How do I prepare for an interview for a company I know nothing about? Tough question. I've always been someone who likes to go to war armed and loaded. Right now, as I ride a taxi towards the address that was given to me, I feel like I'm walking into battle with nothing but a toothpick. The driver weaves through the immaculate streets of BGC. Meanwhile, I'm obsessively checking the address on my phone, feeling my stomach churn with each passing block.
Who'd have thought I'd be back so soon on this side of Metro Manila? Only yesterday was I rejected by a top digital marketing agency, and now I'm taking another chance at employment, albeit less prepared this time around.
The driver finally pulls up to the entrance of the mall, and the car stops. I step out, immediately greeted by the blast of cool, crisp air as I push through the glass doors. The scent of roasted coffee and freshly baked pastries hits me first. Somewhere nearby, a café is working overtime to fill orders for the steady stream of shoppers. The murmur of voices blends with the sound of a distant barista calling out a name, and the soft hum of escalators fills the background like white noise. I'm instantly engulfed in the rhythmic bustle of the crowd.
The mall is alive. Shoppers move like a river, flowing in different directions, their footsteps echoing off the polished marble floors. I weave through a group of friends chattering animatedly, their laughter echoing in the open space. I pass by shops with displays of luxury brands dazzling under soft, ambient lighting. My senses are overwhelmed as I try to focus on the task at hand. To keep myself anchored, I glance at my phone screen for the nth time today, once again checking the address.
Avala Mall Bonifacio Global City, One Bonifacio High Street,Level 2, Unit 208.
Spotting the nearest escalator, I beeline for it and grab onto the cool metal railing, feeling the faint vibrations beneath my palm as I'm lifted to the second floor. Soft, calming, classical piano music plays live somewhere in the distance. It doesn't take me long to find what I'm looking for.
Finally, I see it. The neon sign "Kharat.Ph" glows atop the entrance of a shop.
So it's Kharat, with an H. I must have misheard the caller from yesterday due to her thick Bisaya accent. At least that's one mystery solved. The storefront is tasteful, blending seamlessly with the other upscale shops around it. Soft, neutral-colored walls frame the entrance, and the glass door is etched with a simple and sophisticated logo. The display window is understated with elegantly arranged produc—wait. Hang on. Are those…
I squint, leaning in closer. The display is so artfully put together that at first glance, it looks like a display for luxury skincare or wellness items, until I notice the shapes. Sleek, curved forms, carefully laid out in a gradient of pastel shades. A few of them have a distinctly suggestive silhouette. My brain catches up, and my jaw drops.
Are they selling sex toys?
I hesitate, feeling a small knot form in the pit of my stomach. Tasteful, unintimidating, and looks like the kind of place that wouldn't raise an eyebrow. As I approach closer, I feel like I'm an unsuspecting victim lured into a den of the unknown. This isn't some vague wellness shop; it's an adult boutique. A high-end one, no doubt, but still… Oh, God. I feel my pulse quicken as I glance back at the elegant, tasteful packaging that had fooled me. The muted colors, the minimalist design—everything is designed to make you feel comfortable, unthreatened, like you're browsing for artisanal candles or organic bath salts, not... vibrators.
My instincts scream at me to turn around and flee, but then I think of my bank account, dwindling down to nothing, with bills piling up like a mountain…
You need this job, Ermita.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and push open the door.
The inside is even more inviting than the storefront suggested. The air smells faintly of jasmine and vanilla, and there's a soft instrumental tune playing overhead that makes the space feel tranquil, like a wellness retreat. The lighting is warm, casting a cozy glow over the shelves, which are arranged in a way that feels open and airy. Nothing is crammed together; each item has its own space, displayed with the care you'd find in a luxury spa.
The products themselves are packaged so elegantly that they almost blend into the background—each one a subtle, sleek object, like a small piece of art. The colors are calming: soft pinks, blues, and warm neutrals, all designed to put you at ease. If it weren't for the suggestive shapes, I could almost convince myself I was browsing skincare items or aromatherapy kits.
A part of me still wants to bolt, but the other part—the part that needs a paycheck—pushes me to step forward. As I make my way to the counter, I spot a woman with a friendly smile, her dark hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She's dressed in a simple blouse and slacks, giving her an approachable, professional air.
"Hi, Ma'am. How may I help you?" she asks, beaming a smile at me. I recognize her thick Bisaya accent instantly. It's the girl who called me yesterday.
"I'm Ermita Mandaue, and I was told to come here for my job interview," I explain, my voice betraying a hint of nerves.
Her face lights up in recognition. "Ah, yes, Ms. Mandaue! Sir Fergie is waiting for you in the backroom." Janine gestures for me to follow her.
As I do so, my gaze lingers on the tasteful packaging of the elegant displays. Everything is designed to be inviting. But then Janine leads me towards a door that I hadn't noticed before. She opens it and ushers me inside, and that's when I see it—the real product range.
This room is a stark contrast to the front of the store. The lighting is dimmer, more dramatic, casting long shadows that make the displays feel both secretive and bold. Gone are the pastel shades and minimalist designs. Here, the toys are displayed like pieces of avant-garde art: larger, more complex, with varying shapes and uses. I'm not entirely sure what most of them even are.
The first display I pass is full of what I can only describe as harnesses—straps of deep black leather with shiny metal buckles. A few look like something out of a sci-fi movie, with curved, intricate designs that seem to defy logic. I realize I'm staring, not quite sure how someone would use them.
To the left, I catch sight of what are definitely vibrators—though I've never seen them like this. Some are small and discreet, almost sleek, like tech gadgets. Others are too big, I shiver at the thought of having it inside a woman's body. There are long, curved ones with multiple sections, and others that are shaped in ways that seem to have been designed by an engineer with a wild imagination.
In the center of the room is an entire section dedicated to leather—cuffs, and studded collars hang in an organized yet commanding manner. There's a glass case with whips, floggers, and paddles, each one crafted with exquisite detail. One paddle is made of polished wood with one side padded with velvet, and the handle wrapped in soft leather. Another, made of metal, has a smooth, cold finish that makes it look more like a weapon than a bedroom accessory.
Then, there's the machines. They sit in the corner. One is tall, with a long, mechanical arm attached, and another looks like a thrusting device with chrome finishes. It gleams under the dim lights. My throat goes dry. These are way beyond anything I'd ever expected to see.
My legs feel a bit weak as I take it all in, and I realize that I don't understand this world at all. Every item here is so far from what I'd imagined, and the sheer variety is making my head spin.
"Just through here," Janine says, her voice casual, as if we haven't just walked through what looks like a secret vault of intimacy. She leads me to a tucked corner in the room, where there is a plush, intimate sitting area. "Sir, this is Ms. Mandaue. She's applying for the copywriter position."
I'm assuming this is the Mr. Fergie, Janine was talking about. He's wearing a tweed jacket, draped over a sequined t-shirt, and paired with floral-patterned pants. The whole ensemble screams expensive.
Fergie, in all his sequined, radiant glory, exclaims, "Dah-ling," extending his arms like he's welcoming a long-lost friend. "Oh my gosh, look at you sooo," he pauses, his gaze sweeping over my outfit—sensible slacks, a button-down blouse, and black low-heeled leather shoes. His eyes widen slightly, and for a brief second, he seems to be searching for the right word. "So... practical!" He finally settles, flashing a dazzling smile, clearly trying to soften the blow. "I'm Fergie, the one and only. Thrilled to meet you!"
I muster a smile, trying to ignore the nerves twisting my stomach. "Hi, Fergie. Nice to meet you."
"Please, come, sit, relax! We don't do those stiff, formal interviews here. No, no. Conventional is so last season."
Janine quietly leaves and closes the door behind her, leaving me alone with Fergie. I sit down, fight the urge to sink too far into the chair's softness, and fold my hands in my lap to calm the nerves buzzing under my skin. I can still feel the weight of the room around me, every oversized toy and gleaming surface making it impossible to forget exactly where I am.
Fergie settles into the chair opposite me, crossing his legs effortlessly and flipping through my resume like it's an invitation to the Met Gala. "Alright, darling, let's dive in!" He taps the paper with a perfectly manicured finger. "Top schools for your undergraduate and masters degree. Interned in a TV network. Spent the first two years of your professional career as a news writer for a local paper, worked for the communications branch of the office of the president, then slowly climbed your way to editor-in-chief?" He lets out a gasp, eyes widening in theatrical delight. "Major responsibilities, honey. I mean, huge."
"Yeah, it was a lot of responsibility," I say, my voice a little shaky.
Fergie nods, leaning in a little. "What was it like working at Malacañang? You must have had all sorts of important work on your plate."
Recovering my composure, I smooth a crease on my slacks. "It was challenging but rewarding. I wrote and edited speeches, managed communications, and ensured the right message reached the public."
Fergie gives me a knowing look, twirling a pen between his fingers. "But, honey," he says, leaning forward a little, "this job, this space…it's a different kind of responsibility. Here, we're dealing with people's desires, their vulnerabilities. I'll be honest with you. It's not the kind of work that requires stiff speeches or political correctness." His eyes twinkle with curiosity as he asks, "So why the change?"
My throat tightens, and I feel the pressure building. I can sense his skepticism, like he's trying to figure out if I'm fit for the job. I swallow, trying to maintain my composure. "I'm open to new experiences," I force myself to sound confident. "I think it would be interesting to work in a more…creative field."
Fergie tilts his head, tapping his chin with a finger. "Mmm, creative, yes. Our writer needs to make people feel comfortable with things they don't usually talk about. And I'm just wondering," he taps my resume again, "if someone like you who's used to writing speeches for government officials is really ready for this kind of work. It's very... different."
He's having second thoughts.
I can see it—the subtle shift in his expression, the glance toward the door. He's about to wrap this up. He's made up his mind. I'm not right for the job.
My heart sinks. Panic sets in, and I know I need to say something—anything—to convince him. I can't lose this chance. He's about to rise from his seat, and before I can think, I reach out and grab the sleeve of his tweed jacket. His eyes widen, and for a brief, terrifying moment, I realize what I've done, but it's too late. The words tumble from my mouth like an avalanche I can't stop.
"I'm a porn addict."
Fergie's eyes go wide, and he freezes mid-gesture in a half-standing half-sitting position. The silence is so thick, I swear I can hear the soft hum of the air conditioning. My heart races, and my brain scrambles to make sense of the words I just said. What. Did. I. Just. Say?
"Hmm?" He manages, eyebrows lifting.
I feel the panic rising, and there's no way to take it back now. So, I double down. "I mean... I'm a porn addict. And I'd love to," I glance around the room, the neatly arranged sex toys stare back at me like they're in on some cruel joke, "write about how wonderful your sex toys are while watching porn." The corners of my mouth hitch up, my poor attempt at smiling. I just pray to God that it looks genuine, instead of me looking like I'm in terrible pain.