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.

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.

Location, location, location

Amalgamated takes up an entire floor of the building we rent space in. At first, I leased only one room, but that didn't work out so well because at least once a day, some rube would get off the elevator and casually wander into our offices, either with a camera dangling from his neck or a his tongue hanging out of his mouth. So, I eventually just rented the whole floor so that only people with real business to conduct with me or my staff can ... get off ... on our floor. I don't know what those guys were expecting to find but they always left disappointed to discover that I run a reputable, respectable business.

I mean, I have to. Or George Putnam will be making my life a living hell:



This guy is serious, and he's paid more than one visit to the offices of Amalgamated. I even considered moving our office at one point to throw him off our scent. He's been sniffing around on three different occasions, and all three times, I observed him talking with Lisabet in an overly officious capacity. Now, in my experience, a man of his ilk gets chummy with a woman in the sex business for one of two reasons:

He wants to partake of whatever sexual service she might be providing
or
The woman is a mole and he's getting the latest updates from her

Now, I'm not accusing Lisabet of anything, you understand, but I've got my eye on her. Her work is good and it's always on time, but if ever find out that the FBI or CIA or even that the Citizens Against Pornography have a file on me or my employees, you can bet I'll be looking to Lisabet for some explanations.

But we were discussing locations, weren't we? Yes. Well. The building we occupy is discreet enough, I think, but we must nevertheless always take pains never to draw attention to ourselves. That's another reason I thought it best to take over an entire floor. The fewer people who walk down the hall and stumble upon our office, the better.

And that's why I am currently looking for an intimidating receptionist. If you know of anybody who might fit the bit, please drop me a line. I need to keep the riff-raff, the looky-loos, and the anti-pornography crowd out.