In Your Endo.

My first job was an A&W.  That’s a lie, sorry.  My actual first job was at a clothing store, but I was only there for the summer, and I was only 13, so it barely counts.  My first real job was A&W, and I was a couple months from turning 16.  I was also, shall we say, shy and innocent.  I had, ehm, a sheltered childhood that did not allow much TV or music to sway me towards a ‘secular’ lifestyle.   Without going into too much detail, let’s just say I wouldn’t have recognized a dirty joke if it came up and turkey-slapped me.

Now.  Anyone who’s worked for any length of time in food service will know that there’s nothing that food service workers love more than taking someone’s innocence and carefully, gently molesting it until there’s not a clean mind within 100 metres.  It all centres around the kitchen, probably because restaurant kitchens are a mostly male dominated place.  Not that women don’t have dirty minds, because we all know that’s not true in the slightest.  It could be just that some women find it harder to escape society’s perception of them as ‘full of sugar and spice and everything nice’ than others.  Men, of course, are stuck with ‘slugs and snails and puppy dog tails.’

If you’ve never worked in a restaurant, go watch Waiting…(2005) right now.  For real.  It explains things better than I could in words.  For my own gentle descent into the Land of Innuendo, here and now I would like to lay the blame solely on the capable shoulders of Jarrett and Curtis.  They were full-time workers in the kitchen at A&W, so my current state of lewdness is entirely their fault.  I do still have pictures of Curtis using a sink plug as a penis, which he was pretending to alternatingly stick up his arse and jerk off.  I’ll only release those with permission, naturally, but they do exist.  There were plenty of other guys working in that kitchen, of course, so they might try and shift some of the blame, and perhaps they’d be right.  I also seem to remember a group of friends who used to have coffee, late into the early morning, at a certain dive of a truck stop.

When I moved away from the small town with the shiny name, I headed off to university in the Big City.  Various kitchen jobs kept me alive, barely, and honed my skills of double entendre to a fine edge.  None of them stand out, though, as being too over-the-top.  Until you get to The Theatre.  I started this job in 2011, shortly after having moved back to Canada from England, and I can safely now say, since I don’t work there anymore, that it was the soul-crushing pit of despair mentioned in the previous post.  Whatever could be done to crush every last ounce of goodwill towards humanity, it was done with a wicked, cheerful glee. 

It was at this job that I met Viki.  One of the first memories I have of her is walking up to her and saying hi by boob-bumping her.   What developed from there is a friendship where we endeavored to have the most open and honest conversations possible.  You can imagine this went down well in a workplace consisting of at least 50% Mormons.  By this time, I had been transformed from the Innocent into the Molester.  Viki and I had discovered certain common ground upon which we could bond…

No, I don’t mean we were in lesbians, I mean we both enjoy bondage and rope.

So one day at The Theatre, Viki and I were working with a couple of guys.  To give them a little bit of anonymity, I’ll call them George and Oscar.  Oscar and I were cleaning and cutting potatoes for french fries.  Viki was around, and she and I were having a conversation about vibrators.  At least, that’s how it started.  I’m pretty sure Oscar was standing there in stunned silence, never having heard two women talk about this sort of thing in public before, if ever.  The conversation strayed from vibrators to what kind of men Viki and I prefer.  Viki stated that she likes a man with hair, and even sometimes longer hair, to which I agreed that sometimes, men can look very nice with long hair.  George walked up at this time and I used him as an example.  He has a very long braid that he takes very good care of.  It’s always immaculately combed and braided neatly.

At this point we started talking about celebrities, and I think I mentioned Bruce Willis as being rather attractive.  Then, Viki turned to me and asked, ‘What about Vin Diesel?’

And that’s when it happened.  The Vin Diesel Noise.

I made no voluntary decision to make that noise, it just happened.  Gushed out of me, if you like.  A noise full of longing and whimpering submission.  I’m sure my recording there does not do it justice.  Many times I have tried to recreate the Vin Diesel Noise, but I fear it was a one-time thing.  From the looks on George and Oscar’s faces, that’s probably a good thing.  I’m not sure if they’ve ever heard a noise like that coming from a real, live woman.  Suffice to say that my type tends to be big, tall, bald guys, preferably with beards. 

I think that smutty-mindedness is one of the highlights of life.  Once your Smut Virginity is taken, it’s like a whole world is opened up, and nothing is ever ‘clean’ again.  Then, you get the joy of letting people know what an Alabama Hot Pocket, a Dutch-Rudder, and Snowballing are, as well as the reason why you always laugh when your gran talks about her pearl necklace, and why you might call someone a Beard.  I mean, really, at this point you can just make a funny phrase up and then create the sex act to go with it.  Buyer beware, though, if you actually do some of these things, like the Angry Pirate or the good, ole Dirty Sanchez, your partner is quite liable to never speak to you again and tell everyone what a horrible dirty person you are.  Others, though, can be a lot of fun -wink-.  

At the liquor store, I tend to have a lot of fun with these innuendos.  Let's face it, the whole alcohol industry is sort of geared that way.  Otherwise, there's no way we'd have products like these:

 I rarely sell any of these, mostly just people look at the bottles and laugh.  On the occasion where someone asks me what they should drink, depending on the person, I tell them they should try the Nut Liquor, with a cheeky grin on my face.  The look on some guys' faces in priceless, as they struggle to figure out if they really heard what they think they just heard.

The alcohol industry really is perfect for me, I think.  It's my type of personality, as much as I might lament about hating customers, or hating people, we all go through that.  The freedom to flirt and be a little raunchy, though, takes me from liking my job, to loving it as my favourite job, ever.