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Callie
“I’m looking for Orgasm?”
“Aren’t we all?” I grin at the Lululemon-clad customer who’s just arrived at the counter, but she just stares at me blankly. “It’s OK,” I add, since she’s not in a joking mood. “I have exactly what you need.”
I head behind the counter to fetch the lady the orgasm she so desperately needs. From afterglow to allure, and everything in-between, anyone listening in might think that I’m the gatekeeper to a secret underground kink club or the owner of a sex shop empire. Close. See, working the makeup counter at New York’s classiest department store—I’m not selling sex, but something just as wild, transformative, and liberating.
Beauty. Or, as I like to look at it: Confidence. Because if you haven’t had a real orgasm to put that satisfied glow in your cheeks, then I’ve got the next best thing. And there’s nothing like stepping out into the world feeling like your best, most gorgeous self to make everything else fall into place.
I’m bending down to grab the blush when the customer adds, “I’ll need all of this stuff, too.” She proceeds to rattle off a list of products as long as my credit card bill. My eyes widen in excitement. I love helping out with a shopping spree. Plus, more products means a bigger commission for me.
Win win.
“Coming right up!” I quickly bustle around, collecting her haul. “Special occasion?” I ask, friendly. The shoppers at Fleishman’s Department Store are usually ladies of leisure, and this one is no exception, from the spotless white tennis outfit to the diamond studs glinting at her earlobes.
The woman sniffs. “No, they’re for my daughter. She got her father’s looks,” she adds with a sigh. “She needs all the help she can get.”
Yikes. I bite back a retort. “Well, she’s lucky to have you to buy all of these for her,” I say tactfully instead, as I pull out sheets of our trademark peach tissue paper to wrap the goods. “I would have loved it if my mom funded my makeup habit! It might have saved me from making some truly heinous choices in the drugstore aisles. Neon-green Wet ‘n’ Wild mascara, anyone?”
The woman frowns. At least, I think she’s frowning. It’s tough to read facial expressions on a forehead that’s been Botox’d into submission. “You think I’d let her pick her own? She’s twelve.”
“Twelve?” I stop wrapping and take in the stash of products this woman demanded. Foundation, three types of concealer, fake eyelashes, lip plumper… It would be an overbearing gift even for a grown woman. But for a kid? She might as well buy her daughter a one-way ticket to low self-esteem, with a side trip to therapy.
“Are you sure about all this?” I ask tactfully. “She’s so young, these products are really meant for someone older.”
The woman presses her lips in a thin line. “The sooner she starts making the most of herself, the better. And don’t get me started on her weight—”
“No!” I blurt, horrified.
The woman blinks. “No?”
I take a deep breath. “She’s just a kid. She’s got plenty of time in future to feel insecure about her looks,”—‘No thanks to you,’ I silently add—“So how about you just focus on her having fun right now?”
I pluck down some fun eyeshadow palettes and lip kits: bright, poppy colors with some sparkle to the shades. “Here, if she wants to try makeup, then start with these. For fun,” I say again with a glare. “Not because there’s anything wrong with how she looks.”
The woman just stares at me. “You’re refusing to sell me the other stuff?”
“Not refusing. Advising,” I reply, remembering myself in time. I flash a big grin, crossing my fingers I don’t get a write-up from management about the customer always being right. Again.
The woman checks her watch, impatient now. “Oh, fine, just give me that stuff,” she says, snapping her fingers. “Maybe my genes will show through soon enough.”
“Maybe,” I agree, ringing her up and sending her away with the age-appropriate stuff—and a prayer for her poor daughter.
Don’t worry, kid: It gets better. And if it doesn’t, legal emancipation is always an option.
“You seem pretty happy for someone who just talked herself out of a giant commission.” My friend-slash-coworker, Lorelei, appears at my side.
“What was I supposed to do?” I protest. “Being a kid is hard enough without all that, too.”
Lorelei smirks. As always, her blunt cut bangs and winged eyeliner make her look tres chic, but her secret is, she’s a marshmallow under all that French girl fashion. “I don’t know… Take the money like the rest of us?”
“It’s the principle of the matter!”
She laughs. “Principles don’t pay rent.”
I wince. “You’re right about that. And they definitely aren’t buying studio space, ingredients, and packing materials,” I add, retrieving my workbag from under the counter. I open it, revealing the real reason I’m toiling away at Fleishman’s: Because it’s just a stepping-stone to where I really want to be.
