I never much chased sex: it just kinda happened, and mostly often enough so it wasn’t an issue. A fox came by and I got on…well, you know the rest: a few minutes of squelchy noises, some prayers, and a bedroom that needs airing out. There are guys I know that have that need, sexual collectors with engines idling at 8,000, weirdos who can’t be left alone in the leather goods shop because they rub their goods on the leather.
Not me: I could always just head home, eat some pills, do a crossword, pretend I had a dog. I was self-contained.
Perhaps this has been a mistake, for I find myself turning to my boner for counsel. Like a dowsing rod, I shall follow my boner. (Also like a dowsing rod, my boner’s performance cannot be replicated in any sort of rigorous testing.)
In the supermarket, Sheryl Crow was covering Hall & Oates. (It might also have been Feist: it was a white woman singing through her nose.) The next youngest person in the store was the Jamaican attendant of an astonishingly old Jewish lady. She wasn’t even a good attendant, wandering off from her old lady on two separate occasions that I witnessed. Also, she kept throwing shit into the cart like a five-year-old. Then, in the frozen foods section, the Jamaican attendant and her little old Jewish lady came upon two other shoppers who also happened to be a Jamaican attendant and her tiny old Jewish lady and it turned into (very slow and deliberate) snake orgy thing. Pantsuits flew off and there were white and black limbs extruding from the scrum in the middle, cries in thickly-accented Jamaican of “You can DO it, Miz Sheila.”
The manager said nothing, put out one of those yellow signs with the “slippery floor” hieroglyph on it, went back to restocking the plums.
I live in Unfuckable City and must leave this place.