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.

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.

A growing personnel problem

Getting a receptionist has taken a real load off my mind. With so many urgent, throbbing matters to take care of in any given day, I can't afford to dedicate so much time to one issue.

Stories aren't the only thing I'm thinking about. Any business with employees has employee problems. For the fourth time this month, for instance, M. Christian reported late to work.

Now, I'm not big on time clocks. I find them demeaning, in fact. But the rest of the staff manages to arrive on time, so why can't he? (Amalgamated is staffed 24 hours a day, by the way. Better than 50 percent of our requests are of an emergency nature, making it imperative to have writers available to you, the horny client, at all hours.)

He's a big name in the industry and I was lucky to get him. I know that. I also know that he has many demands on his time outside of his life at Amalgamated. Does that explain why he skulks around here like the cops are after him? Or why he always looks like he invented something that would annihilate mankind and sold it for less than it was worth?

I don't know what to do with him. I'd say he just needs to get laid, but I don't think he'd be able to discard his paranoia long enough to enjoy a decent orgasm. Laney once offered to give him a blowjob while he wrote, but he just grunted at her. I myself suggested that some time between the breasts of his choice might be a therapeutic pastime. He sneered at me as if to say that he'd known breasts in his past but they had betrayed him such that he never wanted any more of them.

He's a tortured soul, but he won't talk about it. But I simply must address this tardiness issue. Wish me luck. I just hope I don't set off some trigger in his angst-ridden head that will cause him to tell me to take this job and shove it.