Monday found me ridiculously overdressed in a shirt and tie, being shown my very own cubicle by a redheaded guy who reminded me of that camp counselor who's always trying to be all the kids' buddy. He turned out to be my managing editor and immediate supervisor. We'll call him "Richard," after Richard Roundtree. Shaft was more than Richard's favorite movie: It was his philosophy of life.

"Hey, new guy, nice to meet ya." We shook hands. "Hey, you like pussy don'tcha?"

"Er, why, yes, I do." Was this a trick question?

"Excellent, man! This is the job for you! Just don't fuck up."

"I won't," I promised.

"Good! Quint will be in a little later, but he wanted me to get you started writing some girl copy."

"What's girl copy?" I asked naively.

"Girl copy is the text that goes along with the photos. You just write a little story about what's going on in the photos, and then the art guys put it into the spread. It's the easiest fucking job on earth. You're a lucky son-of-a-bitch, you know that?"

He handed me a sheaf of black-and-white laser printouts. "Hop to it. You need me, I'll be in my office."

I sat down to look at the photo spread. There didn't seem to be much room for me to work in terms of plot and characterization. A vaguely Asian-looking model, lying on a cheap set straight out of Valentino's "Desert Sheik," was displaying her goods for the camera in what I soon came to recognize as the standard "porno poses." In low-resolution black-and-white, it didn't look erotic. In fact, it looked almost clinical. Feeling great empathy for gynecologists everywhere, I sat down, took a deep breath, and wrote my first few sentences of girl copy:

Michelle is a slut with a secret. Trained in the ancient Chinese art of quim-do, she can give a man the most intense orgasm of his life-or fuck him to death. But what she really wants is a man to call her own, a man she can please like she's always wanted to. Reclining in the sumptuous harem where her latest mission has taken her, she gently rubs herself as she envisions her fantasy lover. Soon, she will have her assignment to fulfill-but until then, she has her right hand to keep her company.

I titled my masterpiece, "Nookie Ninja," proudly hit the print button, and brought it into Richard's office.

"What the fuck is this shit?!" he sputtered, his red pen leaving scarlet letters all over my work.

"Pardon?"

"First of all, what the hell does 'sumptuous' mean? And we never use words like 'slut' or 'whore.' It's demeaning."

"Wait a minute. We can show girls getting man-cream facials, but we can't call them sluts?" I'm not normally one to call women "sluts," but I figured, like Eminem, all is kosher in the name of art.

"The fucking feminists watch this shit like hawks," Richard leaned in conspiratorially, his eyes shifting from side to side as if a pickax-wielding Andrea Dworkin were about to jump out from behind the door at any moment. "There's a lot of people out there that don't give a flying fuck about the First Amendment. If you make it seem like you're demeaning women, you'll wind up in court in a minute, buck-o. But don't worry. You'll catch on to how this game is played. Give it another whirl."

"Got it, boss," I said, backing out the door slowly.

"Oh, and cut out the part about killing. It makes my dick shrivel up just thinking about it," he shouted after me.

"Right, boss," I said.

"And give her an orgasm, too. They're not being exploited if they're having fun, right?"

"Sure thing, boss."

Returning to my cube, I closed my eyes for a moment. I summoned up everything my 11th-grade creative writing teacher had ever taught me. And then, I began writing. I gave it passion. I gave it verve. I gave it an orgasm. My act of creation complete, I presented the clean printout to Richard.

"Close the door," he said. A lump in my throat, I closed the door. I had heard that entry-level editors are like Kleenex: throw this one out, there's another one queued up right behind.

Next: Idolatry and Moral Degradation