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.

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.

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.