All my web updates have been late, something that really bugs me — but I haven’t been able to stand being at home while all the frat boys are partying upstairs (hate them). I can’t wait to move next week! Hopefully my service won’t screw up my DSL transfer (ha!) and I can get back in the web saddle, and stay there. So enough of things I don’t want to think about — how about the pictures!? They’re from a surprise party for the big cute trumpet player in the Extra Action Marching Band. His sweetie threw the party, and I brought… Jodie Moore!
Well, a blow-up version of her that I got in the Good Vibes staff-only free bin. I love the free bin, the repository of all the crap we won’t carry. Imagine my delight when I saw my date-in-a-box at work, and — bonus! — it’s the "kneeling" version! I really had no idea what an awful joke blow-up dolls are until me and a couple femmes took her out of the box. Of course, Rotten.com can tell you all you never wanted to know about blow-up dolls. But Jodie was my date, and it was tough to look into her flat screenprinted face and laugh hysterically. The worst part was when I probed her orifices and discovered painful seams and impossibly shallow depths. Sadly, Jodie would never be able to experience the female pleasure of orgasm. But like any good date, I poked, licked and prodded her all the same, and let my sexy girlfriends have their way with her. Such are the fates of plastic people.
Today I had two excellent moments working in the store. At one point I was standing at a table on the sales floor waiting to talk to customers when my loveable arch-nemesis, a bleach blonde big-boobed coworker, snuck up behind me, shoved two butt plugs into my ears, yelled "CLEAR!" and then made a loud buzzing noise. It was a little while until any customers wanted to talk to me, so I took a break from explaining to customers why you need to clean anal beads and giving finger puppet demonstrations about finding the G-spot.
The other great moment of my day was being approached by two male customers for help — guys I figured were nervous and reluctant first-time shoppers, but then I found out were… male strippers from a local all-male strip joint (Nob Hill Lingerie)! Wow, waiting on male strippers is fun. They were very funny and unassuming, and were getting together "a doubles act, you know, like the girls do." They were looking for glow-in-the-dark buttplugs and dildos because the club has a blacklight on the stage, and they both wanted to do a body-paint glowing act. My god, it was so cute, I was instantly smitten — and overwhelmed with questions. "Do women go in there?" I asked the one whose stage name is ‘Eric Masters’, knowing that it’s primarily a gay club. "Oh yes, they come in groups, bachelorette parties, and they show up lit. Hey, do you think this (dildo) will glow? Oh, it might be too big (to friend) — is this too big for you? We want to do something kinky, you know, lots of those guys are so vanilla. Quite a few of the guys hide behind the curtains and sort of peek out a little bit, it’s like straight guy peek-a-boo!"
I had to know, "Do women ever come in there alone?" He smiled, "Oh yes! One couple came in and the husband sat across the room like he wasn’t there with her, so he could watch her getting a lap dance from another man. (points to friend) He gave a lap dance to a woman the other night! I really want to, it looks like a lot of fun. They get into it, not like the guys who just sit there like a mannequin. So many guys are like that anyway, even if they’re tricking! Boring." We moved over to the S/M toys, and the guys started trying on the leather cat masks we sell. I told them that now they were in the right section, and that I kind of know someone who danced there. I described the cute gayboy on the Extra Action flag team and told them his name, and they drew a blank. "You know honey, so many guys don’t use their real names, I only know their stage names. One guy wears a silver mask — a real metal mask, not tinfoil — and goes by the name ‘Flash.’ I have never ever seen his face — he wears the mask to the club and no one sees his face." I was enraptured.
I realized at that moment I should not have gone to the stupid Mitchell Brothers club where I was largely ignored and then smacked in the head with big hard titties and groped, then told how weird it was to "do this with another girl." I flashed on my one disappointing strip club experience with a stripper faking it, and fantasized about a roomful of campy gay male strippers, who were excited to dance for women — and were somewhat sexually ambiguous, themselves. As if reading my mind, the one who had done little talking suddenly said, "It’s exciting to dance for girls. But tough having to be hard when we go onstage! The girls (who dance) have it so easy. We have to fluff before we go on–" Right then a coworker asked me to go grab all the jars of Men’s Cream and bring them to the back because they didn’t get taped shut on top, I guess so people don’t unscrew them and scoop out a big load of fake Vaseline, then put the tops back on. But… FLUFF!? I was dying to know, how, where, who…! Images of guys like the ones I was talking to giving each other hand jobs before going out to sit on ladies’ laps was making my mind reel and my vision go blurry. That is, as I walked over to the Men’s Cream, opened up a jar, and scooped out a fingerful. No, really — I taped the jars shut and said goodbye to the nice stripper boys.
