When I tell people I spent a chunk of my early 20s working at a hipster clothing retailer infamous for salacious ads and sexual assault allegations, I’m usually met with scandalised interest. I imagine what they imagine: a harshly lit harem of flesh and vice, where young women were offered up on an altar of mid-priced T-shirts.
We had our moments. An occasional visiting corporate lackey would inevitably grind up against one of us while checking a window display. A weekly caller would gasp and choke while asking if we sold women’s underwear. A co-worker inquired whether I’d be interested in going on dates with rich, interesting men for money. It was impossible to ignore the reputation of our store. But it was the 2010s, a strangely liminal time of sexual and social awakening. When we could roll our eyes at the problematic gender politics of our advertisements while never considering wearing a bra to work.
