Dr. Nyet

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It started in London. It started in darkness. It started in bed.

It started in Gladys – almost.

But not quite.

Gladys?

She was a pre-Pygmalion Eliza Doolittle with more frontage than the fair ladies of stage, screen, and video combined. She was a 'eavenly 'arlot with 'ot 'ips and 'eathenish 'aunches. And 'igh 'opes of cadging a sheaf of shillings from the American tourist she'd picked up at a bar in Piccadilly.

The American tourist was me. Steve Victor. The man from O.R.G.Y.

O.R.G.Y.? The official name is "Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth." Actually, it's strictly a one-man organization dedicated to providing food, shelter, clothing, and a few life-spicing luxuries for me. But don't get the wrong idea. O.R.G.Y. is on the up-and-up. Spurred on by assignments backed up by grants from various interested foundations, I conduct Kinsey-type sex surveys all over the world. And I do my job honestly and enthusiastically.

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