Editor’s Note: Mason Johnson is a new guy we’re planning on keeping around here for various “on-the-level” purposes (or so we’ve led him to believe). To better get to know this charming individual read, yes, the following. Or visit him at Piss Fanatics (where he is fanatical about a great many things, many of which depart greatly from micturition in all its forms). Think of him as our assistant to the editor’s assistant. THANK YOU!
I think it’s important that you understand why I rebuffed your advances all those years ago. First and foremost: I was fairly certain you either possessed, or had previously possessed, a penis. This is not a problem. I myself have a penis and am immensely, and literally, attached to it. I am not, however, sexually attracted to male genitalia.
Yes, okay, I was working at Claire’s Boutique when you met me. I can see how that would be misleading, straight men don’t tend to work in cheap, jewelry stores covered in pink earrings and purple toe rings. I was an exception.
“But, Mason!” people often ask, “Why would you get a job at a jewelry store that caters to preteens and their grandmothers?”
I can honestly say it wasn’t to pick up grandmothers or preteens. The thing is, Lorraine, I couldn’t get a job anywhere else. Had the comic shop or the video game store seen fit to hire me, I would not have ended up at Claire’s.
I have something to confess, Lorraine: the first time I saw you I ogled. I was sitting on the carpeted ground organizing earrings when I looked up and there you were, facing away from me, your ass a few feet away. Lorraine, penis or not, you have a nice ass.
Later I rang you out. Separated by the white counter and register I couldn’t help but admire your Filipina complexion and your amazing, long, black hair. Lorraine, I’m a guy who can appreciate nice hair.
And then, looking at your smiling face, I noticed a type of hair I didn’t appreciate: stubble. It covered your chin and lead down to your Adams apple. And even though you had superb breasts, it became suddenly difficult for my teenage mind to imagine sticking my d in your v since it occurred to me that you might not have a v at all. I like the v, Lorraine. So sue me.
“You’re cute,” you said with a smile, handing me your credit card.
“Gee, thanks!” I said, like Superman’s best pal Jimmy Olsen.
Stubble or not, I was flattered.
You came back the next week. While ringing you up for a second time you asked me out, “Go clubbing with me tonight.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head.
“No, you should!”
“It’s Friday night,” I explained, “I play Dungeons and Dragons on Friday night.”
You looked surprised, as if, between the lankiness, the nerdiness, the awkwardness, my pale skin, the shaggy brown hair in front of my thick glasses, you couldn’t believe that I played D&D.
“Just skip!” You said. An offensive suggestion.
“I am the cleric,” I declared. “The life bringer, the main healer. If I skip and Adumar the Wizard gets an arrow through the chest, who’s going to cast Cure Moderate Wounds so he doesn’t die? Mian the Barbarian? Doubtful!”
You changed the subject and asked for my phone number, I gave you my brother’s. You wrote it down on your receipt with one of the giant, blue novelty pens we sold for a dollar; a foot long, an inch thick, they were gigantic. You held it up to your face with a smirk.
“You have a big pen,” you said.
Though the euphemism was not lost on me, I replied, “It’s the stores’.”
Besides, anyone who thinks my penis is anything but average would be sorely mistaken. I could not imply otherwise. I’m too honest.
On your third visit you watched me pierce the ears of a baby. I did this a lot. Piercing babies. You see, I was fairly useless at my job, and the girls I worked with, they really didn’t care. Well, they didn’t care as long as I pierced every baby that came in. They didn’t like to do it. Babies cry, babies wriggle, babies are a pain in the ass. For whatever reason, I didn’t mind tears as much as everyone else there. So I was the baby piercer. That day you came and watched me pierce a baby, Lorraine, that was sorta creepy. You standing there, smiling, staring as the mother sat in a chair, holding her six-month-old in a head lock. You kept smiling as I took out the piercing gun, a square, white thing, and pierced one ear, screaming at the mother, “turn her head! Turn her head!” so I could then pierce the other ear. You even smiled as the child’s wails echoed throughout the store.
You asked me out again that day. Again, I said no. My duties to my D&D group outweighed clubbing with a gender elusive Filipina. (Is gender elusive a politically correct term? I’m not sure…)
The last time we locked eyes you were walking past the store… escorted by two cops… in hand cuffs… crying. Apparently you had been caught shoplifting from Bath and Body Works. Looking at you, your hands shackled behind your back, sobbing, my heart sank a little. There was my chance at something different, something I didn’t know, passing me by. Maybe, just maybe, that was love in those hand cuffs. Maybe, just maybe, I should have jumped the counter, kicked one cop in the face, karate chopped the other in the neck, and ran to freedom with you, Lorraine.
Then, as if you could read my mind, you looked straight at me. This, uh… this is where things got really weird, Lorraine. Do you remember this?
Still crying, staring straight at me, you yelled, “Sales associate! Sales associate!”
Apparently you couldn’t remember my name. You did remember the words on the little, pink badge I wore though, so that’s good.
“Sales associate!” You screamed. “I love you! Sales associate, I love you.”
You repeated this over and over, not stopping, even as the cops started to drag you away. And what did I do? I sunk, Lorraine. Literally, not figuratively or some shit like that. I ducked low behind the counter, hiding from you. I stayed hidden long after the sound of your wails had ceased — just in case.
We never saw each other again.
What I want to say, Lorraine… the reason I’m writing this letter, well… I mean. I’m sorry. I’m sorry things didn’t work out. I’m sorry I hid from you. And, I’m sorry I never saw you again. I hope you can accept my apology.
Do you or do you not still have a penis? If not, you should totally hit me up.