Home > Never Give Your Heart To A Hook

Never Give Your Heart To A Hook
Author: Lauren Landish







“So, I only need to sell fifty dildos to become a Gold Star representative of Bedroom Heaven?” The young blonde girl several seats down from me asks the question with a completely straight face, making it sound like that should be a ridiculously easy thing to do.

Of course, she did say that she’s the entertainment chair for her on-campus sorority, so maybe Trixleigh can slam out that many sales in her living room under the guise of a buzzy good night social. I can see it now . . . Trixleigh’s Tricks and Treats. Maybe with a ‘XXX’ substituted in for good measure.

Because of course her name is Trixleigh, which she spelled for us cheerleader-style with a bonus of mentioning she’s definitely ‘not for kids’ like the cereal, ending with a tee-hee laugh I’m sure she does every time she introduces herself with the bunny ear fingers she popped to the top of her head.

But while she might not think her question is that out there, my head whips around so fast I look like the possessed chick from The Exorcist, only to see Jaxx Reynolds, the dark-haired girl in goth makeup sitting next to me, cover her mouth and giggle, along with several other girls around the room. Jaxx is the one who got me into this.

This being a pseudo-business presentation with a healthy dose of sexual innuendo being led by a suburban mom who’s currently standing in the middle of her living room wielding a butt plug big enough to make King Kong cringe.

Please tell me why I’m doing this again? I ask myself for the umpteenth time. But the truth is, I already know the answer. I need the damn money.

I’m buried under a mountain of student loan debt, and with the interest rates being sky high, I’ll be battling with that mountain well into the next couple of decades.

And with only one semester left in my graduate program, I’m looking down the barrel of the day those loan payments are going to come due, right as I’m trying to figure out my post-college plans. But I’m like most people, and at some point in my life, I’d like to be able to afford luxuries like a house or a decent car . . . or cheese on a sandwich.

So you know what they say, desperate times call for desperate measures. Though I never dreamed it’d mean selling big, fat cocks from the trunk of my car.

A nudge in my side breaks me out of my reverie, and I blink to refocus on Jaxx, who has a devious smirk on her face. I wonder how many dildos she’s sold. Or maybe she sticks to leather restraints? Of course, with her style, she could sell those as fashion accessories.

I take a closer look at the cuff bracelet she’s currently wearing, noting the silver loops that could definitely be used for restraint purposes. It’s paired with black fishnet stockings, black shorts, and a black rock band shirt that’s been rough-cut at the belly button.

It could be a harsh, off-putting look, but on her, it’s enchanting, and the dry humor she stoically spews makes her all the more bewitching. Some might say she’s inspired by Wednesday Addams, but the truth is, I think Jenna Ortega might’ve done a secret character study on Jaxx.

It was Jaxx who got me to grudgingly agree to try out being a sex toy rep for extra cash to help pay the bills. She’s already been doing it for months and swears it’s easy money, and it does make some sense for me to have sexual aids in my repertoire for my future practice as a licensed therapist focusing on intimate relationships. Some people call it a ‘sex therapist’, but it’s so much more than that.

Then again, Jaxx’s Aunt Kara doesn’t exactly look like the professional businesswoman I aspire to be considering she’s now holding up a dildo that’s swirling in a circle while vibrating intensely enough to make the rabbit ears on one side of it flop around wildly.

“That’s right, Trixleigh. Fifty units and you’ll be Gold, and then the sky’s the limit. These babies virtually sell themselves.”

Trixleigh squeals and goes back to looking at the catalog in her hands, pausing for an unreasonably long time on a double-ended, rainbow-striped, unicorn-horn-ribbed dildo called The Happiest Ride.

Jaxx whispers, “Got her.” She licks a black-painted fingertip and draws a tally mark in the air.

Kara smiles, likely thinking the same thing. To help sell me on the idea of this side gig, Jaxx told me the story of how her aunt had been on the verge of a foreclosure after her hair salon burned down and her insurance refused to pay for the damage, citing a cold technicality that left them not fiscally responsible for helping her recover from the accident.

Desperate and not knowing what to do, Kara had turned to becoming a sales representative for an adult company selling sex toys out of her living room.

Now, after three years of throwing parties for Bedroom Heaven and recruiting women to work under her, she’s flourishing. According to Jaxx, her aunt is debt-free, living in a new home, and no longer doing hair because her toy business keeps her so busy.

I have no intentions of becoming the next vibrator mogul, but looking at Kara’s home and the stress-free smile on her face, I have to admit, she does seem to be doing well. Financially, and I assume, orgasmically.

“You’ll get used to it,” Jaxx says, her dark eyebrow arched so high in amusement a truck could pass under it. “What’s the saying? Life is like a bag of dicks. You’re always gonna get fucked, you just never know how hard. Or in what hole. Or holes, as the case may be.” She tilts her head as though considering . . . or counting.

I can only shake my head as I whisper, “That is NOT the saying.”

Before Jaxx can respond with another stoic retort, Kara laughs, merrily holding up four more vibrating dildos, two in each hand, which looks even more obscene than it sounds. She addresses Trixleigh, “You got it! The more dicks, the merrier! White dick, black dick, brown dick, purple dick! Big dick, small dick, ribbed dick, vibrating dick!”

As she exclaims, her eyes dance around the room to the other women, reminding me of the scene in From Dusk ‘Till Dawn where the man outside the whore house screams about how there’s every flavor of pussy inside. “Get them all sold! Happy customers are repeat customers. We want them coming, and coming, and coming again.”

Craziness has to run in Jaxx’s family. I laugh to myself, watching as Kara animatedly answers questions from around the room. She’s in her late forties, wears her long, platinum blonde hair in beachy waves, and has perfectly applied makeup accented with expertly tattooed brows and lash extensions.

She talks with her hands, clicking her long acrylic nails together to emphasize words and making her rings and bracelets jingle as they move. Her cigarette-slim trousers showcase her ass, and though she has on a simple white T-shirt, I’d guess it’s an attempt at appearing approachable because the cotton is quality in that subtle way that speaks to money, and lots of it.

All in all, she looks remarkably . . . normal. Except that she’s now seriously discussing the pros and cons of vibrating versus sucking clit massagers.

On second thought, maybe this whole idea isn’t so crazy. I’ve learned in my classes and practice groups how important it is to be unflappable when patients say or do any number of seemingly odd things, so maybe I can learn something from Kara to add to my skills as a therapist.

And get a few stress-relieving orgasms out of the deal myself because I intend on being my own first customer. After all, I can’t promote what I don’t believe in.

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