Mammon of Miscreants III

I stood outside the Adult Emporium's (fictional name to protect the jaded and oblivious) rear entrance. Incidentally Mitch thought this was just the wittiest slice play on words there ever was. Gazing at the pink, steel door I took a deep breath, attempting to attain some composure. If I didn't get a job like this, surely I'd have to blow my brains out or go live in the secluded woods somewhere, evidently not having what it takes to cope within society.

My hands shook, no scratch that trembled beyond reason. Upon my brow, sweat permiated profusely. My mouth grew dry as an arid desert even though my glands were working over time. At least three times I turned around and got back in my car as I was way too early. My nervous neurosis refused to let up. I was anxious about the job naturally. I was frenzied over being in a porno-type environment. I mean what kind of clientele were to shop there anyway? Clearly they'd have to be some sort of raging sex lunatics. What would these lunatics think of me? They'd formulate all these assumptions about the guy behind the counter being the ultimate pervert, sick twisted and fit to be institutionalized. They'd likely egg me on and antagonize me, accuse me of being a perpetual masterbater. I'd probably be ostracized and isolated worse than ever before in my life! Did I really have the cahonas to go through with this.

My first wave of nausea swept over me and if I'd had any breakfast that day it'd be all over the underground parking lot by now. Looking down at my black dress shoes I suddenly felt ridiculously over dressed. How does one present themself in an interview in a porn shop anyway? My dress slacks, matching vest and shirt seemed an obvious choice at home. Now my mind whirled if I had enough time to dash home and change my clothes to a pair of jeans and t-shirt. But then, no that'd be impossible and look way too lax. Jeez I think my mind even considered walking in naked. Wouldn't that make a statement? I was so completely out of my league, my element and my comfort zone.

I hadn't had a relationship in a long time and the last one I did have was one bound, bent and determined on demoralizing every fibre of my self confidence, esteem and perspective. Throughout that time I learned that masturbation for women equaled erotic, sexy and liberating. Emphasis was placed on the revolting element of what it was for a man: pathetic, shameful, dirty and the sort of thing only desperate rapist and pedophiles did.

I started to hyperventilate and wanted to flee, flee so badly that I cared not if I ever worked again. My neurosis shifted to borderline psychosis as I thought I was on verge of a panic attack or cardiac arrest. Suddenly I'd wished that I did spank the chicken or choke the monkey (or whatever they called it now) at home, preparing at least I'd be relaxed rather than going through this personal hell. To this day I still have no idea how it is I pulled myself together. The last thing I recall is closing my eyes, taking ten deep, methodical breaths and wispering aloud, "It's only sex." Once I said it once, it sounded comforting, even almost natural. "It's only sex," I repeated and smiled a little. "It's only sex," I chanted louder one last time and grasped the door handle and pulled it open to step inside.