Night Shift

by Joanna Angel

  “Oh, what a hoot!” She laughed hysterically. I had her hold still as I wiped the pink stain off her teeth. Then I continued to restock dildos.

  In addition to parading around in faux fur and sea-shelled boobs, Sandy put out bowls of Cheetos and Chex Mix for the customers, and turned the music (which was a bizarre collection of orchestral versions of current pop songs; I don’t think Sandy understood the origin of what these tunes were imitating) in the store up about four decibels louder than it usually is. She also made some kind of punch mix that she inconveniently placed right next to the register.

  I didn’t know she would be coming in. Was she here as my boss? Is there something I should be doing differently? I could have put out some Cheetos had I known that I was supposed to. Does that help with sales? I wanted to ask her, but I also didn’t want to give away any sales tactics to any customers.

  “I think there’s a folding table somewhere in the back,” I said. “Maybe we can bring it out and put the food and stuff on there . . .”

  Sandy nodded, so I brought out the table, and laid out the punch, Chex Mix, and the Cheetos in as decorative a manner as I possibly could. The table looked a bit barren so I sprinkled some porn DVDs between everything.

  “That looks lovely!” Sandy said as she lifted an anal DVD off the table. She put her glasses on and inspected the back of the DVD box cover, with the movie just a few centimeters away from her face. I wasn’t sure what she meant was lovely—the graphic photographic images of anal sex that her spectacles examined or my on-the-fly table design skills. Perhaps it was a mixture of both.

  There were a few customers wandering around the store. It was interesting to watch the way people navigated their way through aisles of sex. Certain people come in here with a very specific purpose and go directly to the product they have in mind. Others spend hours looking around, unsure if they need a dildo, a blow-up doll, a XXX movie, or anything and everything in between. I noticed that several repeat “customers” (if you can still call them that) frequently came in the store, looked around at everything diligently, and then left without ever purchasing anything.

  One of them was here now. He repeated his same ritual that he usually did; he walked in, went straight to the DVD aisle, and strategically studied the back of 20 to 30 various box covers. He would then pick the same one off the shelf—Bisexual Cuckold Fantasies—asked me how much it was (mind you there is a large orange price tag on it clearly stating the answer to the question), and then he asked if we took credit cards. I would reply yes, we do, he would say he will be right back, then he would leave. He did the same thing today, only this time he took a few Cheetos on his way out. For Sandy’s sake, I hope those Cheetos lead him one step closer to an actual purchase one day.

  Even though I still felt uneasy talking to the customers, I was learning a lot from watching Sandy. She walked around and conversed with people, and filled the dead, awkward space that existed between the handful of often-confused, sexually inquisitive strangers here.

  She was currently interacting with a large, bearded man who was wearing the most stereotypical lumberjack clothes I’ve ever seen: red flannel shirt, jeans, and a black beanie. I’d seen him pacing back and forth between the DVD and lingerie aisles, clearly looking for something, but definitely not seeing it.

  “Honey, would you like some punch?” Sandy asked him. He nodded, and Sandy in her own seductive way signaled him over to the plastic table, aka our makeshift bar for the evening. Sandy handed him a red solo cup full of her mystery pink concoction in a bowl.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, clutching the cup like a lifeline. He sipped it slowly, his eyes still scanning the store for the item of his fancy. I thought about going to talk with him, maybe seeing if I could help him find what he was looking for, but just then, a tall, skinny man with some stubble, a large nose, and the sides of his head shaved walked into the store.

  “Amir! Good to see you!!” Sandy ran over to him and kissed him on the cheek, leaving his skin stained with pink lipstick. She gave him a very warm, motherly (or grandmotherly) hug, which was reciprocated with a very stiff pat on the back.

  “Hi, Sandy.”

  She poured him a cup of punch and offered it to him; he reluctantly accepted. The quiet lumberjack and the guy named Amir stood near the Home Depot table drinking punch and quickly glancing at one another. As the reddish-pink liquid in their cups disappeared, their inhibitions seemed to lower and they looked more relaxed. This was a magic punch, really. Sandy had been drinking it all night, so naturally, she danced in the butt plug aisle as a piano instrumental of a Linkin Park song played on the store speakers. Though I didn’t have any of the punch, I too could feel some bravery growing within me, so I decided to put it to use and go talk to one of the customers. Maybe I could help them find what they were looking for . . .

  To talk to the lumberjack, Click Here.

  To talk to Amir, Click Here.

  I decided to talk to the lumberjack; I was so curious about him. He didn’t fit the “typical” profile of one of our customers, at least from what I could tell from the past seven days. Why was he here?

  As soon as I moved from behind the counter, the lumberjack downed the rest of his punch and walked back over to the lingerie section of the store with determination. Where does one even wear lingerie? It was far too ruffled and textured to wear underneath clothing. It always just seemed so impractical to me. If I was ever going to spend $120 on a bra, I would want it to be a sports bra or something I could seamlessly wear underneath my clothes, and on its own as a top if I had ever decided to go to the gym. I could even wear it to sleep. But . . . everything did look really pretty. The lacework on some of the panties was spectacular, the rhinestones on the bras caught the light so perfectly, and garters with their stand-out buckles were definitely sexy—you know, for the kind of person who likes this stuff. I followed the lumberjack over to the lingerie and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Sir—did you need some suggestions or help picking something out for your wife?” I asked the lumberjack. His eyes immediately shot up to mine, though he suddenly looked so . . . hurt. Should I not have assumed he was married? Should I have said “loved one?” Does anyone really say that?

  The lumberjack dropped the large lacey garter in his hand and rushed toward the exit of the store. Sandy stopped him.

  “Honey, if you want to try that on go ahead! It’s ok!” She winked at him and, holding his hand, used her soothing grandma powers to calm him down.

  “Thank you,” he said, “I’m new at this.”

  “That’s ok! My name is Sandy!” she said. “And that’s Taryn! She’s actually new here, too. Please let either of us know if you need anything.” There was a terribly awkward silence in the store, even with the jazz instrumental edition of a Mariah Carey song playing on the speakers. “More punch?” Sandy said while handing him another cup. I should treat myself to some. I felt terrible.

  After chugging down another plastic cup full of punch, the lumberjack retreated to the lingerie section. In all honesty, I didn’t know if we had anything in his size. Most of these outfits were one size fits all, and the “all” definitely discriminated against women who were even slightly above average weight, and certainly did not take into account 200-pound men. He stared blankly at the pile of straps, lace, and spandex. It was really disorganized and that is completely my fault; I’d spent so much time arranging the dildos perfectly that I’d forgotten about every other part of the store.

  “So what were you looking for? Maybe I can help you navigate through this mess,” I said.

  “Well, I, um, stockings. I like stockings—do you have any?” he asked nervously.

  “Oh yeah! Absolutely! They’re actually over here.” I led him back to the register, where a display of stockings stood almost camouflaged in the corner. Whenever I do get around to organizing the lingerie in the store, I should put the stockings near the lingerie. I never realized ‘til now how inefficient it was.


  The lumberjack stared blankly at the different pairs of stockings, fishnets, thigh-highs, and tights, his eyes running up and down the stand, analyzing each pair and then zipping to the next.

  “I . . . I don’t know what would look good on me,” he finally said.

  “How about this one? I think this would look great!” I spotted a plus-size pair of nude thigh-highs with a black seam in the back. From the vast experience I had with the two and a half boyfriends I previously had in life (the “half” was on account of the fact that I called him my boyfriend and he didn’t call me his girlfriend), I knew that men are typically terrible at picking out clothing. Whether it’s a winter coat or a lace garter, it’s never an easy decision.

  “Those look really nice. Thank you.” He seemed more comfortable now. Hopefully I redeemed myself from my earlier assumptions. He was a big guy, but he was incredibly soft spoken and timid. Like a big teddy bear.

  “The stockings won’t stay up on their own, so we will have to look for a garter for you!”

  He followed me back to the lingerie section of the store, this time with more purpose and confidence. Who needs therapy when you have punch and thigh-highs! I pulled out a handful of garter belts from the mound of disorganized lingerie, the biggest ones I could find, but I was worried they still wouldn’t fit. Would he have the same body issues I do when I try on clothing that doesn’t fit? I wasn’t sure how to address the fact that these all might be too small without hurting his feelings.

  “I’m worried that won’t fit around my gut!” He pulled up his red flannel and exposed his hairy bulging stomach. I laughed.

  “It barely fits around my gut,” I said. “Maybe I can get creative and make something work.”

  “I brought my own panties, by the way.”

  I was honestly impressed. “Oh really? Well let me see them! I want to be sure they match.”

  He pulled out a pair of black cotton French-cut panties with a lace trim on top that was squished in one of the pockets of his jeans. His face flushed as he rescued them from the tight space, but he looked at the panties lovingly.

  “Those are really nice. I think they’ll look great on you,” I said. “Really, can’t go wrong with a pair of plain black panties. They will match with anything!”

  The garter I picked out for him was also black. The black lace garter, the black panties, and the nude thigh-highs made for a sexy combination.

  “I would like to try it on,” he said.

  “Yeah, of course!” I walked toward the dressing room, then stopped myself. “Hey, um, I have to ring you up first. Once I take the stockings out of the box I can’t put them back in. I’m sorry.” I hope I didn’t just ruin the moment. This was a delicate situation. Being a cross-dresser enthusiast/motivator was a new and exciting part of my job, but doing inventory on pantyhose was also part of my job.

  “Oh yeah. Sorry. Like I said, I’m new at this,” he replied.

  We went back to the register and a few customers were actually waiting for me to ring them up. I had forgotten about the rest of the store. Fortunately, they had punch and an assortment of porn DVDs to keep them occupied.

  “Let me check these people out and I’ll be right with you,” I said to the lumberjack. I rang up a few people who were getting standard stuff. Lube for one person, a mix of pornographic DVDs from our $5 bin for someone else, a Barely Legal magazine and a Fleshlight (an incredibly popular replica of a vagina that conveniently comes in a receptacle that resembles a large flashlight—for those of you who didn’t know) for another. I quickly got them out of the way so I could get back to helping the lumberjack, whom I realized I should stop calling “the lumberjack.” Personal attention was the key to good business, was it not?

  “What’s your name, by the way?” I asked him when it was finally his turn at the register.

  “Billy.”

  Billy. I liked this name. It was kind of unisex, so no matter which gender he identified with I could use the same name. I always thought the name Billy for a woman was hot. There was a woman named Billy (or Billie, actually) on Days of Our Lives, which I watched in its entirety when I was sick one week in college. And damn, that character was hot. Had I not been sick at the time, I would have definitely been aroused.

  I rang up the pantyhose and the garter belt. I stretched the sides of the lace in the garter as far as it could go, and it still didn’t look like it could fit Billy.

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  I took the safety pins off the garter that were holding the merchandise tags and moved them to the back of the garment. I attached pieces of twine I normally used to tie down cardboard boxes that went in the recycling bin in between them. It gave the garter an extra foot of length. The twine really complimented his burly, grungy look. My Saturday night-shift was suddenly like an episode of Project Runway.

  “Let’s get you back to the fitting room!” I said.

  The fitting room was actually just the bathroom. Calling it a “fitting room” just felt fancier and I assumed he wanted to feel fancy, with thigh-highs and a garter and all. He took his purchases and went into the room. I stood nearby.

  “If you need anything let me know!”

  I hung around outside for a while, almost hoping that Billy would call me in to see him. I was definitely invested in his fetish well-being at this point. Several minutes passed and I realized that I just looked like a girl who desperately had to pee.

  “Are you ok in there?” I knocked and asked.

  “Actually—could you come in here?” he answered, after a few more minutes of silence. I was secretly very pleased, but I put on an air of concerned professionalism.

  He unlocked the door and I entered. Just as I suspected, he was having issues tying up the twine in the back. He had put his pants on top of the thigh-highs and the garter was peeking out around his belly.

  “I want to see the stockings,” I said. “After all, I did pick them out!” I truly did want to see them. I had never seen a large man in lingerie before and I found something about the dichotomy between his personality and his outer appearance to be very . . . sexy.

  He turned his back to me and unzipped his pants. He did a great job picking out panties; they fit him nicely. His asscheeks hung out of the bottom, and his ass was actually more toned than I expected. I tied up my twine concoction in a knot so the garter belt would stay up.

  “There you go,” I said. “Fits like a glove. I mean a garter. Ha!” I nervously laughed.

  He turned around and I stared at him. His flannel was still on, and I could see a giant bulge inside his panties that appeared to be slowly growing. I had never seen a man’s cock inside of dainty women’s panties and I surprisingly really enjoyed the sight of it. His flannel was still on and his jeans were around his ankles. I unbuttoned his shirt, his chest was hairy and his gut was large. He was so manly up top and so delicate on the bottom, and the twine all kind of tied it together, literally and metaphorically. The few men I had sex with in my life were tall and skinny so I assumed that was my “type.” I had no idea I could be attracted to a man like this and I didn’t know a man like this would ever want to wear sheer thigh-highs.

  “Take your pants off!” I said. “You’ll see the full ensemble without anything blocking the view.”

  “But I don’t have the right shoes,” he sighed.

  I looked down and realized he had cowboy boots on, which actually sort of made sense with the outfit.

  “I will order some large heels for you, if you’d like. You know . . . for next time. But I think your cowboy boots look good! It’s not like you’re wearing construction boots or dirty sneakers.”

  As he took his pants and shoes off, someone knocked on the door.

  “One minute!” I said. Damn it. This was the only bathroom. I thought we were in an actual fitting room for a moment. He went to pull his pants back on and I stopped him.

  “Why don’t you walk around the store for a bit in your new clothes? I can hold onto your pants f
or you; when you want them back just let me know.” I could see a big smile underneath his beard, he took a deep breath and let out a big sigh of relief.

  “All right, I can give it a try.” I picked up the pants and we walked out the door . . . and right into Sandy, who had apparently been standing outside. Shit—was I in trouble?

  “He paid for the stockings. I promise.” It was the only thing I could think to say.

  “Hon, I know!” She looked at Billy. “Well don’t you look nice!” And she gave him a kiss on the cheek. Dreams really do come true here. An insecure, oversized man was now being admired by a woman twenty years younger and twenty years older than him at the same time.

  I went back to the register, giggling. Like I was just caught having sex with someone in my bedroom by my mom, only I was really just tying a piece of twine around a man’s stomach in a public restroom. Billy walked around the store, and I retreated to the register. We kept looking at each other. He flexed his muscles and made funny faces at me. He grabbed random porn DVDs and looked at them and I could see his cock grow inside his panties. He moved his hands around the upper parts of his thigh covered by stockings. He rubbed his hands up and down his legs as far down as he could reach. It sure was a good thing he wore cowboy boots and not heels, or he would have fallen over. He rubbed more and more furiously . . . and then the stockings ripped. He looked so embarrassed. I rushed over to him to make sure he was ok.

  “I rip my damn stockings all the time! It’s not a big deal. Seriously. When my mom worked as a secretary she went through, like, five pairs of nylons a week.”

  This didn’t make him feel any better. He tried moving the stockings around so the run was in the back and not the front, but I could already see more of the fibers weakening from the movement.

  “You’re gonna make it worse! Don’t do that—the more you move them around the more they will rip,” I said. “Here—I know a trick.” I ran back to my purse and pulled out a bottle of clear nail polish that had been living at the bottom of my bag for about three years. I honestly don’t know how it ever got there in the first place, but every time I would clean out my purse I would come across it and think, I should keep this here; I might need it one day. Never did I think it would be to fix a 200-pound man’s pantyhose.