Sexual Harassment # 3

This one can be given the avant-garde title, Fluorescent Lights.

It’s hard being sassy. I don’t know why I choose it every time. I’m probably a glutton for punishment. It was mild sexual harassment that somehow morphed me, the victim, into the perpetrator and got me fired from Barnes & Noble. (Note: The last S isn’t there)

This guy shows up to my counter with a playboy and some black & white NY historical photo book and at the time of paying, he decides to make it rain. 

He put his hand up and just sent bill by bill into the air and watched them fall. 

Or maybe I watched them fall.. It was only a few bills but as they scattered on the counter I’m thinking .. 

Dude, I don’t know what you do with your free time or what about dollars makes you go into a rain frenzy, but look around bud, there’s fluorescent lights on in here. You are not where you think you are, also who the fuck buys titty-mags from Barnes and Noble?

You see me – I’m in a company polo AND I’m wearing a name tag! 

WE SELL BOOKS HERE

Did you really think ‘making it rain’ would just go unnoticed? 

Maybe he thought I wouldn’t know what he was doing? I mean I don’t imagine he’s making it rain for Jose when he buys his bacon egg and cheese at the corner store.

I didn’t pick them up. Nothing against strippers.

In the terribly uncomfortable seconds of silence, I smiled. My bad. I was thinking of Jose’s reaction when this guy says, “Let me get that BLT. wink-wink” Or at his local bar when he orders a $2 bud light and he’s got his hands up dropping one bill at a time.

Fuck that. This guy is a prick.

I laugh but this is personal, and I’m no child. Worse if I was. I pick up the bills and ask, 

“Do you always pay for things like that?”

“Like what?”  

Like what? The fuck you mean, like what? Are you not aware of what’s going on. But instead, I say, “Like you’re paying a stripper?” 

He was shocked. Him!  – The audacity I had? Right?

Please..You should have seen his open mouth shocked-white-guy, ‘No-one-talks-to-me-like-that’ face. He walks straight to customer service and finds my manager. 

I can see his arms flailing as they talk. He’s totally irate – the manager comes over.. I’m watching them walk towards me, counting out wrong change and shit. I’m sweating. He succeeded in making me uncomfortable. A little later than he hoped for, but succeeded nevertheless. Finally, my manager comes talking into her walkie-talkie. 

A walkie-talkie. Again, we sell books. This is not a nightclub. People are pretty much reading, as that is what they they came here to do. There’s not a whole fucking lot of noise pollution that any one person needs a walkie talkie. 

So, Barnes and Noble’s finest asks me to come off the register and talk to her in the back. I walk past him as he’s waiting to see that the resolution of this ordeal is to his liking. Steam is coming off of his skin and he’s got death eyes pointed my way. 

Immediately I enter one of the stranger conversations of my life.

Did you tell him that he threw money on the counter like he was paying a stripper? 

No, I asked him if he always throws his money like that?

What is ‘like that?’

Like one would throw money if they were in a strip club.

You can’t say that to a customer? 

I gave her common sense. 

He asked me to say it. No one makes it rain by accident. 

It’s not like he’s new at paying for things, or some foreigner who doesn’t know how we do things in this country. 

This is not a misunderstanding. He’s a total pervert. 

She sat back into her seat. Closed her eyes and sort of melted into her chair a bit and then stood up abruptly to say,

“He can pay you anyway he wants to. What you can’t do is accuse a customer of paying strippers?

 

“I didn’t accuse him of paying strippers.”

 

Without further delay, she used a formality to fire me.

 

“You can’t use the word stripper. I am going to have to ask you leave. 

And out the door I went. #georgethorogood

 

 

Sexual Harassment #1

I’m part of the look-better-naked group. Does anyone know about this life? I promise it’s just as real as any one of your other categorical bullshit.


I’m 5’2 and it always looks like I’m wearing children’s clothing and I am. 

The perfect size leggings for these so-called legs is boys medium. 

I’ve been the same size since 5th grade. 

12 years old fully-grown. 

Do you know how sarcastic that makes a person?

 “Lucky is more like it” People want to say, rolling their eyes or worse yell at me… but that got me thinking just how un-lucky we can all be when it comes to size. 

Originally, I started dating to have more random sex. Results were less than positive. But I gave it a valiant effort. I said goodbye to the serial monogamist in me and joined the masses in spreading disease.

Psychosis, syphilis it’s all the same really.

It’s not working, the whole plan is making me rethink the word Lucky, again. 

7 Micro-Dicks later…I mean for a while there I would wince just when a man was about to get undressed. What’s it gonna be? What’s it gonna be? Please be a real boy. 

It is such a shame too. These are very nice men. I mean incredibly nice BUT that’s when you know.

If a guy is over the top nice, he’s probably got one of those head-only penises. He’s reaching because he can’t reach. 

Oh stop it. Dicks are not built equal. I’ve already had sexual harassment claims twice in this life, both claims against women.

You guys want to hear my sexual harassment stories? 

Can you please rate this story? How happy are you with this story? Would you recommend this story to a friend? You haven’t heard the entire story? Want to unlock this story? Just log in or sign up? Sorry that login attempt in incorrect. Did you forget your password? That is what my hell would be. That and videos of people applying make-up. Seriously why is that a thing?

Story begins now.

As a PT, I was in the middle of stretching someone. He was tall, like over six feet. He had mocha skin with green eyes – a beaut for sure… and a fan of playing sports that tall people excel at, which is what I like to call LIFE

Being short is a major fucking handicap BUT there’s no box for short on any of my government forms….Some people get into a relationship for sex, love, babies, etc. Me…. I just need access to the top of the cabinet. I don’t need a step stool, Steve is my step stool. 

So, my entire 5 ft what? 5 ft strong body is positioned over his stretching his piriformis. It was my job. I’m a personal trainer. We weren’t buddies and we weren’t getting weird. When the stretch was over I walked to the bathroom to wash my hands.. Normal fucking procedures. On the way, I pass my manager. 

A tall German who really had a thing for that guy. She had just gotten back from Germany. I asked how the trip was and she cuts me off and asks if she can talk to me for a moment.
“Ok. Yea.”  We walk into a closet like office. 

She then says, “I saw you stretching Chris.”
“Yea,” my face holds back a duh.  

“I saw you look at his genitalia.”

Um WTF. Ok. How did she say that with a straight face? Right she’s German.

“What did you just say to me?” I asked her.
She repeated it! Saying the unthinkable without laughter, twice. 

I mean could you imagine being so jealous that someone else is getting near the genitalia that you want, that you accuse them of looking at it and out loud…

People: He was wearing basketball shorts people over compression leggings. I mean fucking sick, bro. Sick. That was the first time I called HR. They made her apologize and a strong recommendation that she purchase a dildo. 

And your name is Lisa

About a year ago, I was searching for a job on Indeed.com

I had my resume posted so that recruiters could contact me. Normal shit. Then, this guy Steve emails me about a job, addressing me at the top of the email as Lisa.

Dear Lisa, we would like to interest you in blah blah blah…

Who the fuck is Lisa? Lisa don’t live here no more.

The job was still relevant so he wasn’t a total loser. I emailed back questions. The only thing I got back was,

“Oh I got the names mixed up.” Nothing else.

Nothing about the job. Not one answer to any of my questions. My name is in my email address. It’s the first word. Impossible to miss. Asshole. I want to know how he got hired and how much he gets paid –  from an office where apparently Metallica’s, Nothing Else Matters plays on repeat:

Guitar intro {sing the words in melody to Nothing Else Matters, please}

So close, no matter how far

couldn’t be bothered when you start

forever trusting who you are

And, your name is Lisa…

Metallica owns all rights to their music and any reference to it, directly and indirectly.

4/5/6 – Green line, any time of day.

Call me mean but why doesn’t everyone love brushing their teeth?

Like what ideas do you have to have about teeth that you think they don’t deserve to be brushed? You think you can just live and not brush your teeth? No. That’s fucking gross.

If you’re an adult and I have to tell you to blow your nose.                  Don’t make me tell you to blow your nose. Why would you do this?          It is mortifying for both of us. Fuck.

I’ll usually just hand off a box of tissues, but sometimes they say no. They shake me off, like they’re ok. You are not ok. You are dead behind the eyes and need me to tell you to do this very simple thing. I’ll do it. I will be the one to show you the way, and when I do.

You do not make me say it twice. Also, you’re doing life wrong. All of it, all wrong.

How do I live my best life – insulting everyone around me. The homeless, the depraved, the talented, the filthy. The guy holding his calculator staring at it like it’s his phone. Fucking casio, people. That’s real life screen addition. I know I’m a total asshole, but I took eight photos of this guy. Holding his calculator. I imagined him writing boobless because that seemed harmless at first, but no it didn’t end there. He kept checking it every ten seconds… and I improvised his internal dialogue:

“What’d she say?” “What’d she say?”

Even staring at it for some time. “Fuck..She blocked me.”

Look, I’m not proud. But it’s because I am at this lower than low. I can be honest with you, right? It doesn’t get much worse than this so I feel I have a responsibility to be honest with you – a guiding glow if you will, the light at the end of the tunnel you don’t have to go down.

Just when you’re ready to be the worst person you can think of, I show up and say in a soft whisper, “Are you sure?”

“Are you sure you want to hit this old man in the train because he hit your backpack?”

“No. Good. Shut the fuck up. Sit down like the rest of us. No one actually wants to be on the train, so get the fuck over yourself.”

 

Being Petty

I wish there was a superhero made from recyclable material that could clean up all these petty little shits I can’t seem to take out from my act. Some name like Plastic Bag Man 5.

We’re working the Saga Backwards, eventually we’ll go all the way back to when he was Paper Bag Man, but now as Paper is limited and not truly sustainable he’s just made from recycled poop bags of all different colors. This will help as the shit is collecting onto itself like clay. And across his chest is some mishmash of fairway or Shoprite from bags that found their way in the mix – perhaps a social project that pulled them out of trees.

Some people say that a gemini moon makes for a petty person. Yea. I have one of those. But, don’t blame it on the moon. I take full responsibility and now I will begin my unravelling:

(This was written some time ago- I don’t live in US anymore so of course I am insured)

So, I don’t have insurance anymore.

That’s why I’m here. Not a joke. I’ll take whatever you got really…anything.

You got it. I’ll take it. I don’t have a syllabus but I have a lesson, that I can’t seem to learn. So I brought it here for you. We all have one. Don’t act like you’ve got it all figured out.


“I’m vegan”


“My beer is only 40 calories”


“I started this cleanse.”


 

Don’t even bother clapping. My problems do not need encouragement.

So this lesson, it has to do with my mouth. I know that much. What goes in and what comes out? Other people’s feelings are definitely included in this lesson.

But it’s other people’s feelings about my feelings. It’s kind of where the two meet. The overlap of a Venn diagram. In the end, I always end it – with, “I don’t give a fuck,” but that’s reductive. It’s also misunderstood.

It DOES NOT mean, I don’t give a fuck about you. See that’s your problem. Projectionist. Gas-lighter. I need to clarify: Not giving a fuck is very different from not giving a shit. 

People who don’t give a shit have no sense of themselves. They’ve no courtesy, kindness, respect, nothing. They just don’t give a shit.


They are: People who don’t look at the paper when they’re done wiping their ass. Game over people.


On the other hand, Not-Giving-a-Fuck peeps are living their best life.


 

Not giving a shit is that troll standing in the doorway of the woman’s bathroom looking in, like there’s anything in there for him. Or, that bitch standing at the entrance of the train car with her back facing the platform. You have to get on, but you can’t even look at her to tell her to back up. She hasn’t moved to the side or turned her body. She’s ruining everything – everyday – an doing it behind her own back. That     – ALL OF THAT –               is, “I don’t give a shyyyyyttt”

The Don’t-Give-A-Fuck, Live-My-Best-Life-People pushes that bitch, hard. They don’t give a fuck about how stupid you are or I am, and it’s all of us, we’re all fucking dumb. Nope, nope, nope. They don’t give a fuck. Leading by example is their only option. In that moment, they push humans forward. They’re sufferers. Suffering for our sins.

Jesus-like – but without the grace. But when you’re a champion of humanity you don’t need grace. The situation does not call for grace. And I gotta big problem people.

Apparently, I’m that guy.

Not only is it exhausting but it turns out, no one likes me.

I gotta be fucking moron to continue. And I do.

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