Well... Hell. Really, the biggest internal conflict is when some people think your job is interesting --- and it may feel that way at first --- but is just another gig, and your motivation is your paycheck. No more, no less. Like right now, I'll talk about my time working in retail...
... At an adult book store, a job I held around 1987. Yes, a few of my friends thought the job must've been a real hoot. And... No, no, not really. There were situations that happened unique to the job and environment, and sometimes amusing things would happen, but it really was just a retail gig, with all the tedium one expects from retail... No matter what you're selling.
People always find something to bitch about to the clerks in retail. For whatever reason, we didn't have to put up with it so much. Such a vast percentage of our customers were carrying around some sort of bizarre Calvinist shame just by being there that they probably wouldn't have complained if we'd set small areas of their clothing on fire. It would be eerily quiet in the store, even when it was full. While it's not the sort of place you normally start up casual conversation, It would have been nice if the damn customers actually spoke to us, while we were ringing them up.
The only thing I can think of that comes close to a complaint was a recurring one: that would be the guys who wanted to know just why the hell we didn't have a soda machine in our porn shop. I guess I can see their logic: anyone who's bought twenty bucks worth of tokens for the viewing booths is probably someone who has some fluids that need replacing. (A man can work up a thirst during his leisure time, you know.) We'd usually just point to the "No Food Or Drink Allowed" sign on the front door, and explain we didn't want anyone with drinks in the store, period.
No, our fun conversations would happen over the phone.
Remember when Tommy Chong went to prison a few years ago? Remember the circumstances? If not, here's why, and what we had to contend with.
(*ring ring*)
"Smut 'N' Stuff, may I help you?"
"Um, yeah, do you guys sell bongs?"
"Absolutely NOT, sir. However, we do carry water pipes and other tobacco accessories." (HINT HINT, dumbass.)
"Oh... So... No bongs, huh?"
"As I said, sir, we carry tobacco accessories, including water pipes."
"Oh. Um, okay."
"Sir? Why don't you come in and see if one of our WATER PIPES fits your needs."
See, in California, there's laws dealing entirely with semantics. You can sell "water pipes" and "hookahs" all the live long day... But if you sell a "bong" you've broken the law, and if your local cops are bored enough to send someone into a head shop, and the clerk sells him a "bong," it's off to jail he goes. Yes, it really is that stupid.
Then there were the customers who were a right royal pain in the ass, and we always got them from the same place: the viewing booths.
Okay, this takes a bit of back-story. My official job title was "stocker," and yeah, I'd rack the returned rental videos and stock/organize the magazines and use the price tag gun on recently arrived sex toys, but my real job was to keep one eye on the hallway which contained the viewing booths, to keep the closet-cases from cruising.
There were plenty of places to cruise in San Diego, and Smut 'N' Stuff went to great lengths to not be one of them. The viewing booths were located in a single hallway with no turns, it was lit up like a surgical theater, and the walls of the booths were sheet metal: no glory holes. Still, if two guys were trying to go in the same booth, it was my job to lay a couple heavy hands on shoulders and pointedly explain, "Only one person in a booth at a time, gentlemen. If you cannot abide by this rule, I will have to ask you to leave." (I'm not a tough guy, but I play one in porn shops.) Half the time the two guys would leave the hallway, have a quick confab, and end up renting a (straight) video. Maybe they were both closeted and out cruising, maybe they were simply budget-minded. It wasn't my business to judge.
We'd also have guys slowly walking the hallway trying doorknobs, or just hanging out without going in a booth. Both were big no-nos and got you thrown out of the store, no debating. On rare occasion, one of these dudes would decide he didn't WANT to leave, so it was my job to get him out. A judo twist on the wrist, get his arm up between his shoulder blades and apply inward pressure on his elbow, and quick-march him out, opening the door by simply pushing him through.
And where's my cashier during all this? Up behind his register, hurling abuse: "Get the fuck out of my store, you dirty little faggot! Go to fucking Balboa [Park] if you want to cruise!" And on and on like that.
(It should be noted that my cashier, "Wendell," was as stereotypically gay as they come: he made Scott Thompson's 'Buddy Cole' character from "Kids In The Hall" seem butch. He just really, really hated cruisers; his assumption was they were all closeted: "They should stop lying to their wives and themselves and just hit the damn bars. They're just cowards, is all they are.")
The guys I was throwing out usually didn't appreciate this style of abuse, and would begin thrashing around harder, despite the pain it was causing them: I mean, all I'd have to do was give a good upward shove with my right hand and I'd dislocate his shoulder, or twist with my left hand and snap his wrist. (I mean, I'm a big guy, which is partially why they hired me, but I should have known something was up when my first day of on-the-job training involved learning this maneuver. Like I said, I'm not a hard-ass or tough guy. I avoid trouble, but I won't run from it.)
So I'd throw the guy through the door and onto the sidewalk as hard as I could, and get back inside. My new friend would stand out there and heap abuse and rather concerning threats at the building for several minutes, then finally run out of steam. The first time I had to do this, I'm letting my displeasure with Wendell be known.
"Yeah, Wendell, could you do me a fucking favor next time and NOT antagonize the jackoff I'm bouncing out of the store?"
"Oh, fuck him. Let the little bitch rant."
"Okay, yeah, that does bring up the fact that he's threatening to get a gun out of his car..."
"Well, hooray for him. Even if he does have a gun, we're totally safe here."
"Just how the hell---"
"Trust me on this, okay? Nothing can happen to us."
".... Wendell, are you packing?"
(Big smile) "Nope."
"Then what----"
Wendell put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Honey, you just have to trust me on this. We. Are. Safe. Here. We're so safe you wouldn't believe it. Now help me swap out tapes, we've got five blank channels in the booths. I'll call titles."
And he never told me what was keeping us safe. I'm still curious, but at the same time, it's probably something I'm better off having never known.
I was never a smartass with any of the customers. That was another first-day bit of information: it doesn't matter what the customer is buying, they're to be treated with respect. Being a sex shop, there were obviously opportunities where you wanted to snicker at some of the purchase choices. When a single guy is buying an eighteen inch dildo that's at least two and a half inches in diameter plus two pint bottles of lube (the stranger the purchase, the more likely it'll be a cash sale) you have to remind yourself to not even raise an eyebrow.
The guys buying or renting porn varied widely in their behavior. Some of them acted like their mother was parked outside, many just made their transactions with as few words as possible, and a few wanted to play Siskel and Ebert with you: "Hey, have you seen this one yet? (holding up video box) Man, it's got Lois Ayers in it, so you can't go wrong! She is IT, man! I used to be into Vanessa Del Rio, but I'm not that much of a tit man, so she really didn't do it for me. Lois Ayers, though, wow! She gives the best head in the business!"
"Yes, thank you sir, we'll be sure to put that one in circulation in the booths."
"Man, ALL the movies back there oughta have fuckin' Lois Ayers in 'em, hahaha!"
Actually, I could joke around with the drug dealers and purchasers of our "tobacco accessories." We were also a supply house for dealers; we sold scales (pardon me, FOOD scales) of various sizes and complexity, little tiny zip-lock bags, razor blades, mirrors, grinders, flat-sided funnels, and cut sold as nutritional supplement. This to go along with every style of pipe and bong under the sun.
I remember one guy walked up to the display case with a huge goofy shit-eating grin and announced, loudly and clearly, "I'd like to purchase a.. WATER PIPE... please!"
I decided to play along. I smiled back and said, "I see, sir! Which WATER PIPE are you interested in?"
"The blue WATER PIPE on the second shelf!"
"Certainly, sir! Along with your WATER PIPE, are there any TOBACCO ACCESSORIES you're in need of?"
"No, none that I can think of!"
"Well then, how about some HARDCORE PORNOGRAPHY? We have it both in printed and video form!"
"By god, so you do! I'll see if any of your HARDCORE PORNOGRAPHY interests me!"
He ended up buying his BONG and a couple tapes.
Moments like that were nice, getting to be a goofball with a customer. Like I said before, the drug dealers were surprisingly easy-going too. For whatever reason, it was easier to josh around with some guy buying a $400 scale and 2X3 baggies than it was with the porn customers. Excluding Gene Siskel up there, most of the porn customers seemed to carry a sense of shame with them... Like they aren't surrounded by huge amounts of every kind of (legal) porn available, and other people buying or renting the stuff. I always wanted to tell them, "Dude, relax! if porn was such a bad thing, would there be so much of it in the world?"
There was an exception to the be-polite-to-everyone rule. Sometimes we'd have to deal with scumbags who were sure we had "the good stuff" in back or under the counter... "The good stuff" being pedophilia, bestiality, torture/rape, snuff, and other such charming subjects. (Remember, this was 1987, before the first JPEG had ever been launched across a network of any kind.) We had some icky stuff around --- golden shower and lactation come to mind --- but shit, those are legal. Creepy and disturbing, but legal. Anyone coming in asking for anything illegal would be told by Wendell, "No, we don't and you're leaving. This isn't up for debate--- Lenny, could you come here a moment? This gentleman is looking for child pornography and needs to leave."
Child pornography? That's my cue, heh heh.
"Hi there, you scumbag asshole shit-eating motherfucker cunt! Shall we find out how many holes I can put in the plate glass with your head, or are you going to get through that door and start running? I said RUN, scumbag!"
The policy, which I doubt was written down anywhere, was that I was allowed to do that to anyone looking for kiddie porn. (Anyone else looking for illegal pornography was to simply be escorted out.) In fact, it was insinuated that I could do anything I felt like with them, so long as it didn't result in having to call an ambulance. But there's a lot of leeway there...
In fact, g'wan, speak of child pornography in a positive light to anyone in the adult film industry: producers, store owners, performers, even the guy handling the boom mike. The words coming out of your mouth may be "I like kiddie sex videos, you ever do any of that?" What will be heard is, "Hi, I'm human garbage and I'm tired of having my current number of teeth in my head." You DO NOT connect legit porn with pedophilia. Any halfwit who says, "Well, porn is porn" needs a beatin--- excuse me, needs to have the concepts of "Adult Behavior" and "Mutual Consent" explained to them. In small words, since they're halfwits.
There was a reason for this unwritten policy. You think child pornographers and their consumers didn't have a communication network back then? The only difference between then and now is that the Internet has sped things up, and changed the type of media employed. Kiddie porn enthusiasts had to exchange material, and communicate, and there's no question that the communication spread far and wide.
And that's what we were counting on. We wanted word to get out that Smut 'N' Stuff employees would beat the shit out of you if you went in looking for child porn. We wanted the buzz spread far and wide that if you went to Smut 'N' Stuff, you were asking for trouble, that punk rock looking asshole would face-plant you into the glass door, then deliver a pile-driver kick in the ass... And if you didn't run fast enough --- he'd tell you to run --- he'd chase after you and if he caught you he'd start beating you up. So stay away from those stores, they don't have any merchandise, and the people that work there are crazy and violent. Especially the store on _______ Street, with the punk rocker asshole working there. That guy is sick, I got punched up pretty bad---- No, I didn't call the cops, are you stupid?
My capability for violence was just about right. I had a genuine sense of moral rage at these shitbags, which would spur me into conflict and action against them, and removed any trepidation about fighting someone: He's into little kids, he needs to get hurt, it's indirect revenge for every child who was abused and exploited for his amusement. I'd get that in my head, and I was ready to throw down. At the same time, I was just a guy who knew how to throw a fist, but wasn't really proficient at it, so I wasn't going to cause massive amounts of damage. Like I said, the balance was just right.
Mmm. But I digress.
Ultimately, it really was just a retail gig. I was (*ahem*) entertained for about the first week or two; c'mon, I was nineteen years old. Think for a moment about the frame of mind most guys have at that age. So sure, my first five or six shifts I'd spend my downtime staring in awe at the monitors for the viewing booths. After that, though... It just plain got old. I realized I was seeing the same things over and over again. The bodies would be different, but different people sucking and fucking is still just sucking and fucking. Through sheer overexposure, porn became meaningless to me.
The first few days were, "Yeah! Woo! Holy shit! Can you really bend like that? Wow!" and constantly, desperately suppressing wood.
The next few days were, "Hey, alright. Seka is in this one. Enhh, I'll watch for a couple minutes."
And the next couple days were, "(*sigh*) Yeah, I guess she's good looking, but... I've seen all this action before. Well, I guess there's only so many different ways to do things..."
Until finally... "Hey Wendell, I'll be back in a sec. I left the new 'Road & Track' in my car."
Gosh, people bored with their work environment. There's a novel concept. I couldn't complain about the money too much though. I was only working thirty hour weeks (11 p.m. to 5 a.m., which was when the cleaning crew came in to scrub the viewing booths. Brave souls, to a man.) but was being paid, if I remember correctly, $7.40 an hour. Don't sound like jack, right? Keep in mind that in 1987 the legal minimum wage in California was $3.35 an hour. Hell, that $7.40 was more than fast food managers were pulling, and I didn't go home smelling of frying medium. (Although one time the cap on a bottle of lube was loose, and I didn't know it, and--- well, I'll leave that one alone.)
I had friends that were a bit jealous of me, but for different reasons. Again, my wage was nothing to sneeze at for the time, especially for labor that really didn't require special skills --- much more than sentience and the ability to deal with customers who are nervous about being there. Yeah, I had a couple friends, guys who these days definitely fit into the Bro category even if they were punks, who thought I'd landed a job in Nirvana. When they first heard I was working at Smut 'N' Stuff, the reaction was "Dude! All that porn! Good bongs! Mirrors! All that porn! So, umm.... Do you get an employee discount?"
Most of my friends, though, were fairly blasé about it. They saw the job for what it really was:
"So you're working again now?"
"Yeah. Smut 'N' Stuff, of all places."
"Oh. Retail, huh?"
"Yeah. Good starting wage though."
"Right on. Which location?" ("Smut 'N' Stuff was a chain; they had six stores when I worked for them, and have since expanded even more.)
"The one on Balboa, the pretty big one."
"Huh. Cool."
It wasn't as though they didn't care about what I was working around... Lord knows, almost all of them, male and female, had been customers at some point for various products. It was more the realization that the product is irrelevant, you're still a chump with a price tag gun in your hand and cases of products to get shelved before you go home.
Actually, there were a couple people who were actually bugged by my job. Two or three girls who (despite never having shown it before) seemed to be suffering Latent Feminist Syndrome. Essentially they were proto-Kathleen Hannahs, and I got the "pornography is exploitation" lecture, to varying degrees, from all three. I had to ask: exploitation of who?
"The women, of course!"
"So... The men aren't exploited at all?"
"Of course not! They're just doing what is natural to them."
"A-heh! Ah, one could say that about the women, too. I mean, I haven't seen anything so far that most people do for fun anyway. It's just on film, is all."
"The women are still exploited to a much greater degree than the men are, though."
"You still haven't explained how. This isn't the third world, you can't tell me Seka or Nina Hartley are being drugged or physically abused into working. Besides, they make way more money than the guys, so I'd say the men are being exploited more than the women."
(I later learned I was wrong about this. Back then, when porn had genuine "stars," male and female performers were actually near to parity for pay.)
"But the women have to have sex with guys they hardly know."
"So... Porn is like the mistake everyone's made at a party? Besides, how do you know they don't know each other? They could be good friends for all we know."
(And from what I understand, at that point, the "stars" really did hang out together, male and female. Not constantly, everyone had friends outside the business of course, but in a business that was, at the time, fairly tight-knit, the performers did spend leisure time together... For no other reason than they could talk about work objectively, and not have to explain themselves.)
"I don't care what you say. The women in porn are being used. They're being used for their bodies."
"What the--- What are you talking about? You think the men are being hired for their intellect!?"
"Come on! Guys will have sex with anyone!"
"Uh huh. Well, nice to know you have such a high opinion of half the species. What a lovely view you carry of, well, me, and every other dude you know; we're all creeps with no judgement or self-control."
"Wait, I didn't... I wasn't saying..."
And on and on.
I had variations of this conversation a few times while I had that job; in the long run, me and the person I was talking to were both demonstrating our ignorance of the porn industry. What it came down to in all of the talk was the girl claiming all women in porn were "exploited" --- which was and is probably true in places like Thailand or Eastern Europe, but we were talking about high-end commercial porn from Los Angeles.
(Read up on Traci Lords, and try to decide: who exploited who? My opinion of Traci Lords is not high. Traci and her fake I.D. managed to put people in jail, through little fault of their own. She abused the friendship and trust of people in the industry --- seriously, she really hurt people on personal and emotional levels. They thought she was their friend, and you don't do to friends what she did. And as far as being "exploited," dig this: she released one movie after she turned eighteen. By that point, she really was a star, back when porn had genuine, honest-to-god stars. With fame comes power, and she used her power to retain the rights to that final movie she made... The only one that could be sold legally in the U.S. A little fishy, eh?) (Because of the different ages of consent, it's still possible to purchase Lords' films, all of them, in Europe. France, Spain, and a few others still sell her videos.)
One girl finally kind of came clean and admitted that porn just grossed her out. My suggestion of, y'know, not looking at it fell flat. Her boyfriend was an absolute porn hound, to the point where he couldn't get it hard without smut. Boy, there's a relationship destined for greatness. It's been a lot of years, hopefully homeslice got the therapy he desperately needed.
I stayed at that job for about ten months. Two things contributed to my departure: first, I was getting burned out on working nights, and second, a, uh, sideline I had going was starting to take off. I went from being an employee to being a customer. You gotta buy those little bags somewhere...
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