Penthouse forum type letters

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My mother told me to do it. Initially, I was horrified by her suggestion that I intern at a porn magazine, but soon the feeling turned to titillating curiosity.

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Every morning, my father and I would commute together from suburban Long Island. The editor in chief looked me over as if I were Snow White fluttering into his den of perversity. Peter was middle-aged, with dark, thinning hair, though his strongest feature was his teeth, which were incredibly crooked, giving him a kinky menace when he smiled at me. He led me around the narrow banks of cubicles and introduced me to everyone on staff, most of whom were women. To rationalize their work, they quoted the First Amendment constantly, with the righteous flourish of Bible-thumpers.

Some appeared Penthouse forum type letters to my presence, while others looked me over with concern, as if they were witnessing the conclusion of my wholesome girlhood. Hunched over my desk, I found myself more than slightly aroused by my first-time foray into libidinous wordplay. My favorite was the well-endowed lawn boy who, with a few deep thrusts, defrosted the haughty housewife.

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I also liked the mailman and the lusty ladies on his route who licked his postage stamps and more. The Forum editor was a smart-talking, gum-chewing, big-haired gal who wore spandex pants nearly every day. She crossed out sentences with red pencil between chortles and burst Bubblicious bubbles.

At the other end of the spectrum was the prudish, tight-lipped copy editor who let me proofread every article except the Forum, as if this would preserve my fast-fleeting purity. I smiled sweetly—this innocence of mine, I noted almost immediately, had a certain cachet around the Penthouse offices. My virginity was palpable; it was as strange and rare as a near-extinct animal and seemed to leave everyone wracked with ambivalence on whether to preserve it or kill it. Holding Lust to my chest, I told Peter that I Penthouse forum type letters read it.

Naturally, in this heightened atmosphere, I developed a crush on a co-worker. He was the mildest, most befuddled man in the office: Bob, the managing editor.

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I dreamed about him incessantly, imagining us in a variety of uncomfortable poses, usually involving his desk, the sharp edges of which poked with painful pleasure into my hips. Bob checked each photo for splotches and inconsistencies, but when our eyes Penthouse forum type letters meet, his face Penthouse forum type letters with shame. My crush was inevitably short-lived: I turned the on Bob, as I had the numerous steamy scenarios in the magazine.

I brought the July issue home to show my parents. My mother passed over the centerfold with a nod, though her face revealed an expression of pure disgust. Flipping to the back, she settled on a sobering article of some sort. After dinner, I stashed the magazine under my bed.

Every night, I opened it wide to the center, exposing the three metal staples securing the s. The Pets, with their perfectly feathered hair, seemed to coo in silent ecstasy, their parted lips revealing a bit of tooth or tongue. Their breasts seemed inflated, like water balloons near bursting, and their pudenda were swollen and shaved to a thin swatch of heart-shaped fuzz. I was both disgusted and fascinated by this pornographic perfection.

I attempted to mirror their droopy bedroom eyes and parted lips before I went to sleep in my twin bed. On my last day at Penthousethe editor in chief gave me a good-bye gift: an oval abalone pin set in silver that I still have but never wear. I smiled demurely back at him.

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Penthouse forum type letters

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