That Time I Accidentally Caused an Evacuation at a Porn Shop

No pics on this post, for the safety of everyone’s fucking sanity.

The day before my 18th birthday, I answered an ad in the local paper looking for someone to work at (wuuuuuuuuut?!) a porn shop. The lady on the phone said I should come in the next day for the application, and I did. Inside, I was jumping up and down like a maniac. Job at porn shop?! IF THEY COULD SEE ME NOW!

They, of course, were everyone who had essentially said… uh, I would end up working at some shit job because I’m lazy or whatever. I was also enrolled in college, though, alright.

So, using my most awkward charms, I got that job on my 18th birthday. I just remember two hulking beasts masquerading as humans, leaned over a counter eying me and asking me random questions. I don’t even think I filled out an application… that place was skeeze central, but you know what? They had a giant flatscreen TV behind the counter that stood taller than I, on which I would “demo” DVDs for my own edification or for a customer to make a decision.

You can’t even judge me right now. You would do the same thing.

So, on the day I’m writing about, three things happened:

First, I found out why the guys who came in would change from booth to booth. There was a camera in the hall outside the doors (not looking in, ok) and I was told if one of the lights went out above the closed doors, I needed to go hassle whoever was in there to put more quarters in. The lights stayed on, but the guys would periodically wander out to another booth. I hadn’t gone back there at all (the smell… was… deargod) and I had assumed that there was only one video per booth. Nope! One of the regulars who would get rolls of quarters at a time informed me of the (then) mythical glory holes and what was going on back there. That’s fair, I suppose.

Second, this serial caller phoned… I used to get all kinds of fucked up phone calls, but this one guy would call just to hear my voice. Not even my voice… just someone‘s. His number would pop up on caller ID, as it did from the first day I worked there until the last… and he would act as if he had bought a marital aid and needed some instruction on how to use it. Same type of call, different device every time.

The third thing actually happened prior to and during this phone call. Some five or six men were “watching videos” in the booths and I was just sitting around up front. Nothing to do… “What is this giant spraycan?” I thought to myself. I picked it up and turned it around in my palm. It was the size of a can of hairspray, like AquaNet, but silver with black letters that had almost completely fallen off. Two strips of the fuzzy side of velcro were wrapped around it… and I just couldn’t figure out what it was. I decided it probably was not hairspray and probably was Lysol, or something like it, and sprayed just a burst on the black floor mat behind the counter as the phone rang.

It was the serial caller. I saw it before I even picked up the phone. I dreaded this every day. As I tried to avoid saying anything actually sexual and direct him to, I don’t know, the fucking internet, I thought “damn, my throat feels… closing?” Just then, all of the men burst from their booths and fled in a mass of “WHAT THE FUCK” outside. As one I knew passed, I asked what was going on.

“Some son of a bitch sprayed mace in here,” he yelled as he went out into the fresh air. I don’t remember how I ended that fucking call, but I remember thinking… if I’m standing on the spot where the mace is and it’s only slightly hurting me, but guys who are engaged in a fair amount of… distraction some 40 feet away are in pain… why, I must be invincible!

There was no way to open any windows, as they were barred up and painted shut. We all stood around outside talking. I didn’t say what I had accidentally done for a while. Everyone thought someone had come in and committed a really lame hate crime… and so I had to confess. They were all so nice and told me I had to call my boss, but they would all lie for me so I wouldn’t get fired. I declined.

I am a pervert, sure, but I am a virtuous pervert.

The same cannot be said for the fucker that owns that shop. He was cool about it, overall, but instead of firing or reprimanding me, he just went into detail about how he’d like to sodomize my boyfriend (at the time). When I told him, politely, that it wasn’t cool, he said I should “take it as a compliment” and was “lucky I wasn’t being fired.” That guy is a complete piece of shit, for real. I could go on and on…

I had at some point suggested to the manager and owner (before I got fired for complaining about being sexually harassed when the manager slapped my ass and grabbed me around the waist one day; yeah, I was told I was too immature to work there if I couldn’t handle some, uh, getting groped) that they should sell body jewelry and pipes, as many porn shops do. That’s actually all they do now… if they’re even still open. I really don’t get out much, these days.

The end.

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