Pet Store Prostitute
I was in Lethbridge, Alberta, working at a little family petshop the summer after my
nineteenth birthday. Even in the land of domesticated animals, I was no stranger to being asked out at work. Though I always thought it was an odd place for it.
I had to keep my hair in a ponytail to keep it out of the mouths and maws and beaks, and I rarely even wore mascara. Plus our outfit entailed sneakers, jeans and a navy blue polo shirt— not exactly the getup of sex kittens.
One day I was having a cigarette behind our store. From where I was I could see the front parking stalls. As I stood smoking, I started to feel uneasy, like there were eyes on me. I looked straight ahead and sure enough a man in dark sunglasses was sitting in his black Jetta, facing me.
Trying not to stare, I finished my smoke and walked towards the entrance. As I approached, the man removed his sunglasses and stepped out of the car. He was bald
and built like a welterweight cage fighter. He wore black slacks and a black silk shirt, his gold chain shone through the v neck. All that was missing was a tuft of chest hair.
“Hello,” he said through a thick Russian accent.
“Hi,” I replied.
“You are working here?” He asked.
I looked down at the logo on my shirt and said, “Yes.”
“You make good money, yes? You like it here?” He smiled to reveal gold molars.
I smiled back. “It’s great.”
“You free maybe for work later?” He asked abruptly.
“I’m sorry?” Maybe I misheard him. Did he know about our salt tank home maintenance service? Or did he need a cat groomer? A dog walker?
“You are free for work… later?” He emphasized with an inexplicable hand gesture, it was
enough for me to understand.
“Oh—No.” I said, waving my hands in front of me and then the Canadian in me took over and said, “Sorry,” as I hurried through the automatic doors and back to my station behind the till. I tried to retrieve my wits, but my heart would not stop using my sternum like a boxing bag.
I guess my manager could see in my face something was up because he said, “What’s up?”
“Uh… I don’t know if this guy thought I was a hooker or just figured he might get lucky, but some big dude just tried to pick me up.”
“Well, that’s what you get for dressing like a slut.” He teased. It was something I expected. It actually made me feel a bit better to hear him joke.
I tried to smile, “I mean, I’ve been hit on in this place, but he literally wanted to buy my…”
“Services?” asked Chris.
“…Right.” We were quiet for a while as he tried to contain his laughter and I tried to keep it together too.
“Chris?” I asked.
“Yeah?”
“Can I get a ride home with you?”