Better be Licensed

I passed a licensed sex shop this morning. It assured me of its accreditation with a large lettered banner in the painted blue window of its otherwise ordinary looking shop. I wondered about what was inside…but more than that, I found myself imagining the trappings of an unlicensed sex shop.

Perhaps it would be in the form of a travelling salesman in a large black trench coat. He would undoubtedly wear a fedora tight over a sweat-stained brow (fear of being caught as unlicensed, you see) and he would gesture you into a dark alley to display the flavoured condoms inside his jacket, the colourful dildos up his sleeve. When the ill-begotten condom breaks or the dildo explodes (and either way you lose your figure), your family would seek retribution in the form of a hired gun from the unlicensed artillery conman the next block over. And the streets would pour with blood and illicit sex toys until the authorities are forced to quarantine the entire city and remove it from the maps of men.

Years from now, when the barbed wire grows gentle, someone would stumble in to the now quiet streets and find the entire sorrowful tale written out on tapes of naked judgemental woman caught in an eternal “oh!”