The Sex Shop
Admiral Biscuit
You can't miss it. If you go just past the lower Las Pegasus market, heading south, you'll see a well-travelled side street, where ponies who don't have wares which display well in the market do business. The buildings are durable brick structures, with glass in the windows and brass plaques on the doors, almost as if the earth ponies who founded the small commercial enclave wanted to show just how solid their businesses were.
Midway down, tucked between a hair stylist and a dentist, is The Sex Shop. That's all the brass plaque says, in dignified copperplate letters: “The Sex Shop.” It's a rite of passage for colts and fillies to walk past it whenever they can—whenever their parents aren't watching—and imagine what must be behind those curtained-off windows. Because The Sex Shop doesn't advertise its wares like so many other businesses do.
Of course, there are rumors. Mostly schoolyard rumors, passed by word of mouth from the elder to the younger. They always begin the same way—did you know that there's a sex shop just off the lower market?
Nuh-uh.
It's true—next time you're there with your family, take a look.
The bait is set, and now it only wants for the young pony to have the opportunity to sneak away from her parents for just a minute or two, and make her way down that side street, and glance at the sign which proudly proclaims that there is, indeed, a sex shop near the Las Pegasus lower market.
After the bait is taken, the stories of what's in the sex shop vary significantly, depending on the age of the teller and the age of the listener. The stories get passed along, becoming more ludicrous with each round of the playground. Every five years or so, the rumors become so pronounced that a worried parent raises a stink about one of the many baseless allegations, and the Pegasus Guard is forced to Do Something About It.
Said 'something' is always a cursory examination of the books, of the wares, and of the business practices in general, along with a routine 'just doing our job,' and the story dies down until the cycle begins anew.
The stallion who owns the shop understands fully. The occasional inspections are no bother, and the Pegasus Guard is always courteous—after all, unlike the complainers, many of them are his customers.
Upon entering, if you're so inclined, the inside probably is nothing like what you expected. The shop is neat and clean. Off to the left of the door are erotic prints—of mares and stallions, mostly—but the shop also carries pinups of dragons, griffons, minotaurs, zebras, and donkeys. By request, the store can order materials which feature other species, but it only stocks what's popular. Many of the pictures are scented, and quite frequently a pony browsing the selection becomes aroused. The proprietor isn't bothered; he's seen it before.
He looks nothing like you'd expect. He's an older stallion, with gray hairs sprinkled through his neatly-trimmed mane and tail. His eyes are a calm blue color, halfway between sky and sea, and they're surrounded by crows' feet. On his flank, a slender object which might be a candlestick or a cucumber but almost certainly isn't stands proudly erect.
He doesn't mind selling the pinups. They're not really his passion, but they're popular with ponies, and who is he to judge?
If you approach him and speak to him, you'd find that his voice is soothing, and he's happy to assist in finding the perfect object to solve a problem in the bedroom. With a doctor’s air of polite authority, he calmly asks what kind of thing you're looking for, and he's never impatient. He's as happy selling a faux dragon phallus as a halter.
He also dabbles in relationship counseling. It's not unknown for two different species to fall in love, especially in the great melting pot of Equestrian culture. Griffons and ponies are the most common pairing, but he's seen it all. Sexual signals and biological equipment are not always entirely compatible, but he sells tools which can overcome these differences—or satisfy a curious pony. He really doesn't care which it is; it's none of his business how his customers use his wares, just that they are satisfied with them.
Further towards the back, he has lavishly illustrated books, showing positions and techniques which were never taught in school. The Ṭaṭṭū Sutra is a perennial best seller, and he always stocks up before Hearts and Hooves day.
One copy sits in plain view on a reading stand marking the line between books and bridles. Patrons are free to browse it, if they so desire, and he can easily explain to a curious couple which technique might best provide the intended result, no matter what species they are, or what combination of toys they have at their disposal. It is widely rumored among his regular customers that it is impossible to stump him, and while that isn't true, he's been around long enough to see it all.
His wife usually works in the back. She's a diminutive pegasus, with an iris for a cutie mark—a flower which, upon closer inspection, more resembles a vagina. She crafts most of the phalluses and artificial mounts, and also takes over for her husband when a shy mare cannot bring herself to talk to him. Oftentimes, she makes up for the details about reproduction that the fillies don't learn in school, and she's happy to sell a potion or charm to prevent—or encourage—pregnancy.
A few times, she's been asked by a particularly lecherous stallion if she'd be willing to demonstrate a particular technique for him. She simply gives him a card for the local brothel, and asks him if he'd like to make a purchase.
If you followed them home at the end of the day, you'd be surprised again to discover just how ordinary their house is. They have a single zebra daughter—adopted when she was a foal—and she's old enough to stay home by herself and make dinner for them. She knows more about sex than anypony else at school, but she also knows it's not appropriate to discuss it in class. Nevertheless, just like her mother, she's happy to set her fillyfriends straight after school. But, other than the rather exotic daughter, their home is no different than yours—it features no sex dungeon—and when they've finished their late dinner, they both like to relax on the porch swing and watch the starry night sky, just like any other couple.
Author's Note
A One-Shot-Ober fic
Since this is story 42, I thought I ought to have it tie in with the meaning of life.
