To my new best friends at the Pleasure Place
Read This Confession To Me
I thought it would be an "in and out job." I thought to myself, I'll just walk in, pick something reasonable, and make my merry way. I bought myself a vibrator before, no problem, it's in the bag, etc. etc. Never mind it was in my hippy dippy college town at a discrete shop for women in an obsure strip mall, and not, say, fronting Connecticut Avenue in the big bad city. Never mind that it was six years ago, with my freshman girlfriends, and we sheepishly giggled our way--together--through that most awkward rite of passage of celebrating one's own right to mechanically enhanced autophilia.
Feigning confidence as I oh-so-aloofly browsed the strap-ons, the harnesses, the anal lubes, the crotch-high leather stiletto boots, etc., I noticed that in lieu of the kind old middle aged hippie women who sold me my friend "Flicka" back at school, the Pleasure Place was run (today) exclusively by boys. Yes i am an adult, and yes I obviously came to buy a vibrator, but still--BOYS selling me my next one?
I shrugged, steeled my resolve, and continued to the back of the store,where a veritable cornucopia of sexual do-dads dared me to come hither. I soberly touched each box, read the price tags and the intended use of each toy, tried to make a sensible, informed consumer decision regarding which gizmo would best suit my masturbatory needs. (It's not like picking tomatoes, kids.)
I select an interesting--if daunting piece of wide girth and several edges designed to stimulate multiple areas. OK, this is it. I will just buy it and leave. But life is never that simple.
The Pleasure Place, devoted to customer satisfaction, does not honor returns and therefore must TEST every vibrator prior to purchase, right there on the sales counter, which is so conveniently in front of the store. I'm so sorry, short cute shy cashier who had to struggle with the batteries and try to run something that will touch a part of me you never wanted to know about. And I'm so sorry, Mr. Cashier, that I chose the only defective piece, and that it gave you so much trouble. Yes, I managed to select an impotent vibrator.
As returned to the dildo-shelves, the cashier’s punktastic, purple-haired coworker (manager?) took over from there, asking me plainly, "Is there anything in particular you were looking for?"
Beyond a battery-powered orgasm machine? No, but thanks for asking.
Where any mere mortal would shrug and simply return to their work, you--purple-haired manager, expert in all things vibratory--showed me the spectrum of available toys. Furthermore, you demonstrated them for me right there in front of ther store. I was mortified in front of all the other customers as you matter-of-factly stuck the batteries in, ran the different modes, and even had me touch each item as it trembled in robotic lust. Straight, gay, or otherwise inclined, you impressed me by most professionally discussing at length the virtues of each item, without batting an eye, knowing full well that we were both trying to imagine exactly which thing IN YOUR HAND would feel best against my clitoris. You even laughed at my joke about the disco-Dildo that lit up. (Come on, who really cares if a light is going on in your vagina, anyhow?)
Blushing but determined to make a buy, I continued browsing. I finally made a purchase, but you by then were busy with other work, and I was not able to thank you for a level of class, professionalism and candor about the most [literally] sensitive issues. The very kind cashier rang me up, duly tested my choice, and sent me on my way to enjoy to gift that keeps on giving.
Thank you, Pleasure Place. No other sex-toy shop will ever live up to you.
Your newest devoted customer.
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