Hand Job In Aisle 3

I was on the Upper East Side this morning, making my way home from a morning swim, when, I passed a Rickys.

Most of you who live in NYC know what Rickys is--purveyor of cosmetics, hair products, toiletries, Halloween costumes, and sex toys.

I generally don't set foot in RIckys unless I'm shopping for Halloween or am feeling the need to manicpanic my hair, which truth be told, I don't do all that often{um, ever}...but I WAS in the market for a new pocket rocket, as my sole BOB {battery operated boyfriend} resides with Beehive, which doesnt really do me much good when I'm home, so.

I made a beeline for the back of the store, where the "adult novelties" are sold. I love how this section is cordoned off by a curtain of some sort. In fact, this morning, I was truly pleased by it. I do not have a problem purchasing sex toys, and if I'm at a place such as Toys in Babeland, where the sole purpose of going there is because you're in need of an anal tickler or a whip, and there's no pretense as to why you're there, I'm perfectly comfortable with that. But for some reason, buying things for my vagina at Rickys felt sorta dirty, and not in a good way. But dammit, I couldn't go one more day without a new pocket rocket.

Once behind the curtain, I had a field day checking out the latest in vibrator technology--I finally settled on a new, silent version of the pocket rocket, which will "cum" in handy what with nosy neighbors and all...I also grabbed some other "supplies" that will hopefully be useful over the weekend.

I approached the register hesitantly, but there were no other customers and only one woman behind the counter, so I relaxed a little and tried to be as nonchalant as possible. It all seemed to go without a hitch...

...then a large southern woman, who appeared to be the manager, showed up at the counter and asked in a booming twang "DO YOU ALL NEED SOME BATTERIES FOR THAT?" This is when I noticed the GORGEOUS hunk of man meat standing to my right. "YOU CAN ALWAYS USE EXTRA BATTERIES" she winked.

I glanced over at the man meat and hoped he wasn't paying attention. Oh, he was.

"No batteries. I'm good" I stammered.

I brought my attention back to the register, where I noticed some additional commotion. The cashier did not appear to know what one of the items was, and yelled out "What IS THIS?" while holding it up for the entire store to see.

"Oh hon, that's a TICKLER" Large southern woman yelled across the counter. "It came from the SEX SECTION"

"What's it for?" the cashier demanded to know, still holding it like a torch.

Thankfully, the most annoying of women walked in at that moment and drew all attention away from me, my tickler, and the fact that everyone, including hunky man meat, was assuming that I was going home, alone, to my sad apartment full of cats, to wank off.