Buying a Penis Pump (and The Art of the Flying V)
by L.B. Wilkenson
I hate kids. Teenagers especially, because they roam the city streets like packs of smart-ass wolves. While it’s illegal for someone under 18 to set foot in a sex store, I don’t have to be a hard ass about it (most of the stores around mine aren’t), I just like to be. My greatest work-related joy is telling adolescents to get the hell out, which I’ve had to do an unusually high number of times this week. And it felt so good each time.
Of course, it’s not just teenagers that roam in packs. On weekend nights, women fresh from the bar often show up in groups of three to six. The Alpha Female asserts herself right away: she’s the loudest, the drunkest and the most willing to ask me questions. She’ll browse our selection of vibrators and exclaim over how adorable some of them are. We have vibrators shaped like rabbits, dolphins, butterflies, baby mice, baby bugs and baby ducks. She’ll point them all out to her friends and laugh and shriek.
Eventually the Alpha Female will decide on a vibrator, plunk it on the counter and sometimes, if I’m lucky, all of her friends will line up behind her and buy the exact same toy. I call this flying in V formation. Although I used to think it was a little weird, I get it now. The shyer ones — they’re women who are mortified to be in a sex store and don’t want to deliberate over vibrators — let the strongest member set the course, then fly behind her in the path of least resistance.
When the male of the species comes in, things are a little different. Some like to strut around the store, posturing and preening. Others will buy the most expensive toys in hopes of pleasing their partners and still others will go to even further (sometimes misguided) lengths to look like the ideal mate.
Like last week, when I had a customer who was in the market for a penis pump. The first thing I noticed about him was how ridiculous his clothes were. He was wearing a loud checked suit, dark shades, a straw hat and flip-flops (bright plumage, apparently, is not always an asset). As we talked he informed me he was in disguise and I informed him an outfit that draws attention is a terrible disguise. He considered my comment only briefly before launching into a lengthy monologue about the dimensions of his penis.
At around the ten-minute mark I started to suspect he was fucking with me.
At the twenty-minute mark I started to suspect he had Asperger’s and that his "thing" was, well, his thing.
“I want to go big,” he kept saying. “Huge. Like a whale.” That is a horrific prospect to me, but I kept quiet. “This is how big I want to go,” he said, picking up one of our Supercocks, which is supposedly cast from a porn star and is more than a foot long.
I told him I didn’t think he could get those kinds of results from a pump but he said he’d give it a shot anyway and left with it.
After he was out the door, I had to put my head down on the counter for a moment. Talking with a stranger for twenty minutes about the girth of his penis is enough to give you brain embolism.
When I heard another customer come in, I picked up my head to smile at her. She started to smile back, but then her eyes slid down to the counter and her mouth twisted in horror.
She pointed to the Supercock the penis pump-guy had left there and said, “Jesus Christ, that thing is huge! Who would ever want that?”
