Ye Olde Peep Showe

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.


5 Responses to “Ye Olde Peep Showe”

  1. Man, no one took me to ride a pony when I went to Sydney.

    I feel cheated.

  2. All the people in my tiny country town are geriatric Methodists. It’s the place religious people go to die. It even has a double-fronted shop devoted to hearing aids, and this is a town with TWO pubs we’re talking about. If this town was any smaller, it be able to pass through matter unhindered, and yet it has space for a shop like that.

    What I’m saying here is that you should consider Grange as a backup option, because no punter would ever attempt to engage you in conversation, due to the fact that none of them can actually hear.

    Admittedly, you’d probably get at least three fatal heart attacks per night, but we live right on Morecambe bay, so disposal isn’t a problem.

  3. On a slightly related note, what is it with German people and anuses? Seriously.

  4. twobuck Says:

    Man, I have NO idea. I thought it was a “Carry On” style cultural stereotype joke but goddamn, they love that shit (heh).

  5. All stereotypes are true! It’s amazing, but when people say that all the Germans are anus-obsessed and the French like nothing more that casually licking anyone in the nearby vicinity, you always assume it isn;t true. Then you actually see some French of German people, and damn, but they’re either licking each other or staring longingly at the bottoms of strangers. I’m English, and I honestly was drinking a cup of tea while I read this, although sadly my monocle didn’t fall out in shock.

    To get vaguely back on topic, why would someone call their grey pony ‘Silver’? Surely this would just mean that the customers are going to get these grand dreams of finally seeing a silver pony, only to be completely let down when they finally see the poor grey beastie.

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