I worked for a sex shop, and my content manager was a middle-aged video producer with a high-pitched, nasally voice who openly resented the fact that he was the only gay man on staff. My lead programmer was a childless divorcé living alone who suffered from insomnia and laughed with a tinge of hysteria at everything, and often at nothing. When I first met the CTO, he asked me if I'd ever been a prostitute, because he was sure he'd seen me before.

They were nice guys, living in a different world.

When I wasn't trying to get people to come in to work before 11am, or arguing with my programmer about the fact that he didn't really know that much more about NT than I did, I was working on the image library, adjusting hundreds of photos, airbrushing the faces to make them appear less bored and more dreamy, crisping up those reds and pinks, hazing out backgrounds or removing them entirely. My hard drive was littered with folders named "Twats" or "Enemas" or "Spanking" or "Scat."

I learned a lot.
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