One of my vanilla flavored colleagues just pulled me aside and asked me to recommend a place where she could buy some kinky sex gear.
“Oh,” I said, “are you planning a halloween outfit?”
She got very serious. As if she were trying to score some street corner smack, she leaned in and whispered, “No. This is for real. I want the good stuff.”
Now I’m mildly concerned, because I have no idea how she would know to ask me about that kind of shit.
I’m standing there in work hair and a blazer, and suddenly I feel like everybody knows that I’m wearing La Perla.
Admittedly, I could have given her three phone numbers to various specialty and high-end custom shops and told her to drop my name if she wanted a discount, but this is the kind of woman who leaves lipstick on her diet coke can.
While I have nothing against her, she’s never seen anything other than my fake smile, and I want to keep it that way.
I told her to go to the Hustler Store on Sunset, and she thanked me like a fucking tourist.
In hindsight, it may have been a mistake.
Sure, the Hustler Store may be the Disneyland teacup ride for me, but now I’m worried that it’s enough to confirm all that bitch’s suspicions.