Night Shift

by Joanna Angel

  Dreamz really did need more females coming into the store. A masturbation class just for women would be great. I had so little sexual experience and definitely wasn’t qualified to teach it, but there I was, sitting in my car, staring at a giant billboard of Jimmy, who had no experience at all when he volunteered to DJ our high school prom, and look where that got him.

  To follow Taryn in her class research, Click Here.

  To attend Taryn’s class on masturbation, Click Here.

  I decided to host a masturbation seminar for women. I . didn’t want to call it “teaching a class,” because I truly didn’t have the credentials to teach, but a host merely brings people together (something I did have the authority to do). I set a date, and I made a Facebook invite for it, with a pretty cover image and everything. It was somewhat official!

  The next few weeks went by quickly. I had a real goal, and a project to work on. I stopped spending my downtime at the store looking at the clock and waiting for it to change, or pretending to sweep the floor. I told Sandy about it. I didn’t ask her permission, I just told her I wanted to plan an event in the store for women and she sort of patted me on the head, smiled and laughed, and said “Okay, hon.’”

  Unlike the Hustler store, we didn’t have ten-plus employees working at a time. It was either just me, or just Sandy. At times when Sandy gets tired, she just closes the store and goes home. We truly didn’t operate like a “real” store with open and close hours. This was basically Sandy’s house, and if the door was unlocked and the lights were on you could come in. And jerk off. In any case, due to the lack of staff here, I would still have to ring people up for their purchases at the register, or give them keys to ROOMZ and run this workshop at the same time. I’d noticed the patterns of time of when it was busy and when it was slow in the store, so the ideal situation would be to have this event go on when it was slow. The only problem was, that was usually after midnight, which was not an ideal time to have any kind of event. Mothers who wear blazers certainly weren’t going to show up at that time. Who were we kidding here, though? That type never showed up at any time in this store.

  Deciding to do this class was the first step. Asking/ telling Sandy was the second. Checking those two things off my list was rather simple. Then came a twofold, rather daunting issue, and that was that I had no experience teaching, very little experience masturbating, and I had no clue how to do any kind of promotion to get masturba-tors with less experience than me in here to learn more about masturbating. The one thing I did know here was that inside of Dreamz we had a unique advantage. Part of what scares people away is also what brings people in: While the Hustler store has fancy masturbating tools, hardcover, glossy text books about masturbation, and important masturbating lectures taught by PhDs, no one in that store was actually allowed to masturbate right then and there. That’s what my class would be—immer-sive and hands-on (pun most definitely intended). That’s what was going to make a Dreamz class a clear competitor with these fancy show-off stores.

  First things first, though: I needed a lesson plan. Since I myself was newly acquainted with the world of self-pleasure, and thus what the young people would call a “noob” in this matter, I decided to skim through Dr. Erica’s book for inspiration. Where was I to begin? It was a very dense 350-page hardcover book written with the sole intention for women to have stronger orgasms. That was pretty cool! I never had an orgasm textbook before. Perhaps college would have been more enjoyable had I known these existed. There was a whole chapter on the clitoris, then another on the cervix one on female ejaculation, and another on G-spots, just to name a few. Every single centimeter of the vagina got its own special lecture in here. She really laid out the vagina as not just one erogenous zone, but a whole bunch of different compartments with their own unique ways of getting off if touched in the right way. Some of the book spoke to me, some of it got far too biological and felt like a textbook; I felt like that kind of dry language might make it harder for people to understand the sexy elements of masturbation. Writing that’s too clinical tends to scare people away, like my science books did to me in high school. Some of the material was also clearly meant for women much older than me, women with children, or husbands, who had been married for over ten years. It wasn’t a book meant for people who just graduated college and made minimum wage and lived in an apartment with a communal bathroom in the hallway.

  The chapters of the book that affected me the most were titled “body positivity” and “body confidence.” Part of learning how to masturbate was wanting to masturbate and the desire to want to give yourself an orgasm comes from loving your own body. I never thought to love my body, I actually didn’t know my body so well. It was an unknown blob attached to my head I needed to get to know better.

  The book said to spend at least 20 minutes a day completely naked to gain more body positivity. I thought about it, and realized I was never naked unless I was showering. Due to all my roommates, I went into the shower completely clothed, stripped my clothing off as fast as possible, showered, and immediately put clothing back on. Per the book’s suggestion, I started spending five to ten minutes naked in the bathroom before my shower, just staring at my own body. I stood tall and straightened out my posture, and noticed my breasts were in fact rather perky and my butt poked out nicely.

  Was I attractive? It had never really crossed my mind before, since I’d always thought the answer was no. As new evidence arose though, I decided it begged further research. I inspected myself to a closer degree: My skin was clear, for the most part, save for a few freckles. My tits weren’t huge (they went between a B and C cup depending on the time of the month) but they were perky. My nipples were large, definitely larger than the average nipple I saw in the magazines at work. I was short, with muscular legs, and a relatively proportionate round butt, and I had a few unsettling rolls of fat in my stomach but they disappeared when I arched my back and stood with tall posture. I did some squats and invented some yoga moves that stretched my muscles and woke up my insides. I did my own little dance in the nude, a cross between the jig, the hustle, and the hokey pokey, and I shook out my insecurities. I thrust my hairy pelvis in the air, and I gave my vagina its own high-five. I felt alive and excited to explore my body further.

  The subject matter was one thing; the teaching implements were another. How do I decide which toys to showcase? Do I go by brand? Should I try to show off as many different kinds of toys as possible? I started looking through the giant pile of unopened mail that came to the store during my downtime. Different companies sent glossy pamphlets that came in very official-looking folders about all their different products. I learned about the different manufacturers and materials, and I was starting to wrap my brain around why the more expensive toys were in fact more expensive. I liken it to coffee makers.

  Any coffee maker could make you a simple cup of coffee, but then you also have the upgraded ones that make you cappuccinos, espressos, and can steam your milk to the exact degree you desire. So, you can stick any dildo inside yourself, but the higher end ones will vibrate, hit your G-spot, or be made out of a material that feels so much like actual penis skin you’d wonder if it was created by Hannibal Lecter. Some toys were waterproof, some weren’t. Some had one speed, some had five, some had twenty plus different speeds. Some were hard, some were soft. Some were meant for an internal orgasm, some were meant for an external orgasm—and some toys were meant to go inside your ass. I wasn’t even going to think about venturing over to that part of my body. I’d just barely gotten to know my vagina. Maybe if this class goes well, we could expand into a series, and then focus on the ass. Do an ass class, if you will.

  At work, I spent the majority of my time fantasizing about which toy would come home with me that night. I really needed to experiment with different products before I made this class happen. In other words, I needed to masturbate more if I was going to host a workshop on masturbating.

  It was exciting. Knowing that something in the s
tore was going to give me an orgasm later made me look at the entire store differently. I felt like a really hot girl at a bar, with the option to go home with any suitor that I wanted to. Only, hot girls at a bar aren’t always guaranteed orgasms and I was, so therefore I was even better off than them.

  I walked around the store and let my vagina do the picking. Ultimately, it was for her, so she should get the biggest say. Yes, my vagina is a “her.” Dr. Erica said to give your vagina a name (though not necessarily a gender; that was my doing), so I called her Rihanna. I mean, how could I not love my own vagina if it was channeling an inner spirit Rihanna?

  I decided on a Hitachi magic wand, and a soft silicone dildo. It seemed like the combo of the two was a no brainer for an orgasm. It was like I had my own special suitor for my clit and another for my G-spot, two strapping, young pieces of plastic whose only goal was to service me sexually. This combined with my own fingers and some basic water-based lube seemed like paradise. I hoped all my roommates were out of the apartment by the time I got home so I could have loud, passionate love with my two inanimate objects. Actually, fuck it. I didn’t care if they heard me or not. I paid $475 rent a month and this allowed me the right to masturbate in my bedroom as loud as I wanted! Rihanna was a star and it was time for her to sing.

  As soon as my shift ended, I rang myself up for my two chosen toys and jetted home. I wasn’t going to put Sandy out of business simply because I was just getting to know my own vagina. Work came first, I would come second. I ran to my bedroom and shut the door, without stopping in the kitchen and making ramen noodles. I was truly very excited.

  I browsed through my different recommended Pandora stations and decided on an ‘80s gothic/industrial one to set the mood. Keyboards, synthesizers, and deep voices have always been sexy to me. So sexy that I avoided this type of music most of the time because I was afraid that it would turn me on too much and then I wouldn’t be sure what to do about it.

  I sat on my bed and let Peter Murphy sing to me through the pathetic excuse for a speaker on my laptop. I turned it up as high as it could go and it was about as loud as your average music in an elevator. I spread my legs open and lathered up Rihanna with lube. I rubbed my fingers around the lips of my pussy; it was so hungry, so excited, and so wet. I could feel my nipples getting tighter and harder, my inner body was getting warmer, I grabbed onto my own neck—not sure why. I was listening to my body and just going where it told me to go, like Dr. Erica said. My ass sunk deep into my mattress, while I clenched all my muscles. I breathed in deep, I let my pussy direct my hand and explore. I could see my own clit swelling up. I could see the color of my labia getting red, I could feel the holes in my body loosening up. This was amazing, and I had barely just begun.

  I grabbed the dildo and plunged it inside my vagina. I slid it in and out, in and out, again and again and my vagina swallowed it. I started moaning. Breathing heavy and grunting. Noises I never heard myself make! They came out so naturally and meshed with the beat of the dark symphonic music barely playing in the background. The dildo hit a spot that made me quiver; I hit the spot harder and harder. I was so wet it was ridiculous. The sound of flowing moisture coming from my genitals was certainly louder than my laptop.

  This was such a deep intense inner orgasm, it felt like it was being pulled from my stomach. I grabbed the magic wand and put it on my clit, which was already swollen from my finger play earlier and YES. HOLY SHIT. WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON! AHHHHH!

  I was vibrating and quivering, moaning, and breathing, I felt like I was on some kind of body ayahuasca drug trip in the middle of Peru. This was by far the most incredible feeling I’d ever had! I was smiling, I was thrusting my own pelvis in the air because that’s just what my body told me to do. I grabbed onto my sheets even though they were terribly impractical to grab. My body was controlled by this orgasm and I let it take over. It was the boss of me. I was a slave to this orgasm and I would keep doing whatever it wanted me to do. Was this one orgasm? Was this two? How many was this?

  What seemed like hours later, the feeling came to an end. My body felt like wet, overcooked ramen noodles. It was spent. Rihanna had been pampered properly and it was time for her to rest. And after that, I would begin finding other women in the area in dire need of names for their vaginas and inspiration to masturbate.

  But really, I needed that nap first.

  To attend Taryn’s masturbation class, Click Here.

  Today was the day. At approximately 10:00 P.M. , I would be hosting, teaching, assisting, encouraging (whatever you want to call it) a group of women, in the name of female masturbation.

  For the past few weeks, I’d been plugging the class like crazy. I printed up event flyers and placed them by the register at the store. “I Touch Myself” was what I called it: “A night for women to explore masturbation!” I put a happy-face symbol at the end of the tagline, to give it more of a friendly class vibe. The name and address of the store was on there, along with a list of things we’d be discussing: sex toys, lubes, anatomy, and opening yourself up to self-pleasure. It seemed like a good list to get people interested; at least I hoped it was. I wasn’t actually sure who was going to show up to the class. I also made a Facebook listing for the class, sharing it with my not-so-extensive friends list. Surprisingly, the first person to “like” my post was Jimmy! He gave me a virtual thumbs up, and then he re-posted the listing on his own page, which had several thousand followers. This was exciting! I’d refreshed the page a few times after that, and so many positive replies and responses came pouring in. Okay, maybe not pouring, but there was, like, four replies in a matter of five minutes; not bad, in my book!

  For a while, I struggled with whether I should post it on my personal Facebook page. My mother and several of my other family members were connected to me there. Would they be proud? Maybe they would find this as a nice diversion from my usual vague posts that contained photos of my converse sneakers with sepia tone filters on it, along with quotes from Morrissey songs. But more than that, no one actually knew that I’d been working for Dreamz. Posting would mean revealing myself to the world.

  I kept this job a secret from most people. It was supposed to be something temporary. I applied for this job because it was two miles away from my house, and it was hiring. Posting this on my Facebook page would mark this being more than just a part-time thing, it would truly be embedded in my personality. Is that what I wanted? Was I ashamed of the sex-focused life I’d been living? Or could I find empowerment in it?

  Ah, fuck it. What was there to lose, really? With a click of a button, I was promoting my new-found love for masturbation to my aunts and uncles.

  Sandy told me she would be at the store to help out, but she hadn’t come in. She’d actually been missing a lot lately. She’d closed the store randomly in the middle of the day, and had called me to cover for her on several occasions. I wondered what was going on. Sometimes I felt like I was beginning to care about the well-being of this store more than she did. I was a little disappointed that the night would have to go on without her punch and pretzels.

  I cleaned up the shop and organized everything as best I could. I replaced the flickering and dim lightbulbs, I wiped down all the countertops, I neatly arranged all the lingerie, and I took out the toys in the shelves that, from my new knowledge of masturbation, deserved to be highlighted. A glass silicone G-spot stimulator, a Hitachi magic wand, a powerful vibrating bullet egg, and one silicone butt plug for the people who were into that kind of thing. I felt like this selection could arouse all the different vagina compartments I recently learned about.

  I chose to do this event on a Wednesday because that seemed to be our slowest night. This was supposed to be a ladies-only class, however I had no way of stopping any men from coming into the store. I figured Sandy could entertain/help the men that came in while my pseudo slumber-party went on, but with her not here, I would just have to cross my fingers and hope no one would actually come in between the hours of 10:
00 P.M. and 11:00 P.M. It wasn’t completely outlandish; that was typically a slow time on a Wednesday, anyway.

  Who would come in? What if no one came in? What if too many people came in? I wasn’t sure what would be worse. I put out a mix of plastic folding chairs, office chairs, and step stools, as much seating as I could possibly find. If extra seats were necessary, I could bring out some five-gallon buckets we had and flip them over. I’d cleaned them out just in case.

  There was a regular flow of customers between 8:00 P.M. and 9:30 P.M. Males who came in with a purpose, knowing exactly what DVD, what magazine, or what Fleshlight they wanted. I noticed some imitations of the branded Fleshlight were much cheaper, but they never seemed to do as well. And once a guy even tried to return it. I told him we do not have a return policy on anything, particularly things you could penetrate, and then he just threw it in the trash right in front of me to prove something. His point was made. The cheaper vagina didn’t work. I still wasn’t going to resell it!

  I looked at the clock: 9:45 P.M. I had thought that anyone who was coming to the class would be here by now. Maybe they’d all show up right before it started? Maybe a bunch of people were coming as a group? Or maybe, maybe this was a dumb idea after all and no one was coming and I was a complete failure as a leader in sexual education. I sighed.

  After about five more minutes of my moping and hoping mix, I heard the door open—a male and female came in together. That occasionally happened here, but it wasn’t often. I presumed they were a couple. They were holding hands and looked close in age. If I had to guess, they were probably in their mid-forties. They were a little on the bigger side, in mismatched sweatpants and T-shirts, however the female had on a headband with bunny ears that didn’t particularly match with anything else in her outfit. She wasn’t in a bunny costume, she was just a woman in sweatpants with bunny ears. I liked it! It showed a very small but evident sense of adventure.