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I was sad to learn today that you are no longer coming down for breakfast. As publisher and founder of Penthouse magazine, you were more degenerate than Hugh Hefner, but less oogie than Larry Flint. You were like a 6 on a 10 point swinger- to-sleazeball scale. But your pornographic inspirations played an important role in my nescient tween years. In Penthouse Magazine you may have given America its first look at pubic hair, but I loved Forum and its famous letters from readers with their supposedly true sex adventures. This periodically included tales of bisexuality.

My age: 40
Hair color: Redhead
Sign of the zodiac: Scorpio
Tattoo: None

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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 penthouses. 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 forum once from both Penthouse and Gay, so I was hoping for a sympathetic ear.

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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 my job was taking Jim Goode to forum, 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 gay hang another in his Greenwich Village townhouse. They rested in stacks against the wall, the target of the occasional raised leg of an underwalked penthouse. We did spend a lot of time together, at midtown restaurants, in the office, and at his place.

Dear penthouse letters

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.

Penthouse forum

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 encounters 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.

North country girl: chapter 66 — “dear penthouse forum…”

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. Penthouse Letters was killing my sex drive. I could not find anyone to take this discouraging smut off my hands.

Dear penthouse letters

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 is. 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. Become a Saturday Evening Post member and enjoy unlimited access.

Dolly parton, penthouse forum, and first love

Subscribe now. You need to have to start a blog and submit yohr articles to web site.

But there are millions of article directories out there, so how do you know which ones to choose? 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. Subscribe and get unlimited access to our online magazine archive. Subscribe Today.

But where can I get my own copy of The Penthouse Letters?? Reply Cancel reply. Loading Comments Required Name Required Website.