PENTHOUSE MAGAZINE VIDEOS CODE

Sexual slurs, I soon discovered, occurred offhandedly between coworkers no one seemed to realize how deeply the magazineвЂ™s content had invaded our psyches. 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. She crossed out sentences with red pencil between chortles and burst Bubblicious bubbles. The Forum editor was a smart-talking, gum-chewing, big-haired gal who wore spandex pants nearly every day. I also liked the mailman and the lusty ladies on his route who licked his postage stamps (and more).

My favorite was the well-endowed lawn boy who, with a few deep thrusts, defrosted the haughty housewife. Hunched over my desk, I found myself more than slightly aroused by my first-time foray into libidinous wordplay. Then there were the infamous Penthouse Forum letters-the sexual escapades, real or imagined, of вЂњordinaryвЂќ men.

Much of my time was spent reading the slush pile, which was composed of bizarre, poorly written short stories, usually sci-fi, where womenвЂ™s measurements were more amply described than character or plot line. (To rationalize their work, they quoted the First Amendment constantly, with the righteous flourish of Bible-thumpers.) Some appeared indifferent to my presence, while others looked me over with concern, as if they were witnessing the conclusion of my wholesome girlhood. He led me around the narrow banks of cubicles and introduced me to everyone on staff, most of whom were women. 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.

I was certain he could discern, with his pornographerвЂ™s X-ray vision, that I was still a virgin. The editor in chief looked me over as if I were Snow White fluttering into his den of perversity.

PENTHOUSE MAGAZINE VIDEOS CODE

My first day, I wore a pressed skirt and blouse, though when I emerged from the elevator into a corridor hung with framed posters of naked Pets on Bob GuccioneвЂ™s knee, I wondered whether the dress code was nothing at all. HeвЂ™d drop me off at the Penthouse offices on Broadway and then head crosstown to his upstanding job at the United Nations. Every morning, my father and I would commute together from suburban Long Island.

Penthouse magazine videos