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Sometimes, a woman needed no other reason to treat herself to something nice than it being a lovely, brusquely cold day where the sun was shining. And sometimes, that treat came in the form of walking to an Upper East Side sex shop and perusing the goods in the same way one perused the stacks of a bookstore. Weighing one offering against another, considering the merits of this vibrator versus that dildo just as one considered a tale of marauding space pirates facing down a galactic empire bent on genocide against the allure of vampires battling an ancient evil while resisting the temptation of delectable human companion.
Considering her last few ‘treat days’ had consisted more of the latter sort of perusing, Bilba Baggins decided today was the day for the former.
Pushing her way into the Pleasure Chest, Bilba lingered long enough by the door to tug off her gloves and let the warm air of the shop chase away the nip of outside completely. Then she sallied forth, pausing to look at the new display of bullet vibes that had been artfully arranged on the entry table. Leaving them behind, she glanced over the narrow shelf of DVDs that was the only ode to an older, seedier age of such places, before sex positivity and modern design sensibility had taken root. Not to mention the internet and easier access to porn. Now, the bookshelf took up more space than the DVDs, the spines of the books boasting titles like The Ins and Outs of Gay Sex, The Threesome Handbook, She Comes First, and The Ethical Slut.
(The erotica was on another shelf, on the opposite side of the shop, next to the lube; Bilba had always found comfort in the crossover between her two preferred sorts of treats, literature and sex.)
Knowing she’d eventually wind up round that way, lube already on her list of ‘things to restock’, Bilba headed the other way first. Past the racks of knickers and lace teddies and half-sheer bodysuits there was the glass display case of delightful toys she’d never had the occasion to experiment with but always enjoyed looking at. The stainless steel sounds, the cages that ranged from clunky, utilitarian plastic to ornately decorative metal (Bilba had a deeply illogical fondness for the one that looked like a wolf), the cock rings—all utterly useless to her, personally unequipped and currently partnerless as she was, but there was a ritual to this and that included greeting these objects like familiar friends. The electrostim kits and heavy leather hoods that came next were given the same sort of disconnected interest; more a study in the broad varieties of sexuality than anything that evoked a personal interest.
The case holding the glass toys got a decidedly more interested reaction, because they were beautiful and wickedly tantalizing, even if Bilba had yet to be convinced enough of the advisability of putting glass so intimately close to very sensitive places. No matter how many times she read up on durability, the allure of temperature play, or heard ‘No really, I don’t care how many kegels you’ve done, no one’s cunt is strong enough to shatter a sold glass dildo’, the mental block remained and Bilba was resigned to mere admiration rather than purchasing.
Mostly resigned. The one with the dark green ribbons and the violet suggestions of lavender flowers would always be a temptation, but at that price point she could not justify it as a very pretty and deeply suggestive decoration, and that was what current disposition would condemn it to.
Turning away from the case with a wistful sigh, Bilba idly ran her fingers over the tails of the floggers before heading directly across the shop to the back wall. “Hello Gillian,” she greeted the woman behind the counter as she leaned against the corner to peer through the bulletins and posters for upcoming events. Some lectures, the regular munch, an art exhibit, a memorial/retrospective for queer sexuality in the city of the 40s… it looked like someone was trying to start up yet another pole dancing studio, ugh. Oh, Lady Debonair’s new burlesque routine was getting a debut next week at long last, good for her!
“Bilba,” Gillian returned, her low tenor a friendly accompaniment to her smile. “Looking for anything in particular today?”
The shake of her head sent a wayward curl bouncing into her eye, and Bilba huffed it out of the way before replying, “No, just browsing. In a mood, but not a specific one, you know?”
“So not the day you’re taking the glass dildo home,” Gillian teased, smile twisting into a smirk as she danced back a half step to avoid Bilba’s playful swipe.
“No, not today. But maybe the day I finally bring a packer home.”
“Giving up the cis delusion, then, at last?” The playfulness was still there, but so was sincere interest as Gillian leaned forward, elbows on the counter. It didn’t dim as Bilba shook her head no again.
“Just exploring the boundaries of gender fuckery, I’m afraid. I remain rather content with my own gear. Besides, there’s something awfully adorable about them.”
“I’ll leave that to you: I’ve never seen the appeal, on myself or others.”
“Are we talking about packers, or penises in general, now?”
“General.” Gillian shrugged. “Always found them more than a bit weird— and no, constant exposure hasn’t changed my mind,” she anticipated, with a dismissive wave towards the selection of ‘hyper realistic’ phallic options along the wall. “First twenty years of my life of constant exposure and attachment didn’t do it, the next twenty of more detached exposure weren’t about to.”
Bilba blinked and then gave the woman a wicked grin. “Did you just admit how old you are?” And then it was her turn to skitter out of range of a half hearted smack, laughing as she did.
The opening and then closing of the door caught both of their attention for a moment, gazes glancing over before pointedly moving away from the new arrival. There was a special etiquette to these kinds of shops, after all, and that included not ogling new arrivals as soon as they stepped in the door. Especially when they had that hunched-shoulder stance of slight shame and total bafflement of how they had ended up here, every inch projecting ‘newbie’ and ‘probably slightly repressed’.
As Gillian made a point of checking the computer, Bilba picked up the flyer for a less-than-tastefully-nude photography exhibit and said out of the corner of her mouth, “So even attached to a handsome face like that—?” Because she knew Gillian could appreciate a handsome face of any persuasion.
“Fantasy utterly ruined as soon as my mind meanders below the belt,” the woman confirmed with an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh. “And it always does quickly, no matter how much fun can be had up top.” Bilba knew from experience that Gillian wasn’t much for patience.
“You don’t know that he’s packing,” she pointed out.
“Ah, but I do.” Again, that world-weary, sagely tone of one who could simply see such things at a glance. Maybe it came from working in a sex shop for so long, being able to divine just like that. Or maybe, Bilba thought, sneaking a glance over her shoulder, it was the stiff set of his shoulders and tense, defensive movement of his hips that gave it away; as if even the sight of a silicone dick decked out in thick veins meant to suggest throbbing was a threat to his own manhood.
Bilba could track the man’s movements by watching Gillian’s eyes—it was acceptable for her to look. After all, she was the employee here and had to look in order to know when to jump in to save the poor, floundering guy from drowning himself in his contained panic. Even with her back turned, Bilba could see him head for the supposed sanctuary of the book shelf. The muffled cough told her he’d discovered the lack of real safety even there. What had he picked up, she wondered. Cunt would do it, if he wasn’t an ex-pat like she was, from somewhere where that boldly titled book would land a little less boldly.
(If Bilba was a better person, taking that book on the subway and watching the various reactions she got when people caught the title on the spine wouldn’t bring her so much joy. Alas, she was a decidedly wicked person, and happily reconciled to the fact.)
As Gillian stepped away to do her job, Bilba headed to look over the vibrators, even though she didn’t really need a new one. There was something about the various candy-colored packages that never ceased to delight. Plus, it would give Gillian and the newcomer several obstacles worth of privacy, and she suspected the man would appreciate that. Even if the shop was small enough that anything above a mumble or whisper to have no real privacy at all.
“Can I help you?” Gillian asked as Bilba picked up one lime green selection and skimmed over the copy proclaiming seven different vibration patterns and four intensities. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that—”
“Cock ring,” was the most decipherable part of the mildly strangled response, at least at this distance. Bilba had to smile as Gillian started in on the part sales pitch, part educational spiel about the store’s selection of that item; for all her personal aversion to the appendage, the woman thoroughly knew her stuff.
Her attention had turned off by the time she was straightening from her hunch of examining the Magic Wand attachment-heads (as usual, she had decided that the original was enough for her to handle, thank you very much), but as there was only so long that even Gillian, master saleswoman, could go on about cock rings, it wasn’t an huge surprise to find the man now standing before the Wall of Lube. It was the natural stop after picking out the implement now clutched in his hand. Just as natural was the half-awed, half-overwhelmed expression on his face. Most had that reaction to the sheer number of options.
Most also had the same response—the blind reaching out for whatever was closest at hand. Bilba spotted the problem even before his fingers closed around the bottle and her own history of mistakes compelled her to step in and save him from it.
“Not that one.” At least he didn’t look totally mortified, those big blues more surprised and dazed than anything else at this point. And confused. “You chose a silicone ring, right?” Bilba gestured to the package in his hand; she recognized it as a popular, basic choice. “You shouldn’t use silicone lube with it.” Maybe she should have said ‘can’t’, to really cut off any future mistakes, but she could strive for the most accurate even in an abbreviated lesson. Which she’d bet was all he was able to handle right now, especially considering she was certain Gillian had already told him this and it had flown in one ear and out the other. “They could have a bad reaction to each other,” she explained patiently.
“Right.” The deep, rumbling lilt of his voice caught against her ear, and she tilted her head on instinct, trying to place it. Norwegian, maybe? Something Scandinavian, hard to tell from a single word. “Thank you.” His fingers released the bottle and retreated, the dazed befuddlement dominating his expression again.
Biting back her smile, Bilba took pity on him. “Sticking with water-based,” she started, stepping forward to snag three different bottles, “and not getting into anything fancy, I’d say these are the best options. This one tends to stay wet the longest, but some people find it leaves a weird sort of residue on their skin. Not me, but I still prefer this one—” She was gesturing with her hands, voice light and casual, a tone appropriate for discussing preferred scone flavors and sexual lubricant preferences. “Dries out faster, but is just to the left of stale ‘no scent’ smelling that suits me better. Really, though, for basic needs it’s hard to go wrong with anything here. Except this.” A frown tugged at her lips as her hand darted out to grab an electric blue bottle. “This stuff is awful—Gillian, why do you even still carry this?”
“The college students love to buy it, and it’s not awful, you just had a bad experience,” came the pert reply from the woman who was back to poking at the computer. Bilba shivered at the memory of what was so flippantly dismissed as ‘a bad experience’ by the woman; a rash that might not have been caused by the lube but definitely hadn’t been helped by it was much more than ‘a bad experience’.
“Fine. I still advise against it,” she told the man solemnly.
She was gratified by the way he nodded back at her, enlightened by her sage knowledge as he was. The warmth from it lingered at those startlingly blue eyes shifted back to the Wall of Lube, leaving her feeling rather pleased with herself and rather like how she imagined a teacher felt towards a particularly receptive student.
The feeling shifted when the man grabbed a small bottle of what she’d recommended, and Bilba sternly told herself that a shared preference in lube was not a basis for a relationship. Probably, at least. Gillian likely had a story to the contrary; she always had a story. For Bilba, though, and her requirements and taste, more likely a base was the way he seemed to glance at her for confirmation and how his shoulders relaxed a fraction when she gave him a beaming smile. The blush that spread over his cheeks when she grabbed the (much) larger bottle of the same type of lube, spotted in her peripheral vision, was definitely something that could be built on.
Bilba lingered over the flyers and handouts again as she subtly waited for him to finish paying after her. He hurried a step ahead of her to open the door, and then they were outside on the sidewalk, the cold nip of the winter air reddening cheeks further.
A held breath and a moment’s hesitation to try and figure out how to approach someone still a little uneasy with skittish nerves gave him the chance to surprise her. “Would you like to come home with me?” The instant mortification and flush of shame (she’d bet anything there was a female voice in his head, sister, mother, aunt maybe, chiding him in a well meaning but misplaced manner about forwardness and respect towards women) made Bilba grin and bite back a giggle. There were times when she wouldn’t turn down such a quick jump, but she suspected it was rather too much for him.
So she reached out and laid a reassuring hand on his arm as she said, “How about if we start with lunch, first? If that’s okay with you?” His entire being seemed to relax, and her wicked mind tried to imagine the sagging in a different context, taken a step further, the boneless comedown after a mind-blowing orgasm, and her smile grew a little softer and warmer. “And maybe a name, too?”
His relief at finding himself on ‘more acceptable’ ground was palpable; she could feel it seeping out of him as he lay his hand over hers. “Thorin Thráinson,” he said, and oh his smile lit up the whole street, she’d swear it.
“Bilba Baggins,” she returned. “A pleasure to meet you.” And really, truly, she had a sneaking suspicion that he would prove to be the best pleasure she’d ever found at the Pleasure Chest.