Walking down the bean aisle I relished the stockgirl's impossible pose. Phenomenal, yes, the ease by which a woman could sit on a floor. I know all my girlfriends had preferred the floor over the easiest of chairs. They'd fold laundry on the floor, do homework on the floor. Why, I even had one old enough to do taxes on the floor.
Of course, this was a lesbian.
A good way to convince the straight guy eye that those long legs--angling off this way and that--are nothing short of a lesbian's, is to fix the straight male eye on some manly get-up.
Walking down the bean aisle, I fixed an eye on the stockgirl's logger boots running up her legs like industrial-strength prophylactics. Of course there was that shoe lace that had come untied. No, that lace, lying all loose on the linoleum like that, sure put the fire in the straight guy eye.
Of course, this was lace of lesbian.
A good way to put out a fire is to fix an eye on some cool blue.
Walking down the bean aisle, I fixed an eye on the lesbian's cool blue jeans. Something, the way she'd cuffed 'em up to clear her logger boots like that. No, nothing like the wide cuff to snuff out a fire in a guy. Of course, that narrow ribbon of olive flesh just below said cuff sure brought the cordon bleu out in a guy. No, guys, you don't know the meaning of epicurean till you've taste-tested the curve where a girl's Achilles transitions into calf. Why? Because the oil of olive is always virgin there.
Of course, this was leg of lesbian.
A good way to curb ones animal is to get pissed off at what excites said animal--excites to no purpose, no less. Damned lesbians; a bunch of male haters was what they were. Oh, no, I'd had no shortage of run-ins with the hoards of lesbians up at the art school. Actually, it wasn't the male-hater in 'em that pissed me off--it was the sexual discrimination. Truth was, I was a rabid male hater myself, but because I was male, they wouldn't let me in their club.
Nearing the end of the bean aisle (the longest bean aisle in all of literature), I rehearsed, under my breath, the line I'd prepared for the stockgirl. "I was wondering if I could use you in a short story of mine?" Pulling up, I raised a hand to get the stockgirl's attention. My raised hand didn't get her attention, but it got mine--there, in my hand, was an orange work glove.
This was happening to me a lot of late; getting out of my truck in public, grabbing my work gloves to no purpose.
Then again, it was unlike me to have grabbed just the one glove. I looked back to see if another lay in the bean aisle. I saw no glove, but I did see a woman adjusting a fashion accessory.
I looked down on the stockgirl spread-eagle on the floor, so caught up in her bean-count she had yet to take notice of me. Just as well; there was a fashion accessory of my own that needed adjusting. Reaching out, I tried stuffing my orange glove in between bean cans. But, damn, the cans were stacked so tight I couldn't wedge it in. So I reached for a higher shelf, stuffed the glove between bean bags.
"Excuse me," I said, placing a knee on the floor beside the lesbian. "Can I have a word with you?"
Without looking at me the lesbian said, "Sure." Having circled a number on her pad, she gave me a double-take. The first take was cold, as if gearing up to jerk around yet another womanizer. The second take was warm, as if she mistook me for someone she knew.
This second look was so warm, so un-lesbian-like, I messed up the line I'd rehearsed. All I got out before I got tongue-tied was, "I was wondering if I could use you--"
Before I could explain myself, the lesbian said, "Man, what locker-room did you learn your pick-up lines in?"
Though I shrugged the one shoulder, I moved the other towards her. I sensed she was out to screw with me, and I had always liked women who were out to screw with me, lesbian, or no.
"No, really," the lesbian said, "in all my years of getting hit on, I've never heard a pick-up line so clean, so direct, so cut-the-bullshit. I mean, men using women; that's the program, right? No, really, I'm so impressed by your honesty, I give in. You may use me."
"Ya, right, " I said, giggling, her theatrics inspiring the writer-in-me to take a shot at writing on his feet--I mean, knee. "Look, what I meant to say was, can I steal from you?"
The lesbian dropped her pencil, rocked over on a hip, pulled a wallet out of her bluejeans. "Please," she said, shoving the wallet in my face. "No, really, it's always been a fantasy of mine--getting mugged on the job."
I didn't take the wallet. Nor did I say anything; I didn't want to mess up her Emmy performance.
"No, really," she said, tapping my chin with her wallet, "this mugging's even better than I'd fantasized--you down on your knee and all."
I laughed. Boy, could this lesbian ever write on her feet--I mean, ass.
It was then that the stockgirl's eye lit on the glove reaching out between bean bags. She dropped her wallet, picked up her pencil.
"Never fails," she said, throwing the pencil in the air and catching it, "a girl just gets her beans counted when some guy comes along, shoves his dirty glove in her chick peas."
****
No comments:
Post a Comment