Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Tonight's Tale from the Porn Store: Poppers and the Po-Po

I'm not naive by any stretch of the imagination, but I am still fairly innocent in some respects. One of those respects are ways to get high. I am a D.A.R.E. graduate, but that doesn't mean very much aside from a snort of laughter from those of us who went through the program. Let's just say I know a lot of fucked up D.A.R.E. kids.

So, I knew about mainstream stuff-Marijuana, coke, smack, meth, reds, barbs, uppers, downers, and on and on; I knew about prescription drugs and which ones will mess you up or make you bank if you decide to go that route; but the street appeal of regular old everyday household items that could get you high were one thing I didn't know much about.

I mean, as a girl I would put together models (most memorable were the model rockets and the Visible Woman with my dad, learning every bone and internal organ at the dining room table), and I had to open a window or turn on the fan, because the glue gave me a headache. I didn't realize people wanted to smell that stuff. Glue, spraypaint, markers, all that jazz, nope, not me.

So, poppers were introduced to me at the Porn Store. The first time I unpacked a shipment, there was a small box full of little bottles of VHS head cleaner. I knew what that stuff was, my mom used to manage a video store when we lived in Dublin, GA, and I knew how to use it to clean a VCR that was having tracking or catching issues. I asked where I should put it, and was told to put some in the case, and some in the fridge. I was a little confused at that, because head cleaner doesn't go in the fridge! It was then explained that some customers like it cold. A raised eyebrow on my part got the whole story.

So, we sold several different brands, and they all were awful. One shipment came in, and the box had shifted and the bottles had all either leaked or broken. I had to clean it, and boy howdy was it awful. My eyes were streaming, I was dizzy and my head was pounding, and the whole time I was thinking, "people do this for fun???"**

**I am pretty open in my views on disgusting things people put into their bodies, so don't view that last bit as disapproval, just an honest opinion. People think the same thing about my occasional cigar. Just don't mess with me, don't sue someone if you're the one who does something stupid, and don't hurt anybody else while you're doing it and we'll get along fine.**


I did my job, though, and sold it to people that wanted it, which consisted of whip-thin, wild-eyed men who were all extremely polite and well spoken. Couldn't be doing much damage to the ol' brain cells, I thought; and they would not just buy them and run, but would stay and chat, getting rundowns on the latest movies or my opinions on whatever they happened to think up.

One evening, I was working and a couple of guys came in and were looking around. They were followed shortly by another man that reminded me of Tom Hanks' character in Dragnet when he was working undercover. It was that obvious: bandana on the head, denim jacket with patches and a red bandana knotted on his bicep, cut-off American flag and screaming eagle t-shirt, tight blue jeans with a big belt complete with a huge buckle, big leather biker boots, skull rings. All his clothes were immaculate-no tears, stains, or signs of wear. He made a beeline for the door to funland, and I stopped him. I had to see ID or nobody could go back there. I verified his age, and he went back and walked around for a few minutes, not looking at anything in particular. He came back out and looked in the case for a bit, then tapped on the glass above the bottles of head cleaner. He asked me, "What are those?"

I looked at him, and said, "Those are bottles of VHS head cleaner."

"Why do you have those here?"

Ah-ha; this could get interesting. I put on my A-#1 dazzling salesgirl customer service smile, and said, "Well, sir, we sell VHS tapes, and to optimize the quality of viewing, it is good to occasionally clean the heads on your VCR. Therefore, we sell head cleaner."

It was his turn to raise his eyebrow. "Can't you use these for something else?"
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"Can't you , you know, do other things with this? I hear people do other things with this."

At this point, the customers on the other side of the room wandered closer.

I fixed the man's eyes, and said, "Not that I am aware of, sir; after all, use of such chemicals outside of their stated purpose could be hazardous and is not recommended."

He got the most hateful look on his face and stormed out. The other guys came over and were freaking out. "Oh god, that was a cop! I can't belive it! That was a cop! Can I have a bottle of the blue label?"

And so it goes.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Tonight's Tale from the Porn Store: Strippers and me

I have to say, (even though if my dad ever catches wind of this little blog he will be highly disappointed), I have always wanted to be a stripper, if only for just one day. I have always been fascinated by the art of the striptease, from burlesque to the buck-naked lap dance. I'll freely admit that I do stripteases at home by myself when I'm feeling froggy, (hey, it's a benefit of being a single gal!), and own 2 pair of stripper heels. They make you look and feel AWESOME, however, I wouldn't recommend being highly intoxicated while walking in them.

I've also been to a strip club with boyfriends and their friends; in their minds it was some sort of test, but I ended up having a better time than they did. They bought me table dances (no touching in the all nude clubs), and the women all appreciated the fact that I was having a good time, and not sitting there scowling or pouting like the other women who had been brought by their menfolk. During one song I was sitting and just grooving in my seat, singing with the music, when one of the ladies came over to me, and said how much she loved this song, and asked if I wanted a dance. I politely declined, as I had just had one, but she threw us a free one. During another song, I used a Mac King trick to slide a tip to one of the dancers, making it look like I was using my mind, but really blowing the bill across the stage.

That being said, the strippers loved me. They loved me because I would always tell them when an outfit didn't work, or make sure we had plenty of G-strings that held to the "1-inch rule." (In Tennessee, dance establishments that allow the dancer to touch you require that the buttcrack be covered by no less than a 1 inch wide G-string, and must remain covered, and the pubic area be completely covered.), and helped them trim the adhesive pasties or the whirlybird kind for them. (In 1-inch establishments, they must also wear pasties that cover the entire nipple, including the areola. I know, ridiculous, right?)

I became friends with several of the girls from the two local clubs, and one day a one of them came in. She was very excited, and said, "Look, honey! I got nipple rings! What do you think?" and she whipped her shirt up over her head, displaying her cash and prizes. I complimented her choice on silver hoops, and she put her shirt down. She said, " I just wanted to stop in and show you; I'll be back later this week for some new shoes, bye!" and she biddy-bopped out of the store.

The only squicky stripper experience I had was when a girl came in with an elderly couple. She was looking at the dancewear, and was picking out pieces. She asked for help, since she was a new dancer at the place next door, and I found some things I thought would work for her, when she held something up, turned to the old man, and said, "Papaw, do you think I'll be sexy in this?"

Call me crazy, but your granddad shouldn't help you pick out your stripper wardrobe.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Tonight's Tale from the Porn Store- This one's a long one

Once I established myself as the resident "freak on a leash," that is, someone who wasn't ashamed/embarrassed/disgusted at the items/videos/magazines we sold, and who had made some awesome strides in creating repeat customers with product and technique knowledge, I was given some new duties.

New duty number 1: We sold a ton of DVDs, many of them 2-6 hour marathon clip DVDs. A problem with these tends to be that the studios try to sneak in some questionable-if not illegal- content. Someone had to verify that no actual sex with the dog or horse or donkey on the cover occured. Guess who got to watch these? That's right, me. Let me just tell you, this was horrible. I would get compensated for my time, but nothing can erase some of the images from my brain. So, I would come home and unwind, then throw in a dvd, most of the time fast forwarding through the scenes, but some of them I had to seriously watch.

A note on the Tri-Cities: A lot more people than you would think want to see people having sex with animals. I swear I was asked several times a week if we had anything like that. The worst day for these inquiries, funnily enough, was Sunday, when they would release the men from the VA, and they would storm the store like the beaches of Normandy. Trust me when I say watch yourself around dapper looking gentlemen in bow ties, because they may do something horrible to the family pet.

Back to the story at hand: Not only was the content of these DVDs awful, but so was the actual quality; skipping video, and erratic sound. This was problematic for me, because I lived in a crappy little apartment close to the college that was one of three in a renovated house.

Our walls were so thin that when I would be getting ready in the morning, I could hear the dude next door cursing at his computer as if we were in the same room, and sometimes if the light was right, you could see light from next door seeping through the paneling.

This was also during the high summer, and the windows were open since there was no air conditioning. Needless to say, I would have the volume as low as possible, but then the sound would dip. I would turn it up a little so I could keep track of what was going on, but invariably when the next door neighbor would come onto the porch to check his mail, which was right next to the living room window, the sound would blare, and I would panic, and mute the damn thing. Not fun, especially when he would meet me outside sometimes, and give me creepy grins and nods. Thankfully, I never did see any illegal activities, because I don't think I'd be here if I had.

New duty number 2: Home parties! I was selected to be the exhibitor at the home parties. You all know what these are like; basically they're perverted tupperware parties. Lots of fun, especially when you can get the ladies to relax and have fun, I mean come on, we're tasting flavored lubes and I'm showing you the 88 different speeds and variations of the super dildo deluxe, let your hair down a little!

The last home party I did was a bachelorette party. Those ladies had an absolute blast. We made tons of sales and the bride-to-be and her friends thanked me profusely, and invited my manager and I to stay and have supper. The maid of honor took me aside and said that she had hired a male stripper, and we were welcome to stay and watch the show as well. Naturally, we agreed.

Oh, but we shouldn't have.

Firstly, he was late, and when he finally arrived, we were all taken somewhat aback, as he didn't look like a male stripper should look. He looked like Riff-Raff from Rocky Horror minus the hunchback; tall, whip-thin, long greasy hair, hawk nose, bad teeth...it was bad. Of course, I had to see this. We all piled into the room, and he had a pizza box. He handed it to the bride-to-be, and she opened it. Not only was it a used pizza box, with remnants of the pizza clinging to the bottom and the roof, but he had scrawled some message on it in ballpoint pen to the effect of, "I ate your pizza, so here's your pie" or something ridiculous like that.

Then, he started his music. Kid Rock. Then, he started trying to dance. I say trying to dance, because with all the clothes he was wearing, he couldn't do much more than stand there and wiggle a little until he shed some layers. He had on a pleather duster, a button up flannel shirt, black jeans, and hiking boots. This was only the beginning, though. He got rid of the coat and shirt quickly, and he had on a paisley vest under the shirt. Ew. He had to kneel down to take off his hiking boots, then he got his jeans off. Underneath the jeans? Long johns. I wish I was making this up. So now, he's down to the vest, the long johns, and his socks. He whips off the vest, and pulls down his long johns to reveal his posing pouch.

I couldn't help it, I burst out laughing and couldn't stop. I had to leave the room. The man was wearing a silk posing pouch that had been airbrushed with a jungle scene featuring a leopard. I have never seen such fear and dejection in a creature's eyes before, and doubt I ever will again. As I was trying to leave, he turned around and wiggled his butt at me. His butt was worse than the pouch; it was as if someone had hurled two handfuls of biscuit dough onto a 2x4 and let them sag there.

The maid of honor followed me out, and she was on the phone to the agency immediately, and was using language unbecoming of a lady while expressing her displeasure with the entire scene. We're in the dining room, and he comes out, asking if we want another set. "NO!!" we scream, and he leaves, and we lock the door behind. My manager and I stayed behind until the taxi came and took him away.

We drove back to Johnson City in silence, put away all the unsold product, and I went home. Sadly, I didn't have enough alcohol in the house to wash away the night.

I suppose that's lucky, because if I had, you wouldn't be laughing now.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Tonight's tale from the Porn Store

I was, and still am, an excellent salesperson. What I pitch, I do my best to understand and if possible, have some experience with so that I can provide my customers with as much product knowledge as I can, and give recommendations that fit my customer's needs.

However, it is possible to be too good.

One fine day, I was rocking out, selling videos and magazines and toys by the handful, when a younger gentleman comes in. He is flustered and embarrassed, and didn't want to show his ID to get into the wonderland. I convinced him it was alright, we just needed to verify age, we don't take names. He gave in, and I invited him through the pearly gate. He stared agog at the walls covered in merchandise, and came back over to the counter. He told me he was completely embarrassed to have to ask, but he needed some help with something. Long story short, he was having some problems with "equipment failure," and wanted to know what a cock ring was, what it did, and how you'd use one.

If you don't know what a cock ring is, I'll wait while you look it up.

Done? The internet is a wonderful thing, huh?

Well, I explained the mechanics of them, and took him over to the "man wall" as I called it, and showed him some varieties that were good for beginners. He selected a couple, and wanted to check them out. I took them out of the packaging, and showed him the various ways of placement on a lifelike dildo. I told you, I was good. Hey, I worked on commission, I had to do something to boost sales!

He decided on a leather model with snaps (for quick release), and paid. I even gave him a discount card for the next time he came in. The entire time he had been in the store, he had been polite and charming, almost shy. This all changed the moment he hit the door to the outside world.

He turned around, and gave me this...grin. I'm sure in his head it made him look like James Bond, but in reality it made him look like his IQ had dropped 30 points all at once. He Crip-walked back over to the counter, and gave me The Lean. He said, "You're totally cute. What time do you get off?"

I had to stifle a laugh, and was as polite as I could be as I turned him down and shooed him away. When he got outside, though, I collapsed. Fellows, if you buy something for E.D., don't hit on the gal who sold it to you, ok? Even if she is totally cute.

More tales from the Porn Store

Well, one morning I was opening, and I stopped to get some breakfast on the way in. The ever-cheerful and oh-so-helpful Burger King staff gave me an unsweet tea instead of the sugary goodness I ordered, but I didn't discover this until I had already opened the shop and couldn't leave. There weren't any sugar/splenda/sweet-n-low packs around the store like there would be any other morning, so I was at a loss.

Until my tired eyes happened upon the little sample packets of flavored lube. My thought process:

1. It's flavored, and I like flavored teas.
2. It's edible, and it tastes pretty good.
3. It's pretty sweet, in fact, sweet enough to take on my tea. It's nutrasweet, even better! More bang for my buck!
4. I'm this desperate!

So, I bought a sample packet of blueberry, my sleep deprived brain going, "mmm, blueberries!" I cut it open, dumped it in my tea, and stirred it up. It turned grey. My tea was grey. The top had a pretty rainbow sheen of floating glycerin, like the creature from "The Raft," which gave me pause, but I went ahead and stuck my straw in, and tasted.

Oh God, what had I done.

It was an abomination. A greasy, bitter, grey abomination. I'm suprised a representative from Lipton didn't pull into the parking lot, come into the store, and slap me. But, it was all I had to drink for the entire 8 hour shift. So, I decided that I had made my bed, and I'd sleep in it, dammit, even though it was absolutely miserable.

Moral of the story: Flavored lube tastes good by itself, or on another person. Don't use it to sweeten a beverage. Ever.

Tales from the Porn Store

I have been jotting down random memories, and here are a choice couple from when I worked at the porn store.

It was Halloween, and I was dressed as a zombie attack victim a la "Night of the Living Dead." I had a skirt I had ripped, torn hose, shirt with one sleeve ripped off, my collar torn like I had gotten away from a grasping hand, disheveled hair, bloody nose, scratches, black eye, I looked amazing. The night progressed with me starting out by scaring the bejesus out of my manager; the other girls had me lay down in the floor in the novelty room, and told her as she came in to the store to look at what someone did to the Jenna display, and she ran back there and saw me laying there all bloody, and screamed her head off. It was beautiful.
Later that night, a man came in, and he asked my opinion on a couple of S/M magazines, asked me to escort him around the store and tell him about the merchandise, and what toys sold best. He bought everything I recommended. At the register as I was taking his money, he said, "I like your shirt...the way it's torn, it gives...a great view of your rack. You have wonderful tits, I mean, look at 'em!" I was speechless for a second, then went with being polite, and said, "Thank you," smiling all the while I handed him his change. He then said, "I own a motorcycle shop here in town, here's my card. You come by if you ever need anything, and it'll be 15% off, 'cause of your tits." He left with his payload of erotic merchandise, disappearing into the night.

Another night, a customer came in, and he was acting really, truly weird. He brought up a magazine and a movie, then said he wanted some lube. I pointed him towards the samples, and he picked one out. As I was ringing him up, he asked, " Do you know what time it is?"
"Yes, it's 9:32."
"No...It's masturbation time!"

It took everything within me not to laugh in his face. I rang him out, he left, and I collapsed on the counter, laughing my ass off. Now, when anyone asks me what time it is, I have to keep myself from screaming, "IT'S MASTURBATION TIME!!!"