Archive for July, 2008

It’s like a sticky, sweaty Christmas in July

Posted in Bitching with tags , on July 11, 2008 by twobuck

It’s that time of year again: two weeks from now, the Sydney Sexpo will be up and running (well, grinding in a bored sort of way to “Milkshake”) again. Since the Big Porn company that owns my tits and soul is running the thing, my work is planning a few events in connection with it. Belladonna (of “Cock Pigs”, “Cum Buckets! 4”, “Ebony In Ivory” and my personal favourite, “Gee, Your Ass Stretches Terrific!”) will be doing a signing at the main shop one afternoon the week after next. I’m torn between trying to get that shift to score off the crowd that’s going to be there and wanting to stay as far away as possible, because any gimmick they’ve run in the past- bringing in a girl from Melbourne to pose as a “porn star” who just finished a shoot in LA was the latest hare-brained scheme, I swear they’re like the Bobsy Twins with extra fisting- seems to end up fucking over the regular girls one way or another.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Belladonna just fine and she seems like a cool lady. It’s just that with all the fuckery going on at work at the moment I’m starting to wince every time the boss says “Oh, before you go, one other thing I forgot to tell you…” I’m still not sure if the girls are going to be wanted to work at the Sexpo main event. They have in years past, and it’s been quite a good earner for them. But…I just plain don’t care for it. I’ve been twice before, mostly out of curiosity, and each time it just weirded me out. The whole thing is a weird, uncomfortable mix of a country town show day (minus the cow shit. Unless you pay extra) and a suburban middle-aged swingers’ meet. I know, it’s great for the industry people, and that we’re lucky enough to live in a country where adults can admit publicly that they actually (oh gosh, tee-hee) have sex and enjoy it.  The whole thing just leaves me feeling the same way I do when we get the Porno Turistas in at work: they shuffle along and giggle and prod and poke things, they mill around handling the merchandise and snickering in awe at the fact that someone would actually BUY a vibrator. It’s prudish and immature and I hate that shit.

On the up side, World Youth Day grows ever closer. With any luck, the presence of thousands of young people who are living in close quarters in a strange, big city for a week but aren’t allowed to stick their bits in each other will mean an upturn in business. if the lapsed-Catholic guilt wasn’t still running so strongly in my veins I’d get myself a nun’s habit.


You cannot stop the glorious march of progress, citizen!

Posted in Bitching with tags on July 8, 2008 by twobuck

So, next week our fair city is hosting World Youth Day, and I for one am looking forward to it. The main street that will be closed so that the faithful legions may march upon it in a most holy fashion also houses our little establishment of ill repute, and what with a nicely timed public transport strike and dark mutterings of protest plans I’m looking forward to a bit of chaos.

My old boss (a 6’1″ Lebanese drag queen with a preternatural fondness for the baseball bat, rumoured to be named “Dorothy”, which he kept behind the counter), whom I shall miss dearly, has been transferred to another location. The new guy seems okay, and certainly has no qualms about standing up to dickheads who harrass the girls- and really, what more could one ask? Meanwhile, the refurbishment plans of Management continue unabated. I was halfway out the door after a thoroughly fiscally unsatisfying shift today when the boss casually asked, “Oh, you’re on tomorrow night, aren’t you?”

“Yep, why?”

“Oh, they’re doing the wall.”

“They’re doing…the whatnow?” Visions of marching hammers and interminable acid-fuelled guitar noodling swam in my head.

“The wall. Knocking it down.”

So it seems that once again I shall be wading naked through piles of sawdust and Makita attachments in pursuit of a living wage.

Ye Olde Peep Showe

Posted in Punters with tags on July 8, 2008 by twobuck

As I’ve said before, like any job, peep show work becomes pretty mundane after a while. At first, it’s all very naughty and a little thrilling in an exhibitionist sort of way, but after a few months you settle into a comfortable routine: take off this, wiggle that, pout, rinse, repeat. With a few notable exceptions, most of the punters are of a similar mindset- after all, we’re generally talking about dudes who visit every other day, spend the same amount of money on the same few girls, take the usual amount of time to come, and leave. After browsing through the frankly startlingly wide (heh) variety of amazingly graphic porn available even in a small shop like ours, I’m a little surprised that everyone isn’t completely numb to the idea of regular naked people who aren’t fisting a monitor lizard while on fire or something. Even the 18-year old kids we get will, after a few minutes of bravado and pack behaviour, settle down into either hurling vicious insults at me or quietly wanking (sometimes both).

Except for the country boys.

We get a few in every now and then and they are without a doubt the strangest punters I get. I don’t mean strange as in deviant or flat-out weird (for that I have the elderly gent who comes in after the funeral he goes to every time one of his friends dies and lies on the floor with his cock sandwiched between his legs, mewling and stroking my shoe), I mean from-another-time strange. I grew up in the country and, as evidenced by the fact that I ran off to the biggest city I could find when I was 17, have no great fondness for it, nor the salt of the fucking earth people who inhabit it. As I recall, country people are exactly like city people except they talk more slowly and don’t know how to make a decent coffee. And country boys, far from being plain-speaking old-fashioned types with Deep South manners, are exactly like city boys, albeit far more willing to have sex in the flatbed of a moving ute. So I find it quite puzzling that the country boys we get at my work are right out of Banjo Patterson. Everything’s Yes’m and Please and Ta, pet, and it freaks me right out. The first few times I thought they were taking the piss, but apparently something about a peep show turns them into gentlemen.

The pair we had in the other night were from somewhere west of Tamworth (Horse Capital of Australia), on their first trip into the big city. As far as I know, internet porn and girlie mags are still readily available outside the metropolitan area, but you wouldn’t guess it from the sheer glee and excitement with which these cowboys greeted Real, Actual Vagina. I do believe one of them Whoop’d. And they wanted to talk. Usually, I feign sudden deafness and shrug when a punter wants to chat through the glass, because fuck that. But these two boys were SO EXCITED to tell me all about how they’d seen the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House and the beach and the skyscrapers (and we got to ride a pony and the man with the pony said I rode it better than anyone and the pony was grey and it was called Silver and, and, and EVERYTHING!). It would have been churlish to refuse. They were grinning all over their corn-fed, fresh scrubbed faces and just losing it over even the most standard stripper moves I pulled and honestly, I got a little caught up in the moment. For a good ten minutes there I was the whore with a heart of gold, giving a couple of gleeful farm boys their first taste of the big, decadent sin city and ushering them into manhood. Then they whooped and hollered off into the night (after slipping me several notes with their hotel address and room numbers on it) with a cheerful wave and a chorus of “I love you, girl!”

Thank Christ, about two minutes later a guy came in and wanted me to show him my arse while he yelled at me in German. Any more of that Salinger bullshit and I might have started believing the hype.