by Joanna Angel
It had been a little over twenty-four hours, and I still hadn’t heard from Amanda.
I spent several hours attempting to craft the perfect, witty text message. It consisted of a lot of writing and deleting.
“I miss you more than those French fries.”
No, that was too needy.
“How was your flight?”
Too generic.
“I wanted to talk to you about that class stuff! Lemme know when you have a sec.”
Too annoying.
“Heeeeeeeey.”
Too stupid.
“Thinking of you,” with a naked photo attached. Maybe? If I took the right photo. That could potentially work. I tried it out—boob shots, from the hip up shots, pouty kissy faces. Nothing was working for me. I retook the photo multiple times and simply couldn’t find the proper angle. I put makeup on, and then it looked too much like I put makeup on just for the sake of taking a photo. Which I did. Argh!
So, I gave up on that, and decided not to write her after all. She could be on another plane by now, or even with another woman already. It was exciting and so agonizing to crush over her. Our encounter was so brief, and I had been so sleep deprived, there was a sincere possibility that my whole tryst with her had just been some kind of hallucination.
But whether she was real or a sexy, imaginary hologram who gave an amazing orgasm, I did make a promise to her to create some kind of event in the store, because apparently having private ROOMZ that allow penetration is super unique. I loved the way Amanda referred to Dreamz in comparison to the other stores she visits as part of the “sex industry.” Like my job was part of something bigger, and not just a minimum-wage thing that kept me nocturnal.
Amanda spoke about sex in this ultra-professional way. It was more than just an urge that needed to be fulfilled, it was a lifestyle. I wasn’t sure how to get to that level of professional knowledge of sex without having anyone to have sex with. Well I possibly had one, but I wasn’t sure when it would happen again.
I started searching on my laptop various keywords I remembered that Amanda had said, like “couples,” “play,” “BDSM,” “sex education.” I found Dr. Erica’s books, the woman that Amanda told me about. I also came across some instructional pornographic videos, a genre of adult movies I had no idea existed. We didn’t have any of these in our store.
Several of the scenes contained a striking blonde woman named Nina Hartley. In one of her videos, she had this giant inflatable pussy, and talked to the viewer about what areas to touch, and how to properly lick it. She explained all the different erogenous zones, moved her fingers around everywhere, and described what each different part of the vulva did and what kind of orgasms were achieved in the various zones. I felt like she was speaking directly to me, my own hot blonde teacher, ready to guide me toward an A in sexual exploration.
Then a mysterious, handsome man walked in the room and followed her instructions, licking her pussy in all the proper zones until she came in his mouth. Then, she instructed the viewer on how to properly suck the man’s giant, rock-hard penis, using a corkscrew motion with her hands, with lots of spit from her mouth, licking the balls and the shaft and using a balance of tongue and hand. Then she gave him a blow job very matter-of-factly and professionally, following all of her own instructions.
Next, three other women randomly came into the room, joined in, got naked instantly, and took turns on the man’s penis. They all looked so happy, horny, and confident, switching back and forth from cock to pussy, knowing exactly what to do with both of them. It was admirable! I guess the instructions were over at this point in the film and it was the time for couples watching it to practice what they learned. If I ever had a penis or a pussy in front of me again, I now had some new things to do with them.
I continued my research, which is an odd term for looking at porn, but I’ve heard worse euphemisms. I typed in my zip code along with a bunch of other sexual terms, I clicked on link after link, exploring possible event topics. Bondage? No, I feel like someone could get hurt if I tried to tie them up with too little experience. Erotic massage? Nah, then I’d need to find a bunch of beds, and those wouldn’t fit in the store, even if I moved all the shelves. There were so many choices out there, but none of them seemed good enough. Ugh! There had to be a perfect event for me to host!
Soon, I found myself on a Tampa “Lifestyles” website, which I shortly learned was another name for swingers (married couples who have sex with other people). There was a very active message board, with photos of various couples, girls and guys, listing what type of sex they wanted to have. Some of the couples were younger, some were older, one had a photo completely clothed, decked out in hiking gear, in front of a Jeep with mountain bikes and boating equipment strapped to the top. One couple had bars over their eyes in the photo, and were decked out in leather gear with studs all over it. One couple was at what looked like a kid’s birthday party, with pastel Mylar balloons, picnic tables, and cake in the background (without any actual kids showing in the shot).
This was just so intriguing and arousing, honestly. To think of all these random couples in the area looking to fuck strangers? To think of parents that took a moment at a birthday party to snap a photo that put them in the market to find a third person to engage in role-playing with—I had no idea this happened. I thought I was so subversive because I was a registered member of the Green party, and I wore black nail polish, and didn’t listen to pop music on the radio. But it turns out there were “regular” grownups right near me doing way more exciting things than I was. I sure hope I didn’t find my parents on here.
Is this what Amanda meant when she said I could find couples who wanted to play in the store? Where did these people usually go and why weren’t they already coming to Dreamz? Did we have a reputation that only solicited the sexually depraved? Did we even have a reputation at all? If we did, it was time to change it. Dreamz needed to be the go-to place for the sexually curious in Florida, and my event—whatever it will turn out to be—was going to make it the hot spot it deserved to be!
For Taryn to host a porn star event in the store, Click Here.
For Taryn to host about a swinger party in the store, Click Here.
I was back to work a few nights later. There was still no word from Amanda. I’d been ghosted by guys before, hooking up with a few of them, then never hearing from them again, but I couldn’t have possibly imagined that Amanda would do that to me. Just goes to show, women can be just as cruel as men, which my gender-equality brain can’t decide is a good thing (yay, equal gender acts!) or a bad thing (but—I’m heartbroken).
It was 8:00 P.M . and I was ready for another ten hours of slinging dildos, recommending lube, renting jerk-off rooms, and anything and everything in between. Part of me kept thinking about possible events to do and part of me was too hurt to even think about it. I wanted to take Amanda’s stupid electrical wand and stick it inside my heart. Maybe that would numb the pain. I couldn’t even go near the strap-on selection in the store; every time I walked by it my eyes welled up with tears. I was an embarrassing mess. If Amanda saw me like this, she would never speak to me again. But since it didn’t look like she was ever going to speak to me again anyway, I may as well just keep wallowing in a sea of leather holsters and suction Cyberskin.
A few customers came in. I was being really snippy with them; I didn’t mean to, but my sour mood was controlling even my professionalism. A young couple about my age came in holding hands—the girl had cute freckles and red hair, the guy was tall and skinny, wearing corduroy pants and a striped top. They politely asked me to recommend the perfect adult movie for them to watch. I curtly interrupted their excitement for each other and replied that porn movies were mostly meant for men to watch alone and this was a pointless endeavor. The couple slunk away, but not before the guy whispered “bitch” under his breath, like it was my fault. It wasn’t my fault! How dare people come in my store and be infatuated with one another in front of
me. They had no right! I was in an environment specifically meant to satisfy the sexual voids in people’s lives and nothing here was doing it for me. I really just wanted to go home and obsessively refresh the incoming text message screen on my iPhone.
Sometime around 10:00 P.M. an extremely large man came into the store. He wore a T-shirt that said “Fantasies” on it, with a stripper pole and a trucker silhouette of a busty girl with long hair. He looked around the store frantically.
“Is Sandy here?” he asked. “I tried calling her and she didn’t pick up.”
“No, she’s not here. She worked earlier today. She might be asleep by now. Can I help you?” Was this one of Sandy’s boy toys? The mental image of Sandy and this obese man engaging in sexual contact was too much for my already weak mental state at the moment. However, I did my best to feign a smile, since he was either some kind of acquaintance or perhaps even a lover of my boss.
“I got this porn star doing a feature show at my club. We’re having electrical problems, and the music won’t play. The club is packed with people, I need somewhere to put them—you guys have rooms here with a pole in it right?”
“Um, we do, but I don’t know if I can just give them to you. Have you done this sort of thing before? What’s your club?” I asked.
“Fantasies—it’s a gentleman’s club down the road. I’ve known Sandy for years. We go way back. I’ll split the entrance fee with the store and I’ll bus all the customers over here.”
“Um, I’ll say okay for now and try to get a hold of Sandy. If she says no, you guys will have to leave; is that all right? Do you want to see the room first?” I asked.
“Can I fit about 150 people in there?” he asked.
“No. Not even close, but I can open up the door maybe and people can kinda spill out in the hallway?”
He picked up his cell phone, a Motorola flip phone. I can’t believe those things still worked with any current phone plan. His palms were sweating and he had a bit of trouble holding on to it. He swiftly but carefully dialed a contact.
“Hey—I’m at Dreamz. Just bring the feature over here and she can start getting ready . . . Oh, I don’t know.” He put his hand on the phone and looked up at me.
“Do you guys have a dressing room?”
“I mean, we have a bathroom, but that’s it,” I answered.
“Is that the only bathroom?”
“Yes. It is, but I just peed, so I should be fine a while.”
He grumbled and didn’t seem to like my answer or care about my bladder’s schedule.
“We also have other smaller rooms—who needs a dressing room? Is this for you?” Was he going to change out of his sweatpants and strip-club T-shirt, and into some kind of superhero outfit?
He then yelled into his phone, “Yeah, they got rooms.”
He listened to the voice on the other end of the phone then looked back up at me, incredibly annoyed.
“Does it have an outlet?” he asked.
“Yes, it does. I can unplug the TV!” I said. “Or, I might actually have a power strip somewhere.”
“Yes, there’s a fucking outlet. Is that good enough for her?” he yelled back into the phone. I have to admit this stress that just came over the store was kind of exciting and keeping my mind away from the lack of activity on my cell phone. “Bring the feature over so she can get ready. Feed everyone some free booze in the meantime so we don’t lose them.” He hung up.
“So, what’s going to happen exactly?” I asked.
“The store is gonna be packed! Don’t worry about it. I got some of my security guys who will help you out. Sandy can thank me for this later,” he said, not really answering my question at all. I was still equally as confused, if not more. But I was anxious and excited to see what would happen.
“All right!” I nodded in agreement. Seemed like this was happening regardless of whether I consented to it or not.
About fifteen minutes later, a short girl with pink and black hair and a multitude of tattoos came into the store, escorted by another guy in sweatpants and the same strip-club T-shirt, but this guy was a lot smaller than the prior one.
The guy ran frantically right up to me while the pink-haired girl was engrossed in her cell phone and didn’t look up. “Dennis said he talked to you? Where can we get her set up?”
“Hey! Yes . . . yes . . . um . . . lemme show you guys the uh, dressing room.”
I grabbed the key and walked them both to one of our smaller ROOMZ. The guy was holding a giant suitcase, the girl was holding nothing but her cell phone that she didn’t look up from at all. I unlocked the door.
“Does this work for you?” the guy said to the woman, though she still wouldn’t look away from her screen.
“Yeah, I guess. Whatever. Where am I even dancing?” the girl asked.
“Where’s the room with the pole?” the guy turned to me and asked.
“Right this way,” I said. I took them down the hallway and opened our biggest room, the one with the stripper pole in it. It could comfortably fit enough people to have a proper late-night raver orgy but I wasn’t so sure that it was big enough for what they were looking for.
“Are you kidding me? I have to dance in here?” The girl looked at me, I guess expecting me to tell her it was all a joke and that there was some kind of incredible stage elsewhere built just for her performance.
I could see why these security guys were stressed out; this headliner was a piece of work! I looked to the security escort for a clue about what to do next, but the sweatpants guy was on his cell phone yelling at various people about confusing logistics. I addressed the woman instead.
“I mean, I was asked to bring you to the room with the pole. I don’t exactly know what you’re supposed to be doing. I’m Taryn, by the way! What’s your name?”
She glared at me. “Joanna,” she said. “Joanna ANGEL.” Her emphasis on angel was fierce and comical, as if stating her last name would help me remember who she was.
“Do you work at, um, Fantasies?”
“I’m a FEATURE,” she answered.
What the fuck was a feature? I didn’t know people could be features. I thought it was a noun that described some kind of a column in a magazine, or a verb that implied something was an attribute. Like: This room features a box of fine tissues, a television, and a stripper pole.
I stared at her blankly without a reply. She scoffed and rolled her eyes.
“I’m a porn star and I get hired to dance at strip clubs around the country as a featured performer. I’m not like a house dancer at a strip club,” she firmly stated. And then she buried herself back in her cell phone. I had no idea that there was a hierarchy of strippers.
“That’s so cool! Congratulations!” I replied. “Well, let me know if I can get you anything.”
“Yeah—a bottle of water, please,” she said. “Oh, and here’s my bio and my songs. Please hand this to whoever is in charge of the music.” She handed me a typed up sheet of credits for herself that read a handful of things like “AVN Hall of Fame,” “winner of over 40 AVN awards,” “Owner of BurningAngel Entertainment,” and “First Tattooed Centerfold of Hustler magazine.” I had no idea what to do with this—did she just want me to know more about her? Was I supposed to memorize this so I wouldn’t forget? She also handed me a flash drive. I was utterly confused, though under the context I guessed that the flash drive must be full of the music she planned on dancing to.
“Great, I’ll just . . . get this plugged into the speakers then.”
“Uh-huh, thanks.” She snapped her phone off, sighing, huffing, and puffing loudly as she opened up her giant suitcase. I couldn’t help but peek inside: it seemed to be filled with sparkly outfits, large patent-leather boots, and multiple cosmetic bags. She pulled out a giant, plastic makeup case with skulls all over it and began putting various powders and creams all over her face. I had no idea what I was to do here but I enjoyed the challenge, and whatever it was that I had to do here I was going to e
xecute it as best as I possibly could.
I walked out of the room, leaving Joanna to change in peace, and headed past the sweatpants guy, with the piece of paper and the flash drive crammed into my hand. He was still on the phone yelling about outlets and electricity and entrance fees and a barrage of other things. He looked up at me as I passed him.
“Oh, great, you’re taking care of her music? Thanks so much!” he said. I nodded and smiled. I guess I inadvertently accepted the challenge.
So I pieced together the fragments of information I received this evening and deduced that this store and this room was going to turn into a strip club. This pink-haired girl was a porn star, and she did some kind of special show that required special music that was on this flash drive. We did have a speaker in the store, and I had a laptop in my backpack. I was sure I could get creative and figure out how to make something work.
As I finagled with the sound system, trying to find the best way to get the music files from the flash drive out through the store speakers, the place began to fill up with lots and lots of people; I hadn’t realized they were letting anyone in yet! I wish I’d had time to move some of the shelves out of the way.
The crowd was as varied as they come, though not in terms of gender. It was mostly men, but a wild selection: some looked like bikers, covered in leather jackets with cycle gang insignias on the backs, while others looked like hipsters, covered in plaid and knitted beanies. There were frat-looking guys; nerdy guys in graphic tees. A handful of couples came in as well. The only thing that really brought everyone together, from what I could see, were their tattoos. Everyone had tattoos! Big ones, small ones, colored and black and white, animals of all kinds, and artsy renderings all showed up on the customers’ skin. I wondered if people with tattoos really preferred to see tattooed people in their porn. At least some of them did, right? The hoard of people all meandered around the store, exploring the products, but looking incredibly confused. It was completely chaotic. There was an impromptu doorman who set up a chair in the entrance of the store and was charging people to get in. Was that legal at all? He also coincidentally (or not?) had sweatpants and the same “Fantasies” T-shirt on as the others. Was I going to be rewarded with this official wardrobe as well, if I completed my job?
