“The couple stood in front of me eyeballing shelf after shelf; from chipolata to vibrating, rotating bratwursts”
WORDS BY GEORGIA BUTLER, IMAGE VIA PEXELS
I started working for Ann Summers in my last year of university. I had gone in to buy *cough cough* responsible underwear (a strap on) and I was disappointed upon arrival to find that the closest thing they sold was a beginner pegging set. Admittedly, it was close, but the peg was around the size of a lipstick and that is not quite what “lipstick lesbian” is referring to. I bought it anyway intending to buy a dildo, which would fit the harness, online later.
As I was paying, I noticed that they were advertising for a part-time sales assistant. The next day I handed in my CV and I was invited for an interview. After demonstrating how I would discuss masturbation with a customer (brazenly and enthusiastically), I was hired.
With my new-found guarantee of a pay-cheque, I went on dil-grimage (Pilgrimage, dildo, no?). Did you know that Ann Summers sells 257 sex toys? Did you also know that a hot total of six are tagged as being for lesbians? Six. I have more fingers than they have queer female sex-toys. Of course, these are only the ones labelled as such. There are plenty of creative ways that gay girls could use most of the other toys, but the fact is that queer women remain an afterthought.
After a few weeks of working there, my first obviously queer couple came into the store. Two women in their 20s walked purposefully to the back of the store – if you are familiar with Ann Summers, you know exactly what that means. As employees, we are required to offer our assistance. But my few weeks of work had taught me that people feel reasonably vulnerable while surrounded by posters of mostly nude supermodels and nine-inch pink bananas. I preferred, instead, to hover and wait for an opener. The couple stood in front of me eyeballing shelf after shelf; from chipolata to vibrating, rotating bratwursts, yet they seemed uninspired. I did not need to ask why.
Four out of five of the rubber rockets Ann Summers sells are anatomically correct. We are talking protruding veins, weighty and wrinkly ball sacks and the all too recognisable mushroom-like tip. Walking into the store as a gay woman hoping to buy a toy is a bit like a pre-menstrual woman going to the chocolate shop, but taking a wrong turn and ending up in over-eaters anonymous. It isn’t what you were looking for, and it completely ruined your appetite.
I liked Ann Summers. I loved that I could chat candidly with the customers. I loved the discount. I hated that my sexuality did not feel acknowledged or relevant. That “couple kits” invariably revolved around a vibrating cock-ring, and slogans were concentrated on “how to please your man”. TV adverts of gorgeous women… with gorgeous men. I know heterosexuality exists; I appreciate that most people are heterosexual. But I exist too – so does every other queer woman out there. I am continually baffled as to why female sexuality is only publicly valued in relation to how it functions for men, rather than acknowledged as a sexuality in and of itself.
I left every shift proud of the part I played in encouraging conversations about sex, but repeatedly asking myself the same question: Is it really too much to ask for a dildo without synthetic hair and a functioning foreskin?
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