“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

IT was odd. I had been renting an usual amount of porn, for no reason other than boredom. The sex clerk confronted me on a Tuesday afternoon. He said I left an empty bottle two weeks ago in his store. He went behind his desk and retrieved the bottle and handed it to me. He then proceeded to lecture. He asked stupid questions like, is this your bottle. It was two weeks ago but I did have a bad habit of predictability. I always mixed my "to go" drinks in a Gatorade bottle. I figured nobody would every question exercise.

I immediately thought and then accidently said out loud, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” It seemed weird that he was collecting evidence of my bad habits. I didn’t like the feeling.

I took the bottle from the rude clerk and threw it in the trash. He then grabbed my new Gatorade bottle and wanted to know what was in it. I told him it was none of his fucking business. Yet, I suddenly felt somewhat offended. I mean, why did he keep that bottle for two weeks? I became pissed off like a drunk girl who passed out a frat party and then discovered she was raped the next morning when she sat on the toilet and shitted cum. Getting fucked in the ass is one thing, but not being able to enjoy it is another.

“Are you stalking me?” I had to ask because there could be no other explanation. I had made the mistake of trying to be friendly with him once. I told him I wanted to take him to the Wendy Williams show. I was lying. I was just drunk that day. Maybe that’s where I went wrong. But that was no excuse for him to keep the bottle. And then he tried to lecture me and I wasn’t going to have it.

I wasn’t going to get a lecture from a clerk at a sex shop that overpriced their porn. We started to argue. I really wanted to know why he kept the bottle. He explained the store had a strict no alcohol rule. I explained it was a closed container. I mean, had the sex shop turned into the airport. Was I to be stripped searched every time I wanted to rent “big black guys and small blond midgets.” I wanted my membership money back. He quickly noticed I wasn’t pleased and ran to his phone to call his manager. I mean, the membership fee was only ten dollars but I wanted it back. I felt harassed. It wasn’t like I was a fall down drunk or something that didn’t happen until four in the morning. My neighbors should have voiced more complaints. On the phone with his manager, he explained that a couple of weeks ago I left a bottle that smelled like liquor was it. He then said he wasn’t for sure cuz he didn’t drink. I guess he scored one for the forty-year-old drop out. He said he called in a friend and had him smell it. I was disturbed. It seemed like a lot of work, like sex shop CSI. I wondered what type of investigating they did in those backrooms. I wondered if unsuspected government workers got cornered for leaving cum stains on the benches? I felt as if I pissed in their bathroom did they keep samples to confront me the next time cuz I missed the toilet. It was insane. It was a sex shop that sold porn where old women took it up the ass from donkeys.

Where was the line?

As I stood there waiting for my money, I heard him say to his manager that I might be “psychotic and unemployed.” The bitch had just called me homeless. I was a little psychotic but unemployed could be argued. I did have a part time job with a temp agency just to make ends meet, but I wasn’t homeless. It was like a midget screaming in a large crowd you have a small dick.

I was dumbfounded. A clerk in a very seedy sex shop had decided he was better than me. I didn’t get my money back. I kept the overdue porn I was to return and canceled my credit card linked to that store. I had to find a new hobby.