simply stood there quietly buckled in for a wild ride.
We walked toward the back of the building, and there was a nude dancer in a room surrounded by glass. She introduced herself as Misty. Miss Misty weighed about ninety pounds and had fried bleached-blond hair. She had breast implants that looked like triple-f balloons. Her boobs looked like skin colored inflatables on her chest that were about to pop. Misty was the poster stripper for what not to ask for at your local plastic surgeon’s office. We had to pay with coins to have her dance for us. I don't think that those women ever had a chance of graduating to the velour couches of the champagne room. Trent had to keep putting quarters in the slot to keep the shield from coming up and blocking our view. It was chilling. It may sound naïve, but I never thought anything like that antiquated contraption actually existed in real life.
The scene we were in felt like a macabre movie and the killer with the chain saw was going jump out at us any minute. Then my parents would find out I was in that devious place. I could just see the newspaper headlines scrolling across my mind: “The totally inappropriate vacationers were murdered in our local sin store!” I did not want to be alive in there—much less dead! Yuck, the whole outing was too much for one woman to take during an evening, or even a lifetime—for that matter.
The topless dancer seemed helpless, as her legs slowly dragged across the dusty floor. Part of me wanted to bang on the glass and yell at her to get out of there. I wanted to dump out my purse and give her the bus money she needed to go back to Montana. My maternal side was kicking in overdrive. She was someone’s daughter, and I am sure somebody, someplace loved her, kept flooding downstream in my horrified mind. The dark store had such a heavy air of despair.
The walls had a story to tell and I could sense the heaviness of the drywall wanting so badly to spill its veiled secrets. As soon as my big toe entered the building, I realized I was in a place that I shouldn't be. I can only imagine the darkness that falls on that establishment on as soon as the sun fades into the horizon. I felt dirty for being in there for the short time spent inside those doors. I wanted to jump into a bottle of hand sanitizer and scrub all of the shame off of me! I had to consider what could have happened to the women working in the sex shop. How could a desolate place like that become a destination for them? I am sure those women working in there were thinking the identical thing of me as well, "Why was that nice woman in here with that perverted guy?” The view is always different depending on what side of the window you are peeking out of.
9). Jimmy
I realize that my saucy side attracted the wrong types—like flies to a key lime pie sitting in the middle of a picnic table. I was born crushing on the wrong type of guys. In the first grade, I had my very first crush. Jimmy was his name, and he was a wild boy with frizziest blond hair. Jimmy was the first bad boy I had ever laid eyes on. He raked his metal lunch box across the chain link fences all the way to school—so badass to me back in the day. I would follow behind him, hoping that he would notice me. He never did. That only made me want him more. Even back then I had a thing for the hard-to-get, rotten ones!
All I really ever wanted was a man with a pinch of a naughty side and a heaping helping of overflowing goodness. I wished for an edgy guy who was a “salt of the earth” type. I would uncover “over the span of a few decades” that the man I wished for was an extinct mythical creature that only lived in my imagination—either that or he’s already married.
Trent turned up the heat early on in our relationship and what I failed to do was beware and tread lightly. Of course, that’s not programmed in my genetic code. So, I rapidly leaped forward. Trent experienced situations outside of what is
We walked toward the back of the building, and there was a nude dancer in a room surrounded by glass. She introduced herself as Misty. Miss Misty weighed about ninety pounds and had fried bleached-blond hair. She had breast implants that looked like triple-f balloons. Her boobs looked like skin colored inflatables on her chest that were about to pop. Misty was the poster stripper for what not to ask for at your local plastic surgeon’s office. We had to pay with coins to have her dance for us. I don't think that those women ever had a chance of graduating to the velour couches of the champagne room. Trent had to keep putting quarters in the slot to keep the shield from coming up and blocking our view. It was chilling. It may sound naïve, but I never thought anything like that antiquated contraption actually existed in real life.
The scene we were in felt like a macabre movie and the killer with the chain saw was going jump out at us any minute. Then my parents would find out I was in that devious place. I could just see the newspaper headlines scrolling across my mind: “The totally inappropriate vacationers were murdered in our local sin store!” I did not want to be alive in there—much less dead! Yuck, the whole outing was too much for one woman to take during an evening, or even a lifetime—for that matter.
The topless dancer seemed helpless, as her legs slowly dragged across the dusty floor. Part of me wanted to bang on the glass and yell at her to get out of there. I wanted to dump out my purse and give her the bus money she needed to go back to Montana. My maternal side was kicking in overdrive. She was someone’s daughter, and I am sure somebody, someplace loved her, kept flooding downstream in my horrified mind. The dark store had such a heavy air of despair.
The walls had a story to tell and I could sense the heaviness of the drywall wanting so badly to spill its veiled secrets. As soon as my big toe entered the building, I realized I was in a place that I shouldn't be. I can only imagine the darkness that falls on that establishment on as soon as the sun fades into the horizon. I felt dirty for being in there for the short time spent inside those doors. I wanted to jump into a bottle of hand sanitizer and scrub all of the shame off of me! I had to consider what could have happened to the women working in the sex shop. How could a desolate place like that become a destination for them? I am sure those women working in there were thinking the identical thing of me as well, "Why was that nice woman in here with that perverted guy?” The view is always different depending on what side of the window you are peeking out of.
9). Jimmy
I realize that my saucy side attracted the wrong types—like flies to a key lime pie sitting in the middle of a picnic table. I was born crushing on the wrong type of guys. In the first grade, I had my very first crush. Jimmy was his name, and he was a wild boy with frizziest blond hair. Jimmy was the first bad boy I had ever laid eyes on. He raked his metal lunch box across the chain link fences all the way to school—so badass to me back in the day. I would follow behind him, hoping that he would notice me. He never did. That only made me want him more. Even back then I had a thing for the hard-to-get, rotten ones!
All I really ever wanted was a man with a pinch of a naughty side and a heaping helping of overflowing goodness. I wished for an edgy guy who was a “salt of the earth” type. I would uncover “over the span of a few decades” that the man I wished for was an extinct mythical creature that only lived in my imagination—either that or he’s already married.
Trent turned up the heat early on in our relationship and what I failed to do was beware and tread lightly. Of course, that’s not programmed in my genetic code. So, I rapidly leaped forward. Trent experienced situations outside of what is
Similar Books
