As I am in the market for a new job these days, I'm having an interesting time trawling through the weekly employment pages in the local rag. Last week was particularly interesting because there was a job that I was completely qualified for; in a location that's only about five minutes away; paid well; and I just couldn't bring myself to go for it. Basically, because it was managing a sex shop.
Now don't get me wrong- I have nothing against sex shops. I've pretty much only ever been into them with friends before costume parties (why is it that most men will jump at the chance to dress like a cheap hooker?) and my initial trip when I was 18 into the Black Rose which is everything you want in a seedy house of perversity: black carpet on the walls, novelty condoms in cammo print with slogans like 'Don't let her see you coming!' and a creepy man in a trench coat who followed me around the shop. I suspect he was the proprietor.
However, each to his or her or its own and if that sort of thing floats your boat* than I'm all for having a safe, clean and well lit environment in which to fulfil your sex shopping needs. I was initially sure that I could overcome my innate prudishness, but the more I considered the job, the more I realised that it wasn't so much that it wasn't the job for me, but that I wasn't the person for it.
I discovered this when I looked at the business' website, just to see what I'd be dealing with. I discovered that there are at least five sizes of penis enhancement pumps, they all look like the one in Austin Powers and the text underneath the pictures mentioned something about asking the friendly shop staff which size would suit your needs. If it wasn't being used to inflate a blow up mattress or a beach ball, I wouldn't have a clue. This was my first inkling that maybe a career in selling sex toys wasn't for me.
Each item that I came across on the website just helped increase this inkling. The recognisable toys made me blush enough, but even worse were the objects where I had no idea what they were for.
I'd love to be cool and mature enough to deal casually with things like this, but I don't think my capillaries could take the strain from that much blushing. Also, how do you gift wrap something that has the potential to vibrate off the counter? And to top everything off, they wanted you to have your own car, which would mean borrowing Bill's initially, and I just couldn't get the image of a giant penis painted on the side (mind you, if you're looking for a vehicle with which to promote safe sex, then surely a Volvo** is the way to go) out of my head.
So all in all, I'd have to agree with Mr Powers: "That's not my bag baby"
*I would say tickles your fancy, but I'm just not sure that that's appropriate.
** That's VolvO.
3 comments:
You hadn't told me about this, HIGH -larious!I wish you had taken the job, just so I could boast about how hard*, street** and cool you are to all of my friends.
* no pun intended.
**no, really.
Oh, and we're off with a classy start! Nice work harms, welcome to the blogosphere.
Incidentally, I've been challenged to post a photo of Milly a day for a fortnight in order to get a Movember donation from Donna's sister. In order to keep it interesting for everyone else, I'm going to try and post a silly video/internet meme (like beached as, for example). Not sure I can keep the quality up for 14 days, but if you have any suggestions, feel free to help me out.
You're still a sick pervy Harms! Deep down you want that job, you know you do. And I want you to want it so I can drop in and look at the rude things without being the pervy one.
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