how stella got her tube packed

I used to work at DC's very own fabulously grungy castle of counterfeit dick, The Pleasure Place. Often times when slurping libations with new amigos, I blurt this tasteless fact out into the universe, which usually either makes people a) chuckle mildly or b) cringe as though they just shoved a 12" plastic pleasure plunger up their punani. As professional purveyors of porn, my fellow sex workers and I have been sassed, flashed, and gay-bashed, but it wasn't until recently that I came to truly understand the power we wielded over our pervy patrons. Out of curiosity (that's what they all say) I recently walked into a rather dimly-lit dick den and the experience enlightened me to the fact that locking eyes with the no-nonsense clerk lounging against a wall of proudly hung strap-ons can make your confidence shrivel faster than my ovaries after a Flavor of Love lip lock session. I thought back to the many times I seemed to take sadistic delight in staring down the steady influx of shifty miscreants on a mission to masturbate. Now it was my turn to assume the position. I timidly offered a half-hearted hullo to the stroke at the register, but that asshole was too busy analyzing the gaping flesh that flickered on the TV mounted in the corner. First off, no fair. Back in my day, we used to limit our porn watching to lunch breaks only, where we could enjoy it with a sandwich and soda like a reasonable person. Secondly, his air of disregard toward my existence made me feel rejected. As if I were the cretinous dolt in this duo, sheesh!

This shift in porno power caused me to hearken back to when I was the head bitch in charge. This meatball didn't even know how to truly live it up while on the clock. I recalled the days my cronies and I used to engage in spirited dick-slap battle royales with massive jelly-coated double dongs. I pondered the time the sweet transvestite threw a bottle of lubricating goo at my head before screeching out of the store with a handful of reading materials and a penis pump. "I'll get you next time!" I shook my fist furiously as my faithful comrade James soothed my weary temples with a pair of vibrating vag eggs. Ah, memories...

If nothing else, I gained valuable insight from my clever customers who knew a thing or two about turning tricks to make their money stretch. Take, for example, the mustachioed lady who, upon purchasing a single cock ring, magically produced a soggy bill from her sagging, sweat soaked bosom. "Keep it," I muttered. Voila! You might have swindled me, lady, but I got the last laugh that day. That ring you took home will never fit around your colossal balls.