Adelaide

I can't relax in the shop. But I don’t think that’s any wonder, is it? I mean, I bet you would find it hard to relax, too, surrounded by dildos, gags, whips, and rabbits. And no, not the fluffy kind. Nor magic kind. The one that "delights".

I doubt any magician would be pulling one of these out of a top hat.

Well, actually, now that I think about it, it depends on the event and the magician. Probably not one you would see on Britain's Got Talent. Or the Paladium. The ones I am familiar with.

That sounds more like Sticky Vicky.

Josh saw her live in Benidorm. Said it was a proper good night.

What was I talking about again? Oh, yeah, so I’m in a sex shop with my mate Jim. He is looking for new gear for a fetish night at our local club, struggling to decide between a new jockstrap or a harness with built-in handcuffs.

He asks for my opinion.

“Get the jockstrap.”

“Why?”

I don’t know how to answer that.

Damn. I wasn’t expecting to have to show my working for reaching an arbitrary conclusion about a subject I clearly know nothing about.

He tells me I am no help.

Well, gee, thanks, genius. I could have told you that. In fact, I already did. Twenty times, in fact, in the car on the way over here. But he promised me a burger and an Oreo Blizzard from Wendy's when we were done. The rest is history.

“It complements your eyes.”

He says I am talking bollocks.

“Well, I suppose they will compliment them too.”

He calls me "a smart arse" and returns to his quest.

I swear this one will be a story of the ages. Move over, King Arthur. Move over, Jason. The 12 feats of Hercules pale in comparison to Jim Leone’s hunt for— Oh, Bend Over! I know him. He’s Tyger Drew Honey’s dad.

“Have you considered asking Hermione?”

He just looks at me, dumfounded, asking me why he would ask the girl he is trying to surprise about what gear he should wear for her.

I didn’t think it was that dumb a question.

“You could do sexy firefighter. Or sexy nun. Or maybe even a sexy doctor.”

I say this, hopeful the shop has a sci-fi section, tucked in the back between porn and fleshlights. To my disappointment, it doesn’t.

It has red cross briefs and stethoscopes, but doesn’t have a David Tennant pin-stripe suit.

Talk about missing a trick.

He just rolls his eyes and tuts.

I take the walk of shame past the double-sided dildos. Kind of looks like Darth Maul’s lightsaber—

“NO WAY!”

I catch sight of a pair of glittery red heels, standing proud on a solitary plinth. They gleam invitingly, just like the Genie's lamp amid the sea of gold and jewels in the Cave of Wonders.

Ohh! Gotcha.

Now the shop's name makes sense.

I was wondering where the name came from.

Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Those are THE heels from Everyone’s Talking About Jamie!

I rush over to get a better look. Carefully, I pick them up and check inside.

Yes! They are my size.

A voice calls out from behind the counter, encouraging me to try them on if I am interested.

The shop assistant had been watching me for some time with a look of bemused pity.

“Okay.”

I beam at her. Throwing off my third-hand, threadbare Nike, inherited from my prick of a brother, I slip them on.

“Oooh.”

I run over to the mirror, admiring every angle. I am a good 8 inches taller.

“Ahh!”

“You like them?”

The assistant asks, though from the look on her face - from our excitable squeal - she already knows the answer.

I ask how much they are, dreading to hear —

“£60.”

Wait? What? 60? Six zero? Under 100 quid? Really?!

She tells me they’re on sale. Reduced from £140 to —

“I’ll take them!”

She chuckles as she tells me to join her at the counter to ring them up.

“Want to keep them on?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well, I’ll put your box in the bag. As for those, you want us to throw them out? We have a shoe bank out back.”

She nods to the disregarded trainers. The soles are practically peeling away from years of football practice and regret.

“Yes, please.”

Jim finally looks up from the harnesses and fuzzy handcuffs. He does a double-take at my sudden change in height.

“Chosen?”

I ask, giving him an exaggerated twirl and curtsy.

“Err—— not yet.”

“Why don’t you just get both?”

“Because I am not fucking Moneybags.”

“How much would both be?”

“£40.”

The shop assistant chimes in. She is in the porn section, pricing the unstickered DVD cases.

“... ... ... I’ll get both.”