Vergin Porn

Vergin Porn

By Suzan Sherman • 06/10/02 12:00am

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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. Her best friend’s daughter worked at Penthouse —sadly, my family’s only connection to the New York publishing world. My mother described the job as “a foot in the door.” I giddily contemplated the possibilities offered by this “experience”—editorially speaking and, presumably, beyond.

Now, as the quaint world of print pornography quietly shuffles through what many are calling its twilight, I look back fondly to the summer of 1988, the summer that I became Penthouse ‘s first (and, at the time, only) intern.
Every morning, my father and I would commute together from suburban Long Island. He’d drop me off at the Penthouse offices on Broadway and then head crosstown to his upstanding job at the United Nations.

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

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 indifferent to my presence, while others looked me over with concern, as if they were witnessing the conclusion of my wholesome girlhood.
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. Then there were the infamous Penthouse Forum letters—the sexual escapades, real or imagined, of “ordinary” men. 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. 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.

Sexual slurs, I soon discovered, occurred offhandedly between coworkers; no one seemed to realize how deeply the magazine’s content had invaded our psyches. After one of his martini lunches, the editor in chief stumbled over to my cubicle and slurred, “Can I come into your box?” “Sure,” I breathed, testing my burgeoning sexuality, “come.” Later in the week, he gave me Susan Minot’s story collection, Lust and Other Stories , as a gift. 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 would 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. 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 had worked at Penthouse for years, though he was still clearly uneasy with the magazine’s content. When I would knock on his door to tell him that his mother or fiancée was on the phone, a centerfold inevitably lay splayed across his desk. Bob checked each photo for splotches and inconsistencies, but when our eyes would meet, his face reddened with shame. My crush was inevitably short-lived: I turned the page 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. Clearly, until now, she’d been unaware of the magazine’s actual content. Skimming the pages, she described what she saw there as “naughty,” as if Penthouse were a disobedient child that needed her punishing. Flipping to the back, she settled on a sobering article of some sort. “Look how thick it is,” my father piped in, adding, “A lot of advertising this month.” I chuckled at my father’s slip of the tongue, which my mother seemed not to have noticed.

After dinner, I stashed the magazine under my bed. Penthouse deserved a dark, dusty and secretive space, despite my parents’ peculiar acceptance of porn. Every night, I opened it wide to the center, exposing the three metal staples securing the pages. The Pets, with their perfectly feathered hair, seemed to coo in silent ecstasy, their parted lips revealing a bit of tooth or tongue. Their nails were long and perfectly painted, unlike my own bitten-down stubs that ran over the magazine’s cool gloss, smudging the pages. 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.

At work, during my lunch hour, I began to paint my nails—”Lickety Split” and “Transpire,” my colors of choice. I knew the feminists at my college went righteously unshaven and would consider me a traitor for picking up a razor, but I didn’t care. I shaved, reasoning that their bookish beliefs weren’t nearly as exhilarating as my smooth skin, which I groomed in preparation for the impending plucking of my petals.
On my last day at Penthouse , the editor in chief gave me a good-bye gift: an oval abalone pin set in silver that I still have but never wear. “Here,” he said, “let me put it on for you.” As he sent the sharp pin through my blouse, I felt a small stinging prick as it hit my skin and a pleasurable quiver as he rested his hand on my chest. I smiled demurely back at him. My innocence by then had an ironic, knowing edge. Later, when I took off my blouse, I saw that Peter’s pinprick had drawn a small dollop of blood—not exactly the stimulating stuff of a Forum letter, but, I figured, it was a start.

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A stunned 26-year-old was with his partner, Mark, and first saw the two women allegedly knocking back wine as they travelled from Crewe to London Euston
THIS is the shocking moment two women appear to brazenly have sex in first class seats on a Virgin train.
Kaden Wild, a fellow traveller, claims he saw the pair getting it on in full view the day before Valentine's Day.
The stunned 26-year-old was with his partner, Mark, and first saw the two women allegedly knocking back wine as they travelled from Crewe to London Euston.
The store manager from Preston told Sun Online: "We noticed these women were sat in our seats and they were quite lairy so we decided instead of getting them to move seats we would take a seat to the left of them.
"It was just them, me and Mark and some elderly people down the end of the carriage.
"And then they got a bit quiet and we noticed they had made a bit of a dam with their coats so the people on the other side of the train couldn't see into their little area.
"We clocked onto it pretty soon - the redheaded woman's head disappeared so I looked over to see what was going on and her head was underneath the other woman's coat between her legs.
"There was some giggling and the occasional moan but they thought they were being totally under the radar."
Kayden, who was on the way to catch a plane to New York, claimed: "It went on and on and on and it got to the point where we were coming in to Euston and the train conductor was coming to clear the tables.
"We expected him to say 'this is not the time and place ladies' but he just carried on.
"They carried on until the brakes went on, then got up, put their coats on and one of them pulled her leggings up."
A Virgin Trains spokesperson said: “We’re sorry for Mr Wild’s experience and are looking into it. Anti-social behaviour is very rare on our trains but we’re sorry when a passenger experiences it.
"In many cases the train manager will deal with the situation there and then, and if they can’t they will notify the British Transport Police.”
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Bailey Gibson, 23, recorded herself brandishing written verification from a doctor certifying that her virginity is legitimate.
A CHRISTIAN virgin who is auctioning off her virginity has made a video claiming she’s “the purest virgin of them all”.
Bailey Gibson, 23, recorded herself brandishing written verification from a doctor certifying that her virginity is legitimate.
Bailey, from Wisconsin, has announced that she is auctioning her virginity at the world famous Moonlite Bunny Ranch legal brothel near Reno, Nevada.
She claims the current bid on her virginity is over £142,740 ($200,000) but that the standing amount falls far below her expectations.
In the video she challenges other “so called virgins” selling their chastity to provide the same level of proof.
Bailey said on the video: “This document signed by my doctor is proof of my authenticity. I challenge every other so called virgin to publically show evidence of their purity as well.
“So far I’m the only one with proof so if you don’t want to waste your money email me.”
An adopted daughter of devoutly religious parents and a graduate of an all-girls Christian boarding school, Gibson grew up as the quintessential “good girl.”
She said in a blog post: “I grew up nestled in a gated community in the suburbs of Sacramento, California. I was adopted when I was one year old, and grew up with very strong Christian values as my adoptive father was an elder at our home church.
“I was not allowed to watch TV, listen to any music other than Christian music, have friends over, or have sleepovers ever.”
After graduating from the rigorous institution, Gibson met up with her birth family and spent some time living with her biological grandmother in Wisconsin, where she met and moved in with her first serious boyfriend.
She said: “My ex-boyfriend was a Christian at the time and I did not wish to have a sexual relationship with him until we were married. Knowing I was a virgin, he respected my values for a while.
“I learned that love can be deceiving when I discovered that he slept with his ex on Valentine’s Day.”
It was after this painful breakup that Gibson first got the idea to capitalize on her virginity and contacted Bunny Ranch brothel owner Dennis Hof.
Bailey said she has received numerous messages from people claiming that her auction is a fraud and that she is not truly untouched by man.
She added: “People look at my alluring pictures and assume that I’m lying about my sexual innocence.
“But I’m a virgin, one hundred percent, for real, and my doctor will back me up.”
Dennis Hof, owner of the Moonlite Bunny Ranch and six other legal brothels throughout the state of Nevada, shares Bailey’s outrage regarding these doubters.
Dennis said: “I’ve been in the brothel game for decades and I’m easily the most respected bordello owner on the planet.
“It’s a little insulting to hear that individuals are questioning the veracity of my virgins. Bailey’s auction is the real thing.
“If I had any doubts, I wouldn’t put the Bunny Ranch name on it.”
The Bunny Ranch will receive 50 per cent of the final bid price for Bailey’s virginity and the bidding window is tentatively scheduled to close on September 15.
She said of her expectations of the winning bid: “I want ten million. I’m selling something that I can only sell once, and it is the most intimate of all the things you could put a price on.
“For me, to give up my innocence for less would be criminal. I’m worth it, and the man I lose my purity to will be someone who understands the true value of my untouched womanliness.”
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