i peddle smut.

The Best Qualifier Ever

We got a catalog in from one of our vendors. This vendor is known for selling a lot of strange (or, as they call them, specialty) items, including replicas of the genitals of different animals (including a whale). They sell, among other things, a “Realistic Horse Cock Replica.” We’ve never carried it (we have standards, people), but if you are curious it retails for about $75. Anyways, their catalog is as classy as you might imagine it being, and includes little reviews from customers along with pictures and descriptions of their wares. One of the reviews for the previously mentioned Realistic Horse Cock Replica said: “This is a great, realistic feeling, high quality toy if you are into horse cock replicas.” And that portion in bold and italics, my friends, is the best qualifier that ever existed.

Everyone Loves a Giant Fake Dick

The biggest, baddest dildos we carry come in heavy duty cardboard boxes. These fake dicks are 13+ inches long and as big around as my forearm. They have names like Blackballed and Rascal. They are heavy and usually made of questionable materials that smell like chemicals and air freshener. They’re terrible, but everyone loves them.

Men and women alike are drawn to them. Customers see the display of the large dildos (which we keep together for organization sake) and nearly run towards them like they are possessed. Then, they rip open the packages and pull out the giant dildos and wave them around, show them to their friends, laugh and then toss them aside. This happens again and again. The problem is that these customers literally rip the packaging open and no one wants a toy that appears to have been used - even if it’s just the toy packaging. In other words, no one wants a manhandled big fake dick but everyone wants to manhandle one.

Over time, the boxes start to look like they were damaged in freight or run over by a forklift or both. The poor, abused, damaged boxes sit on the shelves for months, years even. They are marked down again and again until finally someone buys them at some ridiculous markdown to “give as a gag gift” (there is almost always this explanation with the giant toys). To combat this, I’ve started taping the giant dildo boxes with packing tape to try to signal to customers don’t open this. I tape up the bottoms and tops of the boxes with multiple layers of heavy duty, clear tape. I thought I was being pretty clever with this. As it turns out, this hasn’t stopped anyone.

People are not assuaged by my attempts to keep them out of the boxes. They rip and pull and tug and pull out pocket knives to open the boxes. I see (or more often, hear) them and yell out “SIR!” They freeze. “If you want to see anything out of the package, I would be happy to help.” There is always a pause and a stammer. They want me to know the box was already open, they just wanted to see it, they were just curious. I get it, everyone wants to see the 14 inch black dildo. I try to explain it’s about safety and keeping the packages intact and in good repair. Customers seem to understand what I’m saying, but they just can’t get past the desire to see and handle a giant fake penis.

So, this is my request to you: stop destroying my fucking packages; just take a few deep breaths, try to control yourself and step away from the big black dildo.

I am standing at the counter on a slow Wednesday night at the adult store. I haven’t seen a customer in over an hour. I am bored. My coworker sits in the break room reading a book in her lap. She is also bored.

I gaze up at the security cameras and see a car pull into the parking lot - an older Lexus with big, shiny rims. A few moments later, the tooliest tool in the tool shed saunters in, wearing the toolbag uniform: distressed jeans and an Affliction t-shirt. By then, my coworker was standing at the other end of the counter. We were both a little excited to finally see someone other than each other.  The customer made a bee-line for her.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he half-whispered, “do you know about…you know…sex parties?”

“Um, yeah,” she replied. My interest in this conversation was piqued.

“Well, you see, I just moved here from Miami.” He says Miami stressing each syllable, as if I’ve never heard of the place. “I’m looking to have some fun.”

My coworker looks at me for guidance. “I know what you’re talking about and I really don’t know what to tell you. We aren’t that kind of store, sir.” I say. “I can tell you where the strip clubs are and we have flyers for local fetish nights at some dance clubs…” I trail off, already able to tell what I’m telling him is not sufficient.

“I just want to have some fun,” he exclaims, “Come on, help me out.” He winks at my coworker.

She replies with some variation, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to tell you.”

He rolls his eyes, pulls out his phone and starts pressing buttons furiously. He snatches some of the flyers off the counter and slams the door behind him on his way out.

“He was kind of hot,” my co-worker says after he leaves.

“He looked like a Valtrex prescription.” I reply.

Before I tell this story, you need to know two facts about me: (1) I’m a girl and (2) I’m white.

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1-900-SMUT-STORE

Strange phone calls are an occupational hazard in my line of work. Along with the standard fare of legit questions (“What are your hours?” and “Where are you located?”) and prank calls from kids (“Do you sell….dildos?” *giggles*) exist the creepy calls. A certain group of men in this world are so lonely and emotionally stunted that they like to call adult stores and get their jollies, using us as a 1-900 number (I often wonder if they make the rounds in the Yellow Pages and just call every adult store listed, hoping for the best). Strangely, the same guys call week after week, always with the same story. They are certainly persistent, and most definitely creepsters. I wish I knew why they kept calling, it’s not like we engage them in their fantasy, we always hang up as soon as it gets creepy (or put them on perma-hold). Some just want to hear us say dirty words, but others want us to play into their fantasy. The creepy callers with the fantasies always have the same stories.

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It’s my porn and I want it now.

Remember when I posted about who buys porn, anyway? If you don’t, it’s okay, I’ll wait here while you go catch up. As I mentioned in that post, one group of individuals who still buy porn from brick-and-mortar stores are collectors (aka: porn addicts). This is a story about one such individual.

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Ingenuity.

We often have couples who are regular customers and come in together. I get to know their names and about their lives - what they do for a living, if they have kids, where they are from and all that. One such couple comes in fairly regularly and often spends a reasonable sum of money on toys and movies. They are in their early 50s and married. The male part of the couple looks and sounds like Arlo Guthrie (but with short hair) and the woman just looks like any other middle aged lady. They are friendly and interested in all of our products, but more than a little awkward and they like to overshare with me. Oversharing happens on a regular basis at the smut store. People need a place to talk about things and we’re a safe space, so they overshare with us. I try not to judge and to listen and be patient.

The woman has only just recently come into her sexual awakening and they have only started trying “new” or “different” sexual things over the last year. One such thing is oral sex. Apparently, the woman was terrified of giving oral sex to her husband (or any other man) and never did it. She was terrified of gagging and thought it was gross, especially swallowing. She’s bought many books and instructional movies on the topic. A few weeks ago, she came in with her husband and felt the urge to tell me all about her progress. Apparently, a lot of progress has been made.She still hasn’t performed the act, but she has created a toy to help her practice.

She and her husband bought a penis sleeve which is a hollowed out fake penis about 4-5 inches long meant to be worn by a man during intercourse to give the appearance and sensation that the man has a bigger penis. They also bought a lube shooter, which a bit like a syringe (but without a needle and with a thicker, rounded tip) used to put lube in the butt for anal play. She found a recipe online for “semen” - which she told me is yogurt, water and salt - and she fills the lube shooter with the “semen” and then puts the lube shooter in the hollowed out part of the penis sleeve. Then, she practices giving oral sex to the fake penis, making the fake penis “ejaculate” and trying to swallow the “semen.” Please excuse my excessive use of quotation marks here, but it’s really hard to not use them when talking about using a lube shooter in a fake penis to create the illusion of ejaculation.

She told me all this in great detail and with such joy and pride in her face. She was so excited about her contraption. She had it in a Ziplock bag in her purse. She took it out and showed it to me. She desperately wanted to show me how it worked, but I insisted I understood and that it would be inappropriate for such things to go on in the store. She wanted to give me the recipe for the “semen” to give to other customers. Her husband stood next to her the whole time, just smiling. I smiled and nodded and listened, like I always try to do, but in my head I couldn’t help but think: is this real life?