Unable to see the curtains for the blinds.

My job, as I see it, is to help people enjoy their sexuality. The ugliest mug who ever stopped a watch at fifty paces can come in here and grab a movie that allows him for a while to be lusted after, to vicariously have sex with women that anywhere else would be reaching for their pepper spray. Normal couples can come in and select a toy or lube that for the span of a coupling reduces the universe to the compass of where their bodies intersect. Sure there is a percentage of those who huddle in a corner sobbing brokenly while they masturbate to the aspirations of their own suicides, but if for no other reason than return business, I tend to think that percentage small in regards to my clientele.

Not long ago, I had a guy set my teeth on edge in that regard. He'd come in with two companions and wasted no time in demonstrating the "I'm too cool/worldly/über for a porn store" method of store conduct. I suffered through his authoritatively delivered statements about various products. I endured through stupid questions phrased as if he possessed both a clue and inside information. I deflected his probing as to how much the store grossed. I evaded his attempts to glean which products carried the sharpest margin and by how much. In short, he was doing his utmost to reveal himself as a right bloody prat. He certainly wasn't noticing that his companions had taken to the smile and nod maneuver of those with long departed interest.

It was upon this backdrop that he proffered up his final sputum sample of philosophy. His eye had settled upon a pussy cast from a particular starlet and he began to pontificate. He found it amazing how they would wish to do such a thing when "such women" often had "unappealingly large labia."

In that instant, I wished that every person who ever witnessed him sans trousers would immediately describe in luridly insulting terms every last deficiency and deformation of his genitalia until he was so scarred and insecure he's functionally impotent, unable even to pleasure himself for the shame of having to see/touch himself.

Girl bits come in a multitude of variations. It could look like Kirk Douglas' chin between her thighs. It could look like she had two crepes in a bagel sandwich down there. She could pursue a "scorched vulva" policy in regards to pubic hair. She could let it grow so wild and thick you need a guide and machete to gain entrance. She could trim it into fanciful shapes to entertain while you're down there. She could be lightly pink. She could be deep bluish purple. One thing is a constant, there is no such thing as a universally unattractive quim. If a particular style isn't your ideal, I guarantee it will be someone else's and perhaps you need to keep your opinion to yourself lest you lose access to the ones you have currently.

Krishna's crotch kippers! I'm exposed to women that have undergone anal bleaching to make their scenes more palatable on camera. I've known women that were horribly insecure about anyone going down on them for fear of being "not fresh" or equivalent. The incidences of labioplasty are on the rise. And all I can think of is that cretins like, Zippy the wonder slug, above are doing nothing to correct women's pussy anxiety.

Tell me how the bloody blue fuck it's going to create a positive, joyous sexual moment to perpetuate body consciousness and focus upon physical "flaws" at the expense of all the happy functions.

And do not even get me started on the off-hand slur implied in his statement, as if the number and/or frequency of partners is a factor.

I hate unthinking clods.