1. A Vacancy
Finishing school with a below average score tends to limit your horizons and no special skills and a lack of any sort of mechanical ability just makes it worse. That’s compounded by having a dysfunctional family — Dad an unemployed alcoholic, Mum working as a shelf-packer-cashier and hating it, and the pair constantly at war with each other — certainly didn’t improve my prospects when I started applying for jobs. Nor did the fact I’m Gay, tall, thin as a rake and rather androgynous in appearance and ‘look’ a lot younger than my almost nineteen years. I’m not athletic and have a physique that invites bullies of the jock sort.
In five weeks of job hunting I’d picked up some casual work, but nothing that would give me a permanent income or go anywhere that might lead to anything. And the nagging, and slagging off at home about how useless I was wasn’t helping.
Then I spotted a flyer taped to the glass on a door between two shops. The door was recessed and obviously led to the floor above the larger of the two shops on the left with the small ‘newsagent’ shop to the right. It was the rainbow encircling the text caught my eye.
“Help Wanted” in bold at the top, below this it read, “Small Specialist Mail Order firm seeks a worker to fill, pack and post orders to our clients. Wages to be negotiated.” I read it twice, then looked at the odd looking company name, ‘GearFet,’ and logo, followed by the legend, “Apply within.”
What the hell have I got to lose? I tried the door. It was locked, but there was a bell press, so I pressed it. A minute later there were footsteps on the stairs behind the door, and a guy in jeans and a teeshirt opened it. About twenty years older than me, he studied me for a moment, his expression hard to read. He obviously kept himself in shape, and the bulge in his jeans screamed ‘jock’ at me.
“Can I help?”
“Er … It says you’re looking for someone … that there’s a job?” There was a slightly chemical smell coming down the stairs. A scent I recognised and it sent a message into the deepest and darkest part of my fantasies.
“You want to apply?” His voice was neutral. “How old are you?”
“Um, eighteen. Turn nineteen in four months.”
“Uh huh.” His sceptical gaze made me blush. “Can you prove it? Got a driver’s licence?”
“No licence, but I’ve got all my school certificates, and a copy of my birth certificate …”
“That’ll do.” He cracked a smile. “Just finished school? Worked anywhere else?”
I shook my head. “Only had a few casual jobs … you know, stacking boxes, washing cars … that kind of thing.”
“Uh huh.” He hesitated, his eyes taking in my appearance, my worn trainers, my clean jeans, the fleece teeshirt I wore under my denim jacket, then nodded. “Okay, come inside, and let’s see what we can work out.”
The place had once been a large flat, presumably the home of the shopkeeper on the floor below. The ‘entrance’ hall was now a sort of reception, and what may have been the living room was now a ‘stockroom’. It and the former dining room next to it were fitted with rails carrying hanging items and racking loaded with trays and boxes, the contents of which were evidently shown in labels. The smell of rubber was almost overpowering. The entrance had a small display of ‘toys’ in a counter, and a small room off was evidently an office. A passage lead past a bathroom, a kitchen on one side and three rooms on the other, one now workshop. A couple of guys looked up as we passed the door and one grinned, calling, “Throw him back — he’s not old enough.”
“He says he is,” the guy with me shot back as he ushered me past.
A small room at the back of the building had been turned into an office and I was led to this. A desk, two computers, a couple of chairs, a shelf of ring binders, stacks of plastic wrapped catalogues, and a bit of a clutter on the desk. Nothing that gave an indication of what they did at a quick glance.
“Right, let’s see that birth certificate.” He grinned. “If it confirms what you said downstairs, we can go from there. You look like you could use a drink. Coffee or tea?”
“Er, coffee … but just water will be fine … um, thanks.” I handed over the envelop with all my certificates. “My birth certificate is on top.”
“On top? Not a bottom then?” He grinned at some private joke, pulling out the several sheets of paper. Scanning the birth certificate, he shoved the whole lot back into the envelop, and pushed it back to me. “Okay, Alexander, why do you think you’d like to work for a specialist mail order outfit? Have you figured out what we sell yet?” Laughing, he stood. “Stay there. I’ll get us some coffee. Milk and sugar?”
“Er, um, just milk, thanks … I don’t know what …”
“Take a few minutes to think about it while I make the coffee.” Laughing, he paused in the door. “Here’s a hint. It’s not essential to be Gay and into a fetish. But it helps.”
“G-g-gay?” I stammered, but he was gone. Now I looked at the catalogue on the desk, and then at the poster on the door wall which showed a good looking guy with a band behind him — all of them in shiny rubber. The catalogue was the wrong way up from where I sat, but now I looked at it, I realised it was all about bondage equipment and latex wear …
“Figured us out yet?” My ‘host’ put a mug of coffee in front of me.
“Um, I think so. You sell, um, Gay sex stuff online?”
“I guess you could call it that.” Taking his seat again, he chuckled at my blush. “The Gay bit is right, and so is the sex. We specialise in making and supplying rubber clothing and bondage equipment for people with a fetish for the kinky stuff.” Watching my reaction, he added, “We’re hardcore rubberists and we run this show to supply others like ourselves who get our kicks wearing rubber and running bondage role-plays.” Pausing he waited, then asked, “Still interested in working for us?”
My heart sank. I wanted a job badly. I really needed a job. I needed an income, enough to get out from under the constant strife at ‘home’. With a job I figured I might just be able to set up my own place, and maybe, just maybe, find a life of my own. But a job with a sex shop? Me? How would I explain it to anyone? Especially to my parents! My father would really go to town on me. He never let up about my being a ‘fucking bum boy’ as it was, and my mother … Fuck it. I needed the job!
“I …” hesitating, I tried to find a way to say this without sounding desperate. “Is … must I …” I stopped. “I need a job, but will I have to …”
“No, sex isn’t part of the job, Alex.” He said quietly and smiled. “It’ll help if you’re Gay, and if you like rubber and find bondage interesting, but the job we’re wanting someone for is just to take the order printout and select the items from stock, check them and pack them. Jerry handles stock control and will do the labelling, posting and paperwork, and Marco, when he’s not making things for an order, will work with you to pick and pack. There’s also Wally who does the suits and hoods with Rob, and Terry and Colin who runs the website and takes the orders. The seven of us own the company, you’ll be our only employee.” Pausing he waited.
“Okay.” I shrugged, and gave a weak smile. “I’m Gay at least …” I could have added that I’d tried for a burger flipping job that morning — no luck, the university students seemed to have a stranglehold on that. And the ‘manager’ was a guy who clearly hated people like me. It was the same with jobs in the pubs, waiting tables … even the Job Centre hadn’t come up with anything better than working for the garbage collector company, emptying bins into the garbage truck. “Okay, look, I really need a job, something, so I can get started …”
“Well that’s honest.” The smile was friendly. “Okay, I’ll make you an offer. Hours are nine to six in the evening in the week, and half day Saturday. We take turns to make the tea or coffee and we either all go out for lunch, or we order something and share in the kitchen here. We’ll pay you two hundred a week for a start, and if you decide to stay we’ll review it after six months. Sound fair?”
Two hundred a week? I’d be able to get a room somewhere with that and have, I thought, a little to spare. Suddenly the world seemed a lot brighter. Take the job, make up some shit about what it was, get some money in my pocket … and worry about the rest later.
“Very fair.” Struggling not to appear too excited, I said, “When do you want me to start?”
“Now if you like.” His smile showed warmth. “Do you need some cash? I can probably give you a small advance on your pay if you do.”
“Advance? Oh … Actually …” This was moving fast now.
“Okay, I’ll organise it.” He pushed a pad across the desk to me. “I need your full names, address, insurance number, any Job Centre reference you’ve got, and your bank details. I’ll give those to our accountant, Rob, and he’ll see you’re registered for tax and all the other stuff.” He watched as I started to write. “I expect you know, but in the first six months you’ll be on probation and can be fired without notice, after that you’re on a more secure footing.”
He talked as I wrote, slipping in a few questions about my parents, school, home and friends in a casual manner. I answered honestly without actually thinking about it and not saying more than I needed too say. Pushing the pad back across the desk, I put away my bank card and my insurance card and the card the Job Centre had given me.
“Okay.” Scanning the stuff I’d written he nodded. “What do you prefer? Alexander or Alex? Or is there a nickname you prefer?”
“Alex is fine.” I felt my face burn again as I thought of my father’s favourite label for me when he was drunk and in one of his ‘moods’. “Most of the nicknames I’ve had thrown at me … I’ll stick with Alex I think.”
“That’s fine, but the lads will soon give you a nickname — probably a rude one.” Reaching across the desk he held out his hand. “I’m Eugen, most people can’t pronounce it, so call me Gene.” He grinned. “Now I better introduce you to the rest of the company — at least the guys who work here. Rob and Terry have an office at home. You’ll meet them when I can take you to where they are.” Raising his voice he called, “Marco! Wally! Jerry! Get your arses in here and meet our new employee. He’s called Alex.”
Marco appeared to be older than everyone else, and heavily tattooed. He didn’t seem to have anywhere he wasn’t, and he was big a heavily built. I’d no sooner been introduced to him than another guy came pounding up the stairs and I was introduced as Wally, short, heavily built and somewhere between Gene and Jerry in age.
“You’ll meet Colin tomorrow — he takes care of our IT stuff including our website.”
Jerry, about the same age as Gene, a body builder, was to be my mentor for the day, his task to familiarise me with the stock system. It was more than an education in stock marking storing and control — I’d no idea just how wide a range of sex toys were available, and even less idea of the variety in rubber gear. He was good natured, older than me and teased me unmercifully as he introduced me to a world I’d heard existed, but not, until now, ever confronted.
“Don’t worry, kiddo, we’ll soon have you as kinky as us.” He laughed as I felt my cheeks burn. “If you want to try anything, feel free — but book it in the stock record as a ‘return’. We can’t sell used items. Hygiene rules.”
“Er, um … thanks.” My cheeks burned. “If I see anything …”
With banter like that the day went very rapidly. There was a lot more teasing over lunch — burgers Jerry and I fetched from the local burger joint — and an afternoon spent picking items from the shelves for packing by Marco who showed me how everything was to be packed for posting.
“Knocking off time, Alex.” Gene leant against the door frame. “Still want the job?”
“Still ..?” Putting the item I’d just found for the order I was putting together — a large tapered ‘plug’ — into the basket Jerry’d told me to use for order picking, I grinned. “Yes, I still want the job -- and you've given me an advance ... I’m just wondering what to tell my folks when they ask what I’m doing …”
That was the truth, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
“Think they’ll give you a rough time?”
“Depends,” I replied. “My Mum might. My old man … depends how drunk he is.”
“Like that, is it?” Straightening up, he handed me a card. “Give me a ring if it goes tits up, okay? You’re over eighteen so they can’t stop you if you decide to leave home.” He hesitated. “And if you do, ring me and we’ll sort something for you.”
