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I was no longer a Viva editorbut being fired for cursing out my boss taught me to keep my mouth shut in the face of stupidity, a skill which kept me employed for forty years. I was now the editorial assistant at Penthouse magazine, foisted on their staff by my old boss Kathy Keeton.
Jim bore an unsettling resemblance to Lurch, the Addams Family butler, and laughed about as much, which was a good thing, as his gravely guffaw was blood-chilling, like the clanking of rusty chains.
My first task at Penthouse was to introduce Jim Goode to his newest, and probably unwanted, staff member. I poked my head into his office. I sidled into his office, hugging the wall.
I was pretty sure any talent I had at being charming would fall on stony ground but I had to try; I knew Jim had been fired at least once from both Penthouse and Playboy, so I was hoping for a sympathetic ear. From that day forth, Jim never called me by my first name. No one had clued me into what my responsibilities at Penthouse would be, but I quickly found out that the most important part of Playboy forum letters job was taking Jim Goode to lunch, a chore I shared with the rest of the editorial staff.
Jim was not about to use his own expense on anything so unnecessary as a meal he ate almost nothing, getting through the day on three lunchtime vodka martinis. He had other things to pay for: his pampered mutts, his almost as cosseted dancer boyfriend, Kevin who looked like a Ganymede come to life from a Renaissance paintingand French advertising posters from the early s. Jim owned so many of these framed posters that there was no room to hang another in his Greenwich Village townhouse.
The "dear penthouse thread" - me, two lesbians and an icecube
They rested in stacks against the wall, the target of the occasional raised leg of an underwalked dog. We did spend a lot of time together, at midtown restaurants, in the office, and at his place. I amused him, like a misplaced Pomeranian he picked up at the Bide-a-Wee animal shelter. I was tottering back from one of these lunches when I was stopped in the hall by a handsome young man who stuck out his hand.
Robert Hofler beamed as if he were about to give me a Major Award.
After that, I was on my own. Editing the letters section was the scut work of Penthousea task that had plagued almost every editor even the gay ones, who must have looked on these letters as missives from Marsand which was dumped as rapidly as possible on someone else. Low woman on the editorial totem pole, that was now me. Every day, a Santa-sized bag was dragged through the secretarial pool and dumped on my desk.
I soon learned to recognize and dispose of letters that came in envelopes with odd red stamps. These were from prison inmates; their sexual adventures, real or made up, too often came to violent ends.
After opening one letter and having what appeared to be pubic hair drift onto my desk and lap, I started squeezing each envelope before I opened it; if it felt like it contained anything besides paper, it went right in the garbage. Letter after letter, usually scribbled in pencil on stained paper torn out of a loose leaf notebook, lovingly described Playboy forum letters with randy next-door neighbors, lonely widows, incestuous sisters and aunts, vacuum cleaners and fish tanks; of adventures that occurred outdoors, in stuck elevators, bus station bathrooms, and office supply closets.
After a few months, I started casting about for anyone else I could dump this nasty hot potato of an asment on. I developed an obsessive-compulsive disorder, scrubbing my hands a dozen times a day and taking a half hour steaming hot shower as soon as I got home. I turned my back and scooted away from my boyfriend Michael in bed, claiming I was too tired or in the middle of a fascinating book.
Happily married couples gone wild!
Penthouse Letters was killing my sex drive. I could not find anyone to take this discouraging smut off my hands.
I approached my first friend at Penthouse, Kathy Lowry, the on-staff writer for girl copy, responsible for transforming big-breasted, small town girls into exotic women of the world. I have enough problems with Larry as it Playboy forum letters. Kathy was a blonde Texan, lanky and wide-eyed with a slow drawl that disguised how whip smart she really was, and Larry was Larry L. Kathy dragged me to opening night, where I sat goggled-eyed and opened-mouth with the rest of the non-paying audience, gobsmacked that such a piece of shit could actually be staged on Broadway.
I tried to return Forum to Robert Hofler, who laughed at my presumption. Jim was rabidly anti-government, which, considering he owed thousands of dollars to the IRS, was not surprising. Convinced that the CIA had a file on him, Jim ordered Peter to find investigative reporters who would uncover their dastardly deeds and secrets; many of these writers did ground-breaking work that was almost always ignored by the media establishment and probably by the average Penthouse reader as well. Guccione succumbed to cancer of the tongue a few years after Kathy Keeton died of breast cancer.
I think Penthouse did a twenty-part series on them. Peter rescued me. I regarded these lunches as on-the-job editorial training, prepping me for whatever my real job at Penthouse would be. Jim spent lunch lecturing me on the evils of Guccione, Hefner, and the entire Penthouse advertising staff, and almost convinced me that if it were left up to him, Penthouse would have the editorial integrity of The New Republic.
These two-hour, well-lubricated lunches also taught me to do all my work in the morning. Between nine and one I was a beaver of an editor: if Frank Gilbreth had stood over me with a stopwatch, he would have been floored by my efficiency.
Middle-aged penthouse forum has become an improbable voice for family values -- as long as you turn your wife over to the cable guy.
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Convert these to great ebook topic opinions. Sorry it was dealing with the Penthouse letters that were weird, creepy and kooky.
Word must have really gotten around not to take that position, no matter what! The job sounds awful pubes in the envelopes? They published my letter.
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