"My summer job at the Condom Shack"
During the summer, friends of mine waited tables, groomed golf courses or did menial office work. No one is ever excited to hear stories about Excel charts or paper clips. But whenever I tell people about my summer job they lean in and say, "Whoa...what was that like?" So here it is folks, the abbreviated tale of my days at the Condom Shack.
As the name implies, the Shack sells condoms. There are thin, textured, flavoured, glow-in the-dark, polyurethane and extra large. But I also sold lubrication, massage oils, incense, games, aphrodisiacs, butt plugs, dildos and vibrators. Regardless of the product, the staff's goal is to promote safe sex in an accepting and informative tone. This put us in a different category than sketchy sex stores down by Yonge and Gerrard with their sticky countertops. Up at Yonge and Bloor, we held ourselves to a higher standard, maybe because we're closer to Yorkville. There's also a Shack on Queen Street, where specialty condoms are as chic as Club Monaco furniture.
People often presumed that our customers were all pervs. But the majority of shoppers were regular folks looking to improve their sex lives. I enjoyed helping these types because I felt like I was making the world a happier place. There were also many passers-by who came in to point and giggle, "Edible massage lotion? Gross! Dirty playing cards? Sick!" I became more surprised by people's prudishness than their kinkiness. Now, it takes a hell of a lot to shock me.
The Shack also seduced thousands of tourists through its doors. All summer long I heard customers from Philadelphia to Luxembourg say that they didn't have these stores back home at least not visibly. There are always back rooms and secret doors, but never a smiling condom logo and a five-foot blow-up penis in the window like at the Shack. Most of all, I loved the British rugby team who swarmed in and each bought a maple syrup flavoured condom to bring home for a Canadiana laugh. "Go get em, champ," I said to one of them as I gave him his change. Bless this country!
Every day, misguided souls wandered in looking for balloons or directions to the Eaton Centre. Many would turn pale when they realized the nature of our business then quickly leave, even more disoriented. And brave kids would sneak past the "You must be 18+ to enter" sign to, for a stolen moment, feast their eyes on rows of taboo goodies.
Then there were the men who'd walk directly to the back of the store, where we kept the Toys for Boys. They'd stand there, overwhelmed by the wall of blow-up dolls and pocket pussies, until I'd approach to ask if they wanted help. "Want to see that box out of the box, sir?" Usually they would mumble nervously and bolt. Others would stay for my sales-spiels and fondle the toys, and possibly themselves (who knows what their hands were doing in their pockets).
I had the top sales for my last month there, thanks to my informed spiels and obscenely tight tank tops. But my wardrobe choices became a Catch-22. Customers kept mistaking me for a hussy, oftentimes asking when my shift was over like I was going to meet them in the alley for a quickie.
The sex-store stigma followed me outside of work, too. In my family, my good-girl reputation has been tarnished. "At least you have a job," my Grandmother said before quickly changing the topic. At the beginning of August I hosted a party. During an introduction to one of my guests, I told her where I worked. Conversations stopped around us. The ears of the male guests perked up like a pack of dogs hearing the word "bone."
And after I asked out the emo boy who worked at the Sunrise Records across the street, he got automatic high-fives from his co-workers. Like, three cheers for losing your virginity in style to the nymphet sexpert at the Shack! On the experience scale, he's a zero. I get extra points just for correctly inserting batteries into The Elephant Pounder. Is this a bizarre joke or a gift from the heavens?
By my last day working there, I hadn't saved any money. Nor did I have a fancy title to put on my r?sum?. But it was the most interesting job I've ever had, prudes, pervs and all. My summer rocked, and he's a cherry on the cake.
* This is the author's porn name.
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