On my first day the first thing I sell is a battery
operated vibrating vagina for $248.37.
I don’t think to imagine the customer using it,
but am certain to recommend water based lubricant
as lube with a silicone base can lead to chemical breakdown,
while thinking, Damn, that seems like a lot to spend on a sex toy.
Middle age couples tend to lose their manners
somewhere between the bar & the parking lot,
volleying winks & invitations to join them
across the counter. I always decline, & busy myself
with inventory, hoping that another soccer mom
hasn’t crammed a vibrator into her purse
while I had been re-shelving Geisha Boys or Gia’s Got
a Negro Problem 8. Openly gay men are the most polite.
I feel bad when one asks me, with a look of dying hope,
“Don’t you have any movies that don’t have boys?”
I apologize, “Twinks are in,” & silently consider
the potential market for Hot Bear On Wolf Action.
I chain smoke, watching women fresh out of girlhood.
They can barely make eye contact as they nervously browse
DVDs featuring women of their own body type, perhaps
hoping to learn what they think men will want. Sifting through neon
dildos & vibrators, the same colors as the pillows
I imagine they leave scattered on the floor, discovering the needs
of their own bodies. Only the regulars catch me off guard, arriving
before my shift, staying for hours afterward. I never ask why
they aren’t somewhere, anywhere, else on this summer afternoon
other than a porn store. They tell me about coming out to their wives in the 80’s,
trading pastel Polos for neon t-shirts, watching friends get bio-hazard symbol
tattoos before being lowered into the ground. They tell me of their children,
show me pictures of grandchildren with pride that doesn’t know sexuality.
They tell stories of their parents having key parties in the Ozarks during
Prohibition. We eat the cake they made for my coworker’s birthday.
