Sex Shop Comfort

I lived at Pinegate Apartments a year and a half before I ever took advantage of the Sex Shop, which resides a quarter of a mile down the road. Cherry Pie is, in my eyes, a modern marvel.

The front of the sex shop is nicer than most homes and even has an opaque stained glass window boarder around the entrance. Of course, once you park, you realize the front is a domicile veneer. Literally, the front of the building is an addition to make the building look like a house. Some people add another guest room, Cherry Pie built a mask to cover the fact that it too used to be a small, white brick shanty.

I finally built up the nerve to visit my socially rejected mecca. And despite the fact that the entrance was a false comfort, I must admit that I felt less likely to be thrown into the bushes and abused with many, many exotic sex toys--which I had convinced myself was what happened to people who visited those other sex shanties.

I was greeted with a smile by a relatively normal looking fellow wearing a shirt with his employer's logo splashed across the front. Even his, "What's up, dog?" was an an awkward comfort.

A sex shop is this: All the embarrassment of buying those certain things in the grocery store all balled up into one moment. But for me, that one moment was over when the door closed behind me after my first visit. Now I'm comfortable enough to stop off at Cherry Pie after work, or after a night out with friends, or if my friends happen to be coming home, too.

It's a strange and infinitely intriguing thing to say, but I love my local sex shop. And the wonderfully over-confident transgender gal who helped me pick out lube that one time I stopped off after getting my eyes dilated at the eye doctor. Thanks for helping me read the labels, Amanda.