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and you wil use it until you achieve orgasm.

  None of the plastic pricks or fur-lined cuffs embarrassed

  me. Hel, the anal beads and butt plugs had me squeezing

  my ass cheeks tighter, but they didn't embarrass me.

  "Yes," I said. "I'm looking for something special."

  He had a nice smile. Fuck. Realy nice eyes, too.

  "Something special? For a gift? Birthday party,

  bachelorette party, maybe?" He sounded as if he did this

  every day. Probably because he did.

  every day. Probably because he did.

  "No. For me."

  His gaze held mine for a second totaly longer than

  necessary. "Okay. Wel, maybe I can help you find what

  you're looking for."

  A beat, a pause, one smal breath in and out. A smile.

  "That would be great. Thanks."

  The racks of cheap crotchless panties and feather-trimmed

  bras were toward the back. Victoria's Secret this was not.

  Not even Victoria's un-secret. None of these garments

  looked as though they'd stand up under one wearing, not

  to mention what would happen to them in the washing

  machine. I sorted through them anyway, my fingers toying

  with the hangers and making them clatter on the metal

  rack.

  I held up a flimsy corset printed with a pattern of

  misaligned roses. My fingers itched touching the fabric,

  and I could only imagine how awful it would feel against

  my breasts. I held it up to me, anyway, and turned to the

  clerk. "How's this look?"

  I expected him to say "good." Or maybe "hot." So when I expected him to say "good." Or maybe "hot." So when he frowned and shook his head, brows furrowed and

  mouth twisting, my self-assured position as a fairly

  attractive female in a sex shop plummeted to hit my toes.

  "Not for you," he said.

  I put it back on the rack and crossed my arms. I wished

  I'd had the time to change into jeans and a T-shirt after

  work instead of being stuck in three-inch heels and a skirt

  to my knees. I wanted pockets to shove my hands into

  denim to shield me from his assessing gaze. I hadn't

  dressed this morning for showing off and now he'd made

  me feel like I shouldn't want to.

  Flirting is a funny thing. Earlier, talking with Eric, I'd no

  doubts I was the hottest bitch around. Right now I wasn't

  sure I shouldn't be ringing bels in a church tower.

  "Come with me." He quirked a finger.

  I almost didn't. The look on his face had left me feeling

  shot down. Embarrassed. And when I realized that's what

  it was, I nodded and went after him down through the

  narrow aisles of sleazy underwear and gigantic plastic

  pricks. Surrounded by a sea of tits, ass, pecs and abs, I

  pricks. Surrounded by a sea of tits, ass, pecs and abs, I

  tried to keep my eyes on the man in front of me, but I

  couldn't help comparing the jugs on one box of "Titty

  Twister, the Party Game!" with the boobs on a package

  containing a vagina molded from an actual porn star's pink

  parts.

  He glanced over his shoulder as we stopped at the shop's

  far end. Through a doorway to his right I glimpsed the

  interior of the nudie bar. Even this early, girls wiggled and

  writhed on a smal stage. Every few seconds a

  disembodied leg, foot clad in skyscraper heels, sprang into

  view. There must've been a pole I couldn't see.

  "You wanna go check it out?" he asked.

  I had been staring, and my cheeks heated, though I

  couldn't have said exactly why. "No, thanks."

  His smile lit up eyes the color of toffee. "You sure?"

  "I'm sure." I cleared my throat and gestured at the shelves he stood in front of. "You had something to show me?"

  "Oh. Right. Yeah." He reached to pul a box toward him.

  I stepped back, gaping, at the box in his palm. Not

  I stepped back, gaping, at the box in his palm. Not

  because it had been festooned with pricks and pussies, but

  because with its treasure-chest shape and smal, hinged lid,

  it was a smaler version of the box I'd spied in Miriam's

  shop. It fit neatly in his palm with his fingers open to cradle

  it. Butterflies patterned the box's red satin.

  "You know what this is?"

  "No." I shook my head and closed my mouth.

  He blinked, watching me closely. Then he crooked his

  finger for me to lean closer, and I did. I held my breath,

  waiting as he opened the box. I didn't know what I'd see

  inside. When I saw the smal, stoppered bottle, I looked at

  him.

  "Ancient Chinese secret," he said. "And I'm not talking about laundry detergent."

  The bottle had clear plastic sealing it, so it couldn't have

  been too ancient. I had to squint to read the print and

  couldn't make out the words, but the picture on the front

  was a stylized butterfly. That didn't tel me much.

  "It's orgasm-enhancement gel. For women. The ladies go

  "It's orgasm-enhancement gel. For women. The ladies go

  crazy for it," he said, as if he was confessing.

  An invisible yardstick slid down the back of my shirt. My

  shoulders came up, and so did my breasts, which finaly

  got more than a disinterested glance from him. He didn't

  look long, but he did look.

  "What's it do?" I asked.

  He held out the box to me until I took it. "It helps women

  who can't come."

  "I—" I had nothing to say to that. I tried, but the words

  stuck in my throat. My back went impossibly straighter,

  my shoulders squaring. I put my hand on my hip as I tried

  to hand him back the box.

  He wouldn't take it. "You said you wanted something for

  yourself. You can't tel me you want a crappy piece of

  lingerie."

  "I don't need this!" I shoved the box toward him again.

  "That's for women who need help!"

  Maybe I was primed to be embarrassed. Maybe the idea

  had already been put into my head that I would find an

  had already been put into my head that I would find an

  item, as unbelievable as I could find it, that would

  embarrass me to buy. Vibrators that could guide missiles

  and ass plugs with horsetails on them hadn't made me

  blush, but this smal bottle had turned my cheeks to fire.

  I looked into his face. "This is for women who can't have

  orgasms, right?"

  He shrugged and wouldn't take the box from my hands.

  "It's supposed to help."

  "Do I…do I look like I need help? With…that?"

  I have been checked out and dismissed by women who

  knew how to cut me down with no more than a glance, but

  I've never been so thoroughly dissected visualy by a guy.

  Guys look. They find the parts they like and linger there

  and maybe they turn away if there's not much to hold

  them, but most often, in my case, they'l look again if for no

  other reason than I have al the right parts where they're al

  supposed to go.

  This guy looked. And looked some more. He took me in

  from every inch and then went over them al again. When

  he settled, finaly, on my face, he shrugged again. "Sweetie,

  he settled, finaly, on my face, he shrugge