file on me or my employees, you can bet I'll be looking to Lisabet for some explanations.

But we were discussing locations, weren't we? Yes. Well. The building we occupy is discreet enough, I think, but we must nevertheless always take pains never to draw attention to ourselves. That's another reason I thought it best to take over an entire floor. The fewer people who walk down the hall and stumble upon our office, the better.

And that's why I am currently looking for an intimidating receptionist. If you know of anybody who might fit the bit, please drop me a line. I need to keep the riff-raff, the looky-loos, and the anti-pornography crowd out.

Friday, September 14, 2007

A day at the plant

Welcome! This is the blog that takes you behind the scenes at the Amalgamated Erotic Corp. plant, where erotica is produced by pleasant people to provide you, the customer, with a pleasant experience. We simply do not stop until you are satisfied.

I'm the owner of Amalgamated Erotica Corporation (henceforth known as AEC -- I type prodigiously throughout the day so I hope you'll indulge me the occasional acronym to save time and effort) and my name is Sage Vivant. I am often asked whether that is my real name, and although the question perplexes me, I am always gracious. I smile and disclose that it is indeed a real name. Because surely somewhere a person was born whose birth certificate reads "Sage Vivant."

I employ a fine group of scribes at AEC. Here they are, toiling away on their latest assignments. Talk about dedication. Sometimes they get so involved in their work that they forget to masturbate.

Some of them are shy about telling people where they work. For some, it would be a fate worse than syphyllis or pregnancy if their family or friends found out how they put themselves through college or unleash their muse. I'll introduce them to you gradually, as they give me permission to do so. (I'm not in the photo because I'm the one taking the picture with my new Brownie camera!)

What you're looking at here is the Penis Room. This is where stories containing erections come to life for you, the customer. If there's a hard-on in a story, you can bet it will spring to life first in this very room.

Stay tuned. I'll be taking you on a tour of the rest of the plant in a couple of days.