Globalti
Legendary Member
This site: http://www.tony-bell.co.uk/ has a great story on Pinball section 4 about working in a porn shop. I'll never forget what happened the only time I ever ventured inside one: a girl in our year had her 21st birthday, she was Polish, very Catholic and very innocent but clearly frustrated so we decided to get her a Playgirl magazine. We drew straws and I got the job so off I trotted to the porn shop across the road from the Union building. On my third pass along the pavement I got up the courage to dart inside, where I marched straight up to the seedy-looking bloke at the counter, determined to bluff it out.
"Have you got Playgirl?" I asked brightly. He sniffed and replied: "Playboy?"
"Playgirl!" I replied, beginning to think it was already going horribly wrong.
"Playboy?"
"Playgirl!"
"Playboy?"
"No... PLAYGIRL!"
He looked me up and down then made a show of checking all the mags wrapped in plastic bags on the shelves. Then he turned round and said: "We haven't got any left... we usually sell those to the girls from the college over the road. You'll find your kinds of magazines in that rack over by the door."
So, realising it had now gone completely wrong I went obligingly over to look at the rack which was full of stuff like "Please Sir", "Whiplash", "Gay Boys in Bondage" and so on. At that point I turned back to him and said: "Oh it's not for me, it's for a girlfriend!"
The look on his face told me the conversation wasn't going anywhere so I fled. I eventually got the magazine without much embarrassment at the proper newsagent in the town centre.
"Have you got Playgirl?" I asked brightly. He sniffed and replied: "Playboy?"
"Playgirl!" I replied, beginning to think it was already going horribly wrong.
"Playboy?"
"Playgirl!"
"Playboy?"
"No... PLAYGIRL!"
He looked me up and down then made a show of checking all the mags wrapped in plastic bags on the shelves. Then he turned round and said: "We haven't got any left... we usually sell those to the girls from the college over the road. You'll find your kinds of magazines in that rack over by the door."
So, realising it had now gone completely wrong I went obligingly over to look at the rack which was full of stuff like "Please Sir", "Whiplash", "Gay Boys in Bondage" and so on. At that point I turned back to him and said: "Oh it's not for me, it's for a girlfriend!"
The look on his face told me the conversation wasn't going anywhere so I fled. I eventually got the magazine without much embarrassment at the proper newsagent in the town centre.