“Well, I get sent catalogs and lists from these different distributor fellows—once a year I get invited to a wholesale convention and I do a lot of the ordering there. I just pick what I like! Someone will buy the stuff eventually.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “I never knew what it took to get stuff in here.”
“I just follow my heart and see where it takes me. It usually takes me to the biggest dildo!” She laughed.
“I’m gonna eat my breakfast and freshen up in the back; when I’m done you can go home!”
“All right!”
The store was now empty. Most people in Tampa were at church at this hour on a Sunday. I grabbed the electric wand, and I decided to switch up the attachment on it. One was shaped like a comb—that one looked neat. I snapped it on and pushed up the electricity level to a bit higher. I rubbed it up and down my arm, and the electric blue lights tickled me in such an exciting way. It did hurt, but not like an actual injury. It was an arousing kind of pain.
I brushed the electric comb over my tank top, over my nipples. Even with a sports bra on underneath my shirt I could still feel the sensation. I turned it up higher and it was really strong. I pushed it against my left nipple as hard as I possibly could and it felt like a sharp bite. I didn’t know my nipples were so sensitive! I never paid much attention to them. I went back and forth from my left to right nipple, over my shirt. I could feel my areolas getting warmer. Each time I placed the wand on my nipple I let it stay on for longer and longer, taking it away when it hurt too much but putting it back when I wanted the pain again. I was literally torturing myself.
I felt my panties get moist. I looked around the store, there was definitely still no one there. Even though I was surrounded by sex, I still wasn’t supposed to be getting off. This was work! I was supposed to be a professional. But then again, how could I give my customers the best toy advice if I didn’t know how to use them?
I took the electric wand and slid it down my pants, but over my cotton panties. I zapped my own labia; the pain was exponential down there, but so was the pleasure. It felt so dangerous and amazing, like a lightning storm of pleasure. I went a bit further down to where my body got more sensitive. My underwear and the tuft of pubic hair underneath it was a layer of protection—my security blanket in the realm of new sexual exploration—that made me confident enough to put the electric current up to the highest level there was. It was worth a try!
I turned the wand up the highest it could go, and zapped myself right above my clit. The neon blue light shined through my jeggings. Had someone walked in they could have definitely mistaken me for some kind of alien (there had been a fair amount of UFO sightings in Tampa this year so perhaps it wouldn’t be so outrageous to find an alien masturbating behind the counter at an adult video store). Blood rushed through my body and I let out a loud noise that was something like a moan, a gasp, and an “ouch” at the same time. My vagina was pulsing, I felt like it was its own entity, breathing heavily and gasping for air.
I put the wand down, and took my fingers, reached inside my underwear, and rubbed my clit. It had been months since I masturbated, and I wasn’t sure why. All that time I spent alone in my room watching TV—why wasn’t I masturbating? Now there I was at work, trying to squeeze in a quickie with myself before my boss walked in. Time management has never been my strong suit.
I rubbed my clit furiously, as if I was trying to reach inside myself and pull out my own orgasm. My mind flashed to so many images—I thought of Amanda and the way she unbuttoned her shirt, and the expression on her face when she said, “there’s always a reason to learn more about sex.” I even thought of Amir, and the way he stroked his cock with such determination. That seemed like it happened years ago. My brain scrambled through erotic channels of cock and pussy, a woman in a business suit, and a man with a bun. My clit was so swollen from electrocution and friction, I rubbed harder and faster, I pushed my pussy deeper into the chair I sat on behind my register—I think—I was having sex with a chair. I breathed in deeply, I moved my fingers slower now but with more pressure on my clit, and yes—finally—I felt it. Lightning. I held onto my nipples, my legs felt like Jell-O, a big wave of warmth rushed through my body.
I took my hand out of my pants and decompressed. I was definitely ready for a deep sleep straight through the remainder of the sunlight for the day. Maybe I will even masturbate after I wake up. I should really do that more often.
9
I spent the last hour of work staring at Amanda’s business card. I had never been with a woman, or even been hit on by a woman. She did ask me to get breakfast—did she really mean breakfast? How could I go? I had no idea what I would be doing. Was I really attracted to her, or to her confidence? Did it matter? And yet, even as I asked myself these questions, I knew that I was already going to go.
I hadn’t been on a date in a really long time and I wasn’t quite sure if I was going on one now. As soon as my shift ended, I drove to the Residence Inn and I parked; I sat in my car, and hesitated about going inside. Was she even going to be there? Should I call first? Should I text her? What should I do?
It was 9:30 A.M. and I hadn’t slept yet. It was humid outside, my hair was frizzing up, and I had technically been wearing the same clothing since yesterday. The morning looks completely different when you haven’t slept. Everything looks translucent. The people starting their day at this hour don’t look like the same species. You feel like you’re a ghost floating about the world, where you can see everyone else but they can’t see you. The good thing about being a ghost, though, is that you’re invisible, and invisible beings can have frizzy hair, or pretend to be lesbians and it just doesn’t matter. I was so far from my comfort zone, that it just didn’t exist anymore. I had lived my whole life inside of a box and now I was in a bisexual trapezoid, at an hour when most people were at church.
I walked into the hotel, and called the cell phone number on the business card. She picked up on the first ring.
“Hey there, Amanda; it’s Taryn. I’m in your hotel lobby.”
There was a brief silence.
“Who?”
That was definitely the worst possible response.
“Taryn, from, you know, the store. From like two hours ago.” I didn’t want to say “porn store” out loud. I felt like you just weren’t supposed to say that in public, on a Sunday, in Tampa. There were, like, families in the lobby here.
“Oh! Hey there. Sorry. I’m good with faces and bad with names. So bring your pretty face upstairs. Room 402.”
Click. She hung up. And I headed to the elevator.
Just a few moments later I was knocking on her door and she was immediately answering it. The pants to the suit she wore before were still on, but with a plain black tank-top on. I could see more colorful tattoos on her arm, one of a dagger, a few different colored roses, and a skull, and I saw fully exposed breasts, with long wavy blonde hair on the top half of the pin-up girl that I wasn’t able to see before. Amanda’s blazer and button-down shirt were hung on a chair in the corner of the room that I could see out of the corner of my eye.
“Come in!” she said.
I sat on the bed, since eighty percent of the hotel room was the bed.