I’m not in the horny zone at all today. I’m back to my usual nail biting cynical self…
Enter the customer.
Yesterday, a girl bought some shoes and forgot her jacket. It was quite a nice jacket. Leather, black… a little tight around my shoulders, but I could totally work it if I don’t raise my arms or reach for anything. Of course, she called this morning and promised to pick it up later today. Damn. I have it hanging up behind the till, very obviously different from all the rest of the things in the shop, and hanging low down where no one can see it without leaning over the till, with a huge note pinned to it telling my colleague whose it is.
Enter the customer.
She’s paying for something else…. Oh, how much is that jacket? She prostrates herself on the counter in a way I do not like at all, thrusting her arm in the direction of the jacket.
I tell her, “oh that isn’t for sale. It’s a jacket a customer forgot here yesterday. It’s not from this shop.”
Customer stays in her unorthodox position, eyeing the jacket with suspicion.
“Do you have any more? I didn’t see them hanging up anywhere.”
I clarify. “No, that jacket is not from this shop. We don’t sell leather jackets or any kind of jackets like that. A customer forgot it yesterday when she was trying on shoes.”
Customer blinks, doubting me.
“So where can I get one?”
I tell her I don’t know. I don’t know where you would get a jacket like that.
Customer seems offended. She falls back to the classic and acceptable customer on the other side of the counter stance.
“I just want a jacket like that, don’t you know where I could get one? It doesn’t have to be the same exact jacket.” She sweeps her eyes around the shop. I’m getting pissed off with this cunt. I was in the middle of obsessing over my raunchy email and the implications of it going unanswered.
“I DON’T KNOW. It’s a leather jacket, try a shop that sells leather jackets. Try X street, there are lots of shops there.”
Customer looks excited. “Oh, where on X street?”
“I don’t know. Just saying if you want a leather jacket, try that street because there are a lot of shops with leather stuff in the windows.”
“You don’t remember the name of the shop?”
Oh my fucking atheist heart that pumps blood around my mortal body. She’s mining my patience for knowledge about jackets that I don’t sell and have never seen. She’s about to hit a nerve.I wish I could breathe fire literally. Then I wouldn’t have to put up with this shit. If people knew I breathed fire they would probably be much more respectful of my limits.
I try to lay it down for her.
“I don’t know where to get this jacket. I don’t know where to get a similar jacket. My only suggestion is to look for one in a shop that actually sells jackets. I don’t know which shop. Just pick a street, and look for jackets in the window display.”
She gave me the “you rude bitch, thanks for nothing” one-sided-squeeze-and-release smile and walked out into the street, to deal with the greatest challenge of all, how to stay upright and not walk into the road where cars are going fast. Fucking imbeciles. I just want to go home and admire my slimmer reflection in the mirror and tell myself that of course it won’t be long til the sweet bell of filth rings clearly across the valley of the cowbebs…
I’m so bad at this shit. Random hookups, I mean. I’m too picky when I’m sober, and when I’m in any way drunk it’s a constant wrestle with my mouth to try not let some of the weird out of the bag inadvertently… and even on my best behaviour, somehow the whole mirage of my being a viable sexual receptacle melts away…. revealing the clumsy, unfeminine, uncultured, slothy unhygienic mess beneath. I wouldn’t be attracted to myself if I were another man. I mean, if i were a man, yes. I’d be a hot man… No. Confusion. If I were a man, and I saw a girl like me, the way I am now, as a girl, I would not be one bit attracted to myself. I’d probably be like “that chick is awesome, we should hang out and I can ask her all sorts of dirty things about women and she won’t care or be offended.” Except, in that scenario, me as a man doesn’t know what I know as a woman. In which case, I can’t say what I’d be attracted to. It’s so incomprehensible to me why a man would get to know me and still think a vagina that is attached to me is a vagina worth invading with cock. But then when you don’t know someone well… you can’t know that they are as useless and pathetic as yourself, unless you guess they are because everyone probably is. But then men should be the same, they probably think it makes no sense why women want to fuck them either. I don’t know why I would want a fleshy appendage hard with blood to be inserted into my body. Why would I want that? It doesn’t make any sense. But I do want. I really fucking do. And then I get to know a man and he doesn’t try to disguise the noise on the toilet, and I tell myself I don’t care, why would I care? Why does someone else’s toilet noise and smell bother me? But it does. And then I don’t want to fuck him any more.
I remember one time… this is actually a when I first met husband story. I haven’t worked up to the full story yet. You see how long it takes me to tell you I saw a bee, imagine three years of relationship and actual fucking… I’m too young to have full on carpal tunnel syndrome… don’t want people to think it’s from masturbation….
Anyway. We were in that fuzzy lovely blinded by desire stage of the relationship. We went to a motel. A drive thru motel. I had never seen one… he clearly had seen many. We paid extra for a room with a jaccuzzi. It didn’t work. There were no bubbles. We called reception and were told we could change to another bungalow. We had already had a little bit of sex on the bed but fuck it. We moved to the other bungalow. And that was a mistake. The second bungalow was nicer. The jaccuzzi worked. (It was more of a bath really. We abandoned it pretty quickly.) But the bathroom wall was glass. Not frosted. Just glass.
I had been with this guy for a few months, mostly just fucking. Not much love and kisses. We actually didn’t kiss at first. It was like pretty woman, except i didn’t get paid. And we didn’t use contraception. I was staying with him for a month because he had moved back home and it was an 18 hour bus journey to visit him… so yeah. I stayed in his family’s house. It was awkward. We had just become a bona fide couple, and I was trying to keep the mystery alive. Every night I got up like a ninja when he was asleep, around 2 or 3am, and tiptoed down to the bathroom to take a dump. I’m serious. I was so afraid the magic of our sex life would vanish if he went into that windowless pit after me and discovered I too had a digestive system. So I kept up this pretence. He had no idea. He didn’t notice this freakish behaviour of mine. But that night, we were in the motel, fucking away, and it was the last night we could fuck before I went back home… It was an emotional and important fuck. And the desire… the desire to take a crap started to build. Oh fuck. What could I do? The whole wall of the bathroom was glass. I was going to have to hold it in, or let this man I was in love with see my facial expression as I squeezed one out… Oh god no. So I held it in. And we fucked. And it got more and more uncomfortable. I was gripped by the terror that this internal penis massage would finally prove too much and I would end up with the most embarassing anecdote of all. I couldn’t handle simultaneously trying to be good in bed, acting like I was enjoying the proceedings, and holding back an inevitable bomb…. So I miserably claimed to be “too sore from his big cock” so we stopped… We watched some hilariously dubbed porn on the motel’s channel and I gave him a sad little blow job. And then with an hour left on the clock, we got dressed and left. He was sitting in the car… and I realised. I told him I just needed to run back inside and pee before I left. Hahah! Success! I could quickly release myself from this burden and discomfort and then back in the car and he would be none the wiser. Or at least, he wouldn’t see or smell anything. He might guess… but fuck it.
So I ran back in and dropped my pants… and nothing.
It wasn’t happening. It took me a full 10 minutes before I could go… by the time I got back to the car he had a big grin on his face.
“Have a good shit?”
I went bright red. NO! I was… washing my hands… or something… I muttered.
“I know you just took a shit.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to fuck any more?”
“Did you seriously hold it in while we fucked like three times?”
No. Shut up. Go away.
“Jesus, you did.”
No. Shut up. I covered my face and started to sob.
“What is wrong with you? Why didn’t you just go for a crap and then come back to bed?”
I don’t know. I don’t know. Tears streamed down my face. I had to leave on a plane the next morning. I wasn’t going to see this man for at least a month. We would be thousands of km apart. Thousands.
I cried and wailed at him “I…didn’t want you to know… I poo….”
He laughed at me. “There is something seriously wrong with you. Did you think I didn’t know you shit?”
Anyway, I would like to say to you: I should have just taken the shit and gone back for more awesome goodbye sex.
But that is not the moral of this story. When I saw my man again, we moved in together. We became comfortable. He peed in the sink while I protested that I really didn’t want him peeing that close to my face, and especially not while I was trying to take a crap. But I got used to it all and breathed a relieved sigh that I could be comfortable, so very fucking comfortable, around another human, and what’s more! One that would still want to fuck me at the end of the day.
And there it is. We killed our sex life. I can’t blame it entirely on the fact that he had discovered my anus was a two way street, but let me tell you, it fucking didn’t help. Because, althought it seems retarded for a grown woman to keep the fact that she excretes from a grown man she lives with, I was kind of right. Look how disgusting I find myself! I wouldn’t be interested if I were a man, I told you. And why is that? Because I know all the nasty mundane unspectacular shit about myself. So why would I want to tap that? and again, I’m smacking myself in the face with a fillet of mackerel because that’s what hard to get is about too… and this is why I fail.
So. What must I do? Pretend I don’t shit. Pretend I don’t eat? No. The opposite. Pretend I eat more than I do, because it probably makes me seem really uptight and a control freak that all I eat at the moment is bowls of chickpeas and oranges and bananas and handfulls of muesli. Pretend the food magically turns to glittery pixie dust in my tummy and poofs out of my belly button smelling like vanilla car air fresheners. Pretend I only masturbate in the sexy, voyeur channels on porn sites kind of way. Ooh, I’m wearing lacy underwear and my nails are long and I’m stroking my clitoris with a dildo. (Why always the stroke the clit with a dildo shot? That isn’t pleasurable. That looks stupid. Just stick it in. Fucks sake.) That’s not how ladies masturbate for real. I don’t think… I know I don’t. I do it sadly, dejected, furiously fast and without making a sound. Or else sometimes just as a mechanical action because I’m having trouble sleeping. It’s not sexy.
So. Lie about eating. Lie about shitting. Lie about masturbating. Lie about being crap in bed. Lie about being interested in culture. Lie about wanting to do anything all day other than eat, fuck, play computer games, laugh at comedy, look at myself in the mirror….
Lie about everything.
Do not be yourself.