The trip down my raggedy-ass path here in L.A. continues, and continues to get more ridiculous.
After working at Saddle Ranch, then as a hand model, then for a little over a year as an assistant to the VP at a major PR firm, I came to the conclusion that I’m not cut out for Assistant to Dickhead work. I spent my entire time there covertly stealing office supplies until I found out they gave severance pay to fired employees. Then I made it my full time job trying to get fired—making my recycling bin my inbox, purposely giving my boss the wrong directions to meetings, landing him in South Central (he deserved it), faking falling asleep in “team meetings,” blatantly stealing office supplies, etc. Nothing worked. I realized that my boss was more interested in my ass than the fact that I was a terrible employee. So I quit.
Then I spent over a year floating around, until one day my temp agency called and asked if I would consider working at Larry Flynt Publications for $20 an hour. Would I consider it? Um, yes, done and done. Clearly, it was a job that needed to be added to my resume of absurdity.
On my first day at LFP, I was greeted in the swankest reception area I’ve ever seen. It was dim and sexy and there was gold gilding every piece of furniture. I was then escorted to my office...which was HUMONGO. One entire wall was glass in which I had a killer view of L.A. I almost shit my pants. I thought they must’ve made a mistake. Or was it a temporary holding pen till I was escorted to my cubicle? Nope, it was my office. And I could shut the door if I wanted to. I was in momentary heaven.
I then got the job descrip lowdown: I would be working exclusively on Hustler Magazine, reading all letters to the editor and deciding which letters were passed on to the Editor in Chief. I also had to do some technical layout crap with photo credits, but that was a snore. The letters was the best part of my job. That and the office. And being treated like royalty—all my coworkers were men (I know, can you believe it?). Being the only 20 something woman in an office doesn’t go unnoticed.
Down the hall from me was Barely Legal and Taboo. In the other direction was the office of who would become my closest friend at LFP. He had worked there from the very beginning, is close personal friends with Larry and is, at first meeting, the scariest mofo in the world. Coworkers warned me about him. But I have a soft spot for grumpy older guys so we quickly bonded, to the surprise of everyone in the office. How can you not like someone who goes by “Tex” and is in charge of the Beaver Hunt section of Hustler?
For those of you unfamiliar with Beaver Hunt, it’s a spread in the magazine where women from around the world send in their unprofessional (and I mean, reeeeally unprofessional) photos of themselves with their “beavers” open for all to inspect. The prize if your photos/beavers are selected is $350. If you’re so lucky to get the annual grand prize you get $5,000. I’d like to think my beaver is worth a lot more than that, but I don’t judge beaver exposing ladies.
So that was Tex’s job, selecting beavers. Most men’s dream job if you ask me. But I worked in a coffee place in college and after a few months the smell of coffee made me want to vomit. So I think after 30 years, even the sight of beavers to a straight man might be a turn off.
As you can imagine, my guy friends were beside themselves when I landed this gig. I got death threats if I ever decided to quit. During that brief time, I became a legend amongst my male peers. They couldn’t get enough of the stories.
Especially when cover models would come in to sign their contracts. These women were all pretty standard porn star types: babe with beach ball tits. But when the Barely Legal models came in, I felt like dipping my brain in turpentine. It wasn’t because I’d seen them naked (that doesn’t bother me, after all, I was a cocktail waitress at a strip club after college), but these girls looked adolescent. What disturbed me more than these pre-teen looking girls doing a spread, was the thought of the guys’ who bought the mag. I really try not to judge, but that makes me want to sew my eyes shut.
Next time, more on all the porn give-aways, letters to the editor, how my “expertise” was put to use, and my brief encounter with Larry.