Much of my time was spent reading the slush pile, which was composed of bizarre, poorly written short stories, usually sci-fi, where women’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 pornographer’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. 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 Guccione’s knee, I wondered whether the dress code was nothing at all. He’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.
