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.

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...

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.

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.