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.

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.

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.