February 04, 2003 @ 11:32 a.m.
My last shift at the porn store.

Isn't it funny how when someone asks you your opinion of someone else, "Actually, I think she's a scrotum-sucking bitch and I hope she chokes to death on her own pubic hair" is so rarely the right response?

Hello again. It's been a while.

I'm now out of the porn store and on meduhcation. Working two jobs was killing me, but now I'm just at the library and things are nicer. I actually get some time on weekends to myself now. I'm not quite sure how I'll handle it. I even have a WHOLE WEEKEND off coming up soon. Considering I've had one weekend off in the last two years (and that was because I begged it off to go to the Meredith Music Festival last year), it's a little daunting.

The antidepressants are daunting too, but doctor says I have to stay on them for a couple of weeks to my body can get used to them and not keep doing funny things. It'll be nice when the funny things stop. I like not being dizzy and having blurred vision.

I worked at the porn shop for the last time on Saturday. Thankfully I managed to get the day shift (I've been doing days at the library which has meant I've spent the last month's worth of Saturday nights cooped up in the porn shop. This is less fun than you might imagine). It was pretty quiet and uneventful for the most part. In between reading my book and staring into space, I wished that something would happen to at least distinguish the day a little bit.

I should have known my perverts wouldn't let me down.

Early on in the afternoon, a guy who'd allegedly been in the shop during the morning (which, considering business was so slow, would have made him one of about four people) rang up for a bit of a chat. First he wanted to know how much I earned working there. I'm quite used to people suddenly deciding they want to work in a porn shop, and asking how much we get paid (real answer: not fucking enough). So I gave my standard response - "Sorry, it's against company policy to divulge that information."
He paused for a moment, as if confused (which could have well been the case - as Deirdre pointed out, the number of customers who are likely to understand big words like "divulge" is probably pretty low). I thought that would be the end of it - I must have been asked about all that shite dozens of times by now.

But no. He was a little put out because my lack of disclosure took the wind out of his sails and made it a little harder to get where he wanted to go with the conversation. He'd been planning to offer me, in grand style, the equivalent of my day's wages in cash in exchange for the knickers I was wearing at the time. I have to admit, I haven't had that one before (well, not from a customer anyway). Various offers of sex and/or committment, and the opportunity to star in a porn film, but not the basic old knickers request.

I turned him down in the end (although I did thank him for making my last shift memorable. He chirpily responded that it was his pleasure. I'll bet.). You see, in the end I'm an old fashioned girl with old fashioned values - it's fine if the guy you're fucking uses your panties to gag you, but giving your dirty ones to other people, especially for money, is just tacky. Plus, I didn't really fancy the prospect of freelippin' in tight jeans on a hot day.

Everyone I've shared this anecdote with reckons I should have given them to him (apart from Stuart, who seems strangely unamused by the whole scenario). Thinking back, I was wearing my regulation Bonds hipster g-string, which retails for about $7. I could have bought a whole lot of pairs for the amount of money I would have received. Besides, I later found that the pair I was wearing had a little hole in them along one of the seams. That wouldn't do at all - I'd be so embarrassed if the guy I'd sold my dirty knickers to thought I was slovenly.

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