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When I lived with my old roommate in Houston, I worked at a local comic book store. Said store was in a hideous blue building with fading paint and no windows, causing half the passersby to believe it an abandoned building and the other half to believe it a porn store. Only longtime patrons seemed to know of the store's existence. Not all the patrons embodied nerdy comic-reading stereotypes, but many did. Those were the ones I could handle. I rather liked them, apart from their tendency to smell. Their awkwardness was endearing. I could relate to their shyness and ineptitude. I figured I could be a girl they could talk to. Indeed, I didn't at all mind talking to the better-looking ones. Then there were guys like Comic Book Store Guy (CBSG). Like many comic book stores, mine carried books to teach people how to draw. We also carried a behind-the-counter section of books geared toward more "adult" art. Hardly anybody ever requested to see those, not that I promoted their existence. CBSG, however, seemed to intuit their exisence. I was working on stocking shelves one afternoon when CBSG approached me. CBSG was short and as big around as he was tall, with several missing teeth (which he probably lost to terrible hygiene, if his throat-closing breath were any indicator), and he of course had appalling body odor. I didn't want to ask if I could help him find anything, but it was in the job description. Seemingly free from embarrassment, he requested to see the dreaded "adult" how-to-draw books. I inwardly rolled my eyes and directed him to the counter behind which the books lay. He took his time examining them, one by one, making inappropriate conversation with me all the while. To my annoyance, he also attempted to stare down my tank top. Luckily, the store's climate varied throughout the day, and I had a shawl tied around my waist, which I unlooped and wrapped around my shoulders to block his view. Predictably, CBSG wasted no time in asking for my number. "No." I could not have been more plain. Naturally, he didn't take the hint. He continued to hit on me, calling me beautiful (yawn), etc. He asked me if there were "any chance." "No." He turned to leave, and I returned to shelf stocking with considerable relief. Then I saw him talking to my manager behind the register. I worried that he had found something to complain about, but I needn't have worried. Not about that, anyway. Just when I thought CBSG was leaving, he reappeared behind me. I smelled rather than saw or heard him. I cringed as I turned and saw him. He asked for my number once again, which I again refused. Instead, he wrote his number down and gave it to me. I resisted the temptation to crumple it and toss it the floor. Instead, I stuffed it into my back pocket. CBSG left at that point, to my relief. My manager shared my horror and told me that CBSG had asked him if we carried a "stress relief" item called a Squeezie Tit. I'd never heard of such a thing and asked my manager if CBSG were even aware that this was a comic book store, not a porn store. My manager shrugged and said that, based on the shape of CBSG, he doubted if CBSG could even reach his own dick. Ew. Probably right, but ew. At home, I gave CBSG's number to my other roommate, who prank called CBSG and offered to sell him a bunch of Squeezie Tits cheaply. Obviously, the lesson we should all take from this is Don't force your attentions on a girl who's not interested. At the very least, shower and brush your teeth beforehand. |