Sex Store Stories
During my first year of graduate school, I got a job working at the adult store in my town. While in many ways it wasn’t much different from other retail environments (complaining customers, the occasional shoplifter, having to do that fake customer service laugh), it also was a bit different.
Like any job, working at the adult store had its ups and downs. I carried and unpacked inventory every Wednesday, never knowing exactly what would be in each box. Of course, whoever was in charge of ordering product for our location, always seemed to be hitting the order button with a blindfold. We rarely got what we actually needed and were instead often met with products we didn’t even know existed, like a self-rising vibrator that went from flaccid to full in under 10 seconds.
For most of the week, the store was pretty empty. On days where I found myself alone in the shop for hours on end, I read from the store’s significantly marked down copy of Fifty Shades of Grey and ate expired sex chocolates until my face was flushed and my stomach hurt. The aphrodisiac chocolates were not the best tasting snack in the world, but they did the trick during long shifts. If I was extra starved from standing on my feet all day, I’d sample some of the dessert flavored lubricants we had in stock.
As one can imagine, a frustrated customer is a universal character, regardless of whether or not the store in question sells mature content. Once, a customer asked if we had a bathroom. When I replied that unfortunately we didn’t, and that the Wendy’s next door did, he paused and stared at me for a few moments. “Well if you don’t have a bathroom, then where do YOU go? he demanded to know. Where don’t I go? I wanted to reply. I’m peeing right now actually!
Instead, I let him know that we had a single toilet stuck in the middle of the stockroom. He huffed and stormed off, to Wendy’s presumably. There is a reason that most adult stores don’t have public restrooms and I’d like to think I don’t need to explain that reason for it to be generally understood.
Our strict No Returns policy was also something I’d hope I wouldn’t have to explain, although I found myself explaining this more often than I’d like to admit. No, you cannot return the butt plug because it was too small. I’m sorry, but we cannot take the Flesh Light back even though it tore. Please contact the manufacturer. Sir, I know you want to return the vibrator you bought for your wife because she didn’t like it, but you simply cannot. Also, how does she know she doesn’t like it if she didn’t try it? Are you admitting that she did try it? Because in that case…gross.
At check out, I always asked customers if they needed the recommended products to go with their purchase, most often lubricant and toy cleaner. While most people saw the value in those additions, some did not and were not afraid to admit that A. They don’t clean their toys and just toss em back into the sock drawer, or B. They don’t need lube for their girlfriend because they just use their spit. This cashier could have lived without that knowledge.
To ensure that the toy in question functioned properly, I would offer to test it out at the register. This often resulted in giggling as a response. “You’re going to try it out?” I fought the urge to say I already have, the one in your hand, to be exact.
There were moments I particularly enjoyed because they actually felt rewarding. Helping a woman pick out her first vibrator made me feel like the spirit guide on her journey to pleasure. Helping an 84-year-old man find a trusted cock ring made me hopeful for my own elderly future. Unlike my bachelor’s in fine arts, my knowledge in this particular branch actually made me feel like I had something useful to share with people.
Because I was the only employee who spoke Spanish, I had to broaden my vocabulary to include words I never thought I’d need to know. With a large Latinx customer base, learning certain words was necessary for being able to best direct them to their needs. Luckily anal translates to anal.
Assisting customers shopping for lingerie was generally a good experience. Besides the occasional older woman who insisted on trying on underwear without underwear underneath, helping a woman find something she felt empowered and sexy in was a satisfying experience.
Educating customers about safety was also a rewarding part of the job. Each condom sale felt like a victory for public health. With everything from glow in the dark to tattoo print, there was a condom (or dental dam) for everybody
From our expansive kink collection, I found that there was also something for everyone. Fuzzy hand cuffs? A breathable ball gag? A flog that leaves SLUT imprinted on your skin? You name it, we got it.
Although I eventually resigned from the job for something related to what I was in school for, I enjoyed my time at the local sex shop. I left the job with more niche knowledge than I anticipated, and a storage bin full of freebies, most of which I have yet to find use for. Emphasis on the yet.
