“I’m gonna tell you everything,” Lulu cooed, giving Violet a quick wave as she walked past the sales counter toward the back.

God, she reminds me of Jessica Rabbit. Violet had the same thought each time Lulu walked in.

Of course, if she had been a cartoon character, she would’ve been drawn like a full-breasted dove with great hips and legs. Pointy features, but pretty, like a size 12 Helen Hunt.

Grinning to herself, Violet bent beneath the counter to set the tanning booth timer and watched for the light before counting to 20 and pushing the button. Lulu’s bi-weekly tanning routine never changed.

Violet straightened up and surveyed the shop, and, as she did so often, she wondered why anyone in her right mind would take a job like this. True, it was just a retail business—SKU numbers, inventory, stocking, arranging displays, keying in sales; pretty boring stuff—but she was pretty sure no one set out thinking, “I’m going to work as a clerk in an adult novelty store!” Or as her boss firmly told her, a “retail sales associate.”

Regardless, after months at La Lumière Rouge, she knew the only difference between her job and working as a convenience store clerk was the price of the items and the decor of the store. Well, also the better pay, which was her biggest reason for being there.

She was grateful for the work; her entire job-hunting experience had been depressing and ineffective. So maybe it wasn’t the kind of job you write home about, but she liked the people she worked with and she paid her bills. That made it easier to stay.

During Violet’s first week, when Lulu had sashayed in and then stopped at the sales counter to study the new employee, Violet didn’t know what to make of her. After an awkward silence, Lulu introduced herself, and being naturally curious, she asked a lot of questions, interrupted Violet’s answers, and ended the conversation abruptly when her phone rang.

“Work calls!” she chirped, smiling brightly.

Lulu considered Violet something of an ingénue, and seeing as she was a self-professed “niche femme fatale,” she felt it her duty to begin coaxing the younger woman out from behind the door of her sheltered life. After a few weeks, to help open that door a little wider, Lulu scheduled a call-free hour and sat at the sales counter for a just-between-us-girls chat.

Violet thought Lulu was fascinating, but a little unnerving. While she admired the more experienced woman’s allure and confidence, she couldn’t get past her squeamishness about Lulu’s profession. She knew people talked dirty on the phone for money, but couldn’t imagine anyone doing it.

Violet’s discomfort made Lulu laugh; she harbored no misgivings. At 5’10”, her body mirrored her personality—feminine, sexy, strong—but it was her voice that made people stare. Lulu could stop a body cold with that voice, and when people heard it, they understood why her phone sex clients became groaning, desperate, pay-by-the-minute putty on the other end of the line.

Lucille Setzer, aka Luscious Lulu, was no sex trade bimbo, however. When she graduated from college 20 years earlier with a degree in English and a senior thesis on the seductive influence of romance writing, she found that her degree would land her a part-time job teaching high school English. Little else was available unless she wanted to write, teach writing for a living, or get a Ph.D. But Lulu didn’t really enjoy writing, or reading high school papers, so she parlayed her education into a new line of work. With a voice that flowed along the phone lines like molasses oozing off a spoon, she developed a specialized vocation with a “romantic” twist.

“So, I’m called a PSO.” Lulu explained to Violet. “You know, a Phone Sex Operator, but I prefer ‘Erotic Communications Specialist’.”

She handed her business card to Violet:

     Eros Communications

     Luscious Lulu

     E Communications Specialist

     704-111-1111

     www.lusciouslulu.xxx            www.eroscommunications.xxx

“I manage Eros Communications. It’s my business.” She pointed to the card. “And my pseudonym, Luscious Lulu, is tied to a private pay-by-the-minute number. I do my own advertising, marketing, and sales. That way I keep all my profits. I do pretty well for an entrepreneur.”

Violet attempted to mask her distaste. “How did you end up doing this?”

“A lot like you.” Lulu said pointedly. “I couldn’t find a job that paid the bills; this was the late ‘80s. I saw an ad for PSO’s, so I called the number and they took me on. After a couple of months, I realized I could do it by myself, so I started my own practice. Like any small business, I worked really hard at first, you know, to perfect my craft, but after a few years it reached a tipping point, and I had more business than I could handle. If my investments do well, I’ll retire in ten years.” Lulu could talk about business all day to a captive audience.

“The only way to make money is to own your own practice just like any other service professional,” Lulu continued. “The money is great, the hours are flexible, and once I developed a regular client list, the income was secure.

“I have a waiting list of clients, and if I wanted to, I could work—I mean, you know, talk on the phone—80 hours a week, billing $3 per minute. Shoot, Honey, you could become a millionaire if you’re a smart investor. Or you can get an established client base and then work like I do, 20 or so hours a week. I take in more than 150 grand a year.”

Violet smiled. That Lulu’s “service” was unorthodox at best and unsavory at worst never affected her opinion of herself as a successful small business owner. She took small business seminars, had audited a business accounting class, and claimed to read at least one business book every other month.

“This is my livelihood,” Lulu explained, “so it’s up to me to make sure it runs efficiently and stays healthy. I am always thinking about new ways to keep it fresh.”

After Lulu got to know Violet better, after she realized that Violet needed friends and guidance, Lulu magnanimously suggested that Violet try the erotic communications business.

“I could help you get started,” she offered. “Pass along some of the clients I have on my waiting lists, show you how to work the calls, help you with set-up and sales until you’ve got some regulars. You’ve got the voice for it. Plus, I’m interested to see if I can duplicate my business model.”

Violet giggled at the thought of Lulu finding ways to perfect her craft and duplicate her business model, but she could no more imagine saying the kinds of things that Lulu said to callers than she could seeing herself bungee jumping off the Bank of America building. She declined the offer, expressing genuine appreciation for Lulu’s help. Lulu generously told her the offer would stand.

“It’s not a bad gig, Violet. I’m making my clients feel better, and all I have to do is talk. I love to talk. Okay, so maybe what I’m sayin’ isn’t dinner table conversation—although I know some of these guys wish it was. It’s still stuff they can’t hear anywhere else, and once they feel comfortable with me, some of them want to talk about their families, jobs, significant others, you name it. My best repeat clients think of me as a therapist.”

Then she paused, considering. “And it’s not like my only clients are men either. On the phone, I can switch hit.”

                                                ***

That snippet of information crossed Violet’s mind as she checked the digital timer for the tanning booth. She gave a little shiver of disgust. Her aversion to talking dirty on the phone remained regardless of Lulu’s non-gender specific clientele and her upbeat business projections. She looked around the shop, but the floor was quiet.

It was often quiet early on weekdays and that had given her a lot of time, too much really, to agonize over how she had ended up in this store in this industry. During the pity parties she held in her early months at La Lumière Rouge, she routinely blamed the economy for creating a miserable hiring environment and forcing her into such a marginal profession. During those last two years while she finished her master’s in creative writing, she had done everything anyone recommended to find a job in her real field. Nothing fell into place. She had been willing to take any job, but no doors with a paycheck opened. It had frustrated her to have to ask her mother for money to allow her to keep looking.

Violet clearly remembered her post-graduation phone conversation with her mother asking for help with her bills. “Just for a little while, Mom, ‘til I get a job. I don’t need much, and I know something will turn up soon.”

“Three months, Violet,” Samantha Hunnicutt said firmly. “That’s all I’m able to put into it. If you can’t find something in that time, you need to consider moving home and working at one of the local restaurants. You can pay me a little for rent each month while you figure out what to do next.” Violet groaned audibly at the prospect.

Violet’s mother was a hard worker who enjoyed herself and proudly flaunted a look straight out of the early ‘60s. Grease and Mad Men could have taken their wardrobe cues from the retro style she’d maintained with clothes she made from mid-century patterns. Unfortunately, Sam’s style often attracted aging men in tight jeans with Elvis haircuts or James Dean white T-shirts who loved to work on and drive fast cars while yearning for the days of drive-in movies and blue T-Birds with white leather bucket seats.

But as Sam repeatedly explained to her only daughter, “I only made one mistake when it comes to men, that being your father, Hank. There must be some mystical payback in the Universe that he found God, Violet, even if it did take him ‘til he was in his mid-40s.”

By that time, Sam’s divorce from Hank Hunnicutt was a distant memory, and Sam had been raising Violet for years on her own. “You were the best thing to come out of that marriage,” she often told Violet, holding her tightly.

Fortunately, God not only saved Hank; He urged him to attend AA meetings, and part of his program included making things right financially and emotionally with his ex-wife and his daughter. His money helped Violet through college and her graduate program, but now it was time for Violet to take some financial responsibility, even if that meant working at a low-paying job.

Moving home, however, was the kiss of death. Violet loved her mother, but the whole idea of moving back into Sam’s I Dream of Genie, Green Acres, I Love Lucy world made her feel positively nauseated. With a hand on her stomach to keep the bile from rising too high, she tried to explain this one afternoon to another clerk at the shop.

“Mom has a certain way she wants me to be. She’s never been able to stop telling me how to dress and act, and she gets so upset when I tell her that I don’t want to live in the ‘60s. She can’t understand why anyone would choose the present. I mean, even the company where she works as the business manager owns these retro ‘50s-style diners. It’s all older than old school.

“And you should see my room at home.” Violet grimaced, rolling her eyes. “She has a penchant for bright colors, so I have this huge star clock on the wall with this bright coral and turquoise color scheme. It gives me a headache every time I go in it. I was embarrassed to bring friends home because people think it looks so weird.”

In desperation, Violet headed for the local library with her old laptop to search for anything, and that’s when she saw the online post for the “Boutique Retail Position,” which definitely looked better than nothing. When she called about an interview and found the position had not been filled, she felt a small surge of optimism.

The shop’s owner set a meeting time, Violet ironed her interview suit, and drove her old car to the boutique. When she saw she had arrived at a sex shop, she double-checked the address, and when she realized the address was correct, she understood why the position had not been filled.

She looked at the store front with its big red sign and heard her mother’s voice in her head, “Violet, what were you thinking?” She was pretty sure that a job in a sex shop was not what her mother or father or anyone had in mind.

She sat out in front of La Lumière Rouge for a long five minutes. Her interview with the owner was inside the shop. Red Sumner had sounded nice enough over the phone, wanting her to come meet him to, “see if the position is a good fit.” Now everything began to take on nuances that made Violet uneasy. Still, she felt she had few—meaning no—options. So she took a deep breath, checked her teeth for lip gloss, walked to the door, and pulled it open.