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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Pining for the office

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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...