The first thing I did at Sex World was pick my name. Amidst the sprawl of hundreds of square feet of dildos, butt plugs, and seven-inch heels, I flipped through laminated rectangles with names like Icy, Mama, and Sierra. I settled on “Lola;” it was playful, fun to say, and a lot better than my other options. The card was slipped into the slot at the front of the the box I’d be spending the next six hours in, and Sex World’s manager, a man with a beard longer than most of the dicks I’d face that night, gave me a run-down on the rules of working a peep show booth.
He took me back into “the Doll House” through a subtle entrance in the women’s bathroom. He explained the rules to me (“Don’t give free shows, don’t yell at customers unless they want you to, and no touching”), and told me that while I could use the radio, order food, and smoke as I pleased, once I was back in the Doll House, I wasn’t to approach the main floor until after my shift. As he finished, a man approached my booth. I looked at my manager with an inquisitive glance, and he told me to go ahead. I hiked up my knee socks, straddled the chair in my booth and asked, “What can I do for you tonight, baby?”
Going into this job, I imagined scenarios of fetishes only alluded to in polite conversation, the ones people tip-toed around. I imagined businessmen with secret food fetishes sending cakes my way and married fathers with step-daughter fetishes. I had mentally prepared myself to be whatever they wanted me to be.
That illusion wore off quickly. This first guy didn’t want anything specific and was more interested in getting in, getting off, and getting out. Four minutes and a pile of my clothing later, he came and then left. I had to scramble to get my clothes in order as he opened the booth door so as not to expose myself to the store. Despite my naive and ultimately unfulfilled expectations, I felt a genuine sense of pride as I heard my first ticket print.
I was glad to be working alone that first night. There wasn’t much privacy in the Doll House; we each get our own booth, but each booth opens to the same common space behind the main floor, and there isn’t much to block the noise among the booths. That night, at least, I wasn’t ready to have a more experienced girl judging my clumsy dirty talk.
Still enthused and energetic from my first show, I danced around in my tiny box, trying to catch the eye of passerby I could lure into my booth. The next man to approach me was older, with graying hair, wearing a North Face jacket. He asked me questions as if we were in a bar, seemingly oblivious to my exposed flesh and the glass wall between us. He was fascinated with the fact that I was only eighteen, and asked if this was “all that I was doing” with something like pity in his eyes. Finally, I cut to the chase and asked him if I could interest him in a show, at which point I think he told me he would be right back after browsing around the store.
He returned to tell me, “This isn’t really my sort of thing,” but that if I wanted somebody to show me around the city and take me out to dinner, I could give him a call. I told him that this didn’t really work that way, but that should he change his mind, I had an amazing rack he could see for a mere $20.
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