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.

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.

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.

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?