BACKSTORY:

Em and I met 2 years ago, when I first moved to Chicago and, in my search for a decent apartment, answered a “Roommate Wanted” ad in the Reader. So, I moved in with her and another girl, Al.

Em and I became close that frigid winter when we were both unemployed and housebound: I, because I had been fired from my café job since the place was robbed while I was in charge, and Em, because she was on so many freakin’ antipsychotics that she was pretty much afunctional for the majority of each day.

It was a sucky time for us both, and while I can’t exactly say that we kept each other sane, we definitely laughed a lot. She’s one of those friends I always have a good time with, and we can talk about anything, because neither of us is easily shocked and we’ve seen each other at our absolute worst. We're both much better, now.

Em has absolutely no ability to gauge what is appropriate and what is not. No exaggeration, the girl’s all id. So when you go out with her, you just have to preemptively decide not to be embarrassed. She’s incredibly fun and sweet, and makes friends everywhere she goes, but they’re not always the most savory of characters, and her means of getting acquainted with strangers aren’t advisable.

CASE IN POINT:

One night, during that dark, jobless winter, our roommate, Al, decided she really hankered a Hustler. Em and I, having been stuck inside all day with nothing to do but (in my case) look frantically for a job and (in Em’s case) pass out on the couch like Joan Crawford after a vodka attack, decided we were in need of an excursion, so we took Al’s money and went out in search of smut. It was a strange household, to say the least. I don’t think I wanna talk about it.

Anyway, we fruitlessly searched every convenience store in our vicinity before trawling down the block to our neighborhood naughty store. On the way, we passed a man, whom Em decided to hit up for advice as to where we could find our roommate her hardcore porn. But, the man didn’t speak any English, so Em decided to utilize her rusty Spanglish.

Em: Sir, do you know where we can find a Hustler?
Me: Jesus, Em. Let’s go.
Hombre: No hablo ingles.
Em: Um … El Hustler? Playboy? Conoces Playboy?
Hombre: Si! Si! Playboy, si!
Em: You know where … um … donde? Donde el Playboy?
Me: Oh, fuck. Em …
Hombre: [glazed, curious look, slight leer]
Em: Um … sexo! El sexo! You know … Unh! Unh! Unh! [complete with pelvic thrusts]
Me: AAAA! NO! No el sexo! Lo siento, senor! Em, we’re going NOW!

Yeah, so we ended up at the smut shop near our fantastic apartment, and had an uneventful time successfully procuring Al’s Hustler. On our way back, we saw our new amigo skulking in the shadows by our building, waiting for us. We ignored him and ran. One could say we hustled.

The end.

Anyway, you get the picture.

So, Saturday night, we waltzed into Ye Olde Boystown Porn Shoppe, where they do it up, right. (They do it upright, as well as in a variety of other positions, which need no further elaboration.) Immediately, we were loud and obnoxious, and though we drove all other customers from the place, we soon had the affections of the store employees.

After laughing at the oral sex coupon books, we headed towards the back of the Shoppe, where there was a display of various S&M toys with a sign reading, “PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT CRACK THE BULL-WHIPS!!!”

Perhaps (correctly) predicting that Em and I were exactly the kinds of shoppers who would forsake God’s love in favor of cracking the bull-whips, the stacked, chirpy, cheerleaderesque Porn Shoppe manager walked back to guide us through the merchandise, i.e. baby-sit.

First, she showed us the candles.

“This one’s my faaavorite,” quoth she. “I light these up aaaaall around my bath tub!”

“*Sniff*,” sniffed I. “It smells like … pot. And crotch.”

“*Sniff* … Oh, my God, it totally does,” concurred Em.

“Um … how about this one?” tried the manager.

Em sniffed. “Mmmmm … llllleather!”

“Yeah!” chirped the manager.

The leather smell, of course, segued us back to the bullwhips. These were located right in front of the vast library of luridly-covered videotapes, however, which soon had our attention. Thanks, bullwhips! It’s been real.

We marveled over the “Chicks with Dicks” collection, and I wondered aloud why the only volume of the “Ass Lickers” series that I could find on display was #17, because how can there be 16 previous films all about licking ass, and how could they all be out of stock? Was this some precious collectors item? Because it just seemed grody and boring to me.

Don’t answer that. (Hi, googlers! Hi!)

We also decided that the vegisexual video, involving frankly clichéd uses of … duh … zucchini and bananas, would be a perfect gift for Al, as her dedicated fanship of Hustler is bested only by her love of “Veggie Tales.”

The male store employee started chatting with us back by the videos. Nice guy, but I got kind of a creepy vibe off of him, even in the context of Ye Olde Porn Shoppe. He was a very pretty fellow, despite the rather befuddling Cosby sweater he was wearing. I don’t know, maybe the pattern was one of those 3-D designs, and if I had bothered to stare at it long enough, I’d have seen the image of a silicon Sapphic embrace or something, but at first glance it was just fugly, and I’ve never managed to stare an image out of those 3-D bullshit pictures, anyway.

Other than the sweater, this employee was quite well put-together, with lovely features, a pretty voice, and perfectly coiffed eyebrows. The overall effect would make Prince (The Artist, whatever,) look like a low-rent transvestite by comparison.

After he somehow worked into the conversation an impression of his ball-gagged girlfriend screaming for mercy from good-good pain, Em looked at him and exclaimed, “WOAH! You’re STRAIGHT?”

“Yeah,” he said levelly. “I get hit on all the time, here, though.”

“I’ll BET!” said, Em, with enough enthusiasm to make him look at her a little too closely. (Back offa my friend, Prince Cosby.)

Prince Cosby took us to the front to show us some kind of nipple-stimulating contraption, which somehow prompted Em to lift up her shirt to reveal her bra size. He then, a little too smoothly, directed us towards the Great Wall of Condoms, making several allusions to what he wanted us to believe was his massive, massive Prince Cosby cock.

Mercifully, we were spared (a very few) details when Cheerleader started engaging us in vibrator discussion. She showed us a variety of powerful and impressive machines, all Built for Her Pleasure. (The cute ones with little beaver faces freaked me out a little, because I don’t need a creature in my crotch, thanks.) Em, Cheerleader, and I commiserated over the short-lived motor and battery-sapping tendencies of the teeny tiny Silver Bullet.

TMI TIP OF THE DAY: That’s right, ladies. The Silver Bullet is one powerful and dependable little sprinter, but don’t expect that princess to be runnin’ no marathons, ‘z’all I’m sayin’.

At any rate, Cheerleader was nice, knowledgeable, and helpful, and took her job seriously, but appreciated the fact that Em and I were just being silly.

All laughing stopped, however, when Em asked, just out of curiosity, “Where do you keep the bestiality videos?” (Hi, googlers! Hi!)

At this question, the employees visibly balked, and mumbled something about the ASPCA while exchanging nervous glances with each other. And, I agree, SKETCHY… but Em and I were just kidding, they had been laughing with us up to that point, and they really did seemed to carry everything else under the wicked sun. (Now that I look back, I realize they just had everything that’s legal, but offered such a wide selection that you’d just assume that had everything, period.)

I asked outright where they drew the line in the sand of nast, which made them even more uncomfortable.

“No,” I explained, “I’m not trying to be an asshole, I’m just curious … what’s the difference between fetish and plain old preference? I’d like a professional opinion.”

“Well,” said Cheerleader, trying to maintain her chipper composure, “Some people are really turned on by obese people. Other’s are really turned on by midgets …”

“Yes, I understand that,” I said, somehow choosing that moment to turn into Lois Lane in hot pursuit of an informative interview (NERD!), “I know what is meant by ‘fetish.’ I’m just wondering where ‘preference’ ends and ‘fetish’ begins, and you seem like a good source to ask.”

“THAT,” Cheerleader chirped sharply, “Is a psychological matter which can not be answered in a definitive way.” And then she put her hands in front of her and backed away from us, in what was clearly a “thankyouandgoodnight please don’t come back again” posture.

So, we left. None too soon, might I add, because I think if Prince Cosby had made one more reference to his gigantic penis, Em would have asked for proof, and he would probably have been more than happy to comply. And I needed that less than I need a creature in my crotch.

But I thought it was a crowning achievement to freak out the Boystown Smut Shoppe proprietors. Does that make me a bad person? A bad, bad person?

(WHP-tshhh! <-- whipcracky sound)

And, with that, I'd like to assure you that I'm not really a smut fiend.

Good night, readers.

Good night, googlers.

Good night, to the old lady, whispering “Hush.” (Oh, I'm so sorry!)

Shop long, shop hard, and bring a friend.

Love,

Luvabeans

The tackiest woman to ever call herself a lady

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~ Last Five Entries ~

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Here I Am - 08.02.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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