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"The way they stare, undressing me with their eyes. It makes me
feel so dirty," I said as my wife held me close. "Women can be
such pigs!"
"I know, baby. I know," she whispered, trying to calm my
wounded pride. "But when a man is as sexy as you … " I felt
her hand caressing my rear end.
"Not now," I said, pulling away. "Can't you just hold
me?"
I heard her sigh. "I'll try. It's just that when I feel your chest
pressed against my breasts, I can't help myself."
"I know. I know." Afraid I had hurt her feelings, I kissed her
cheek. "But I'm trying to tell you what just happened to me."
I had just gone to the supermarket to pick up a few things for dinner. I
know Vickie likes fresh broccoli and spinach with fish. I found a new
poached salmon recipe and I was eager to please her. Since I guessed
she'd be home after golfing with her friends when I returned from the
store, I changed into a pair of tan slacks that were her favorite.
Something about the way these pants were cut made my waist seem slimmer
and my butt shapelier. Tucking in my new black polo shirt that was just
tight enough in the sleeve to suggest a little biceps cleavage, I checked
my reflection in the mirror. I patted my tummy, musing that the hours at
the gym were paying off. "I look pretty good for a man with a grown
son and two grandchildren," I said aloud.
Before slipping black loafers onto my sockless feet, I brushed my
naturally wavy hair, trying to give it a little height on the top. I was
letting my hair grow long again, much as I did when I was younger.
Although my once black hair had long ago given way to white, I thought
the contrast of silver against the black of my shirt collar gave me a
rather sporty, prematurely gray look.
I felt good about my appearance. I had the body for it, so why not
flaunt it while I still could?
But as soon as I pulled into the parking lot I wondered if I should have
worn baggy jeans and a dirty T-shirt. There was a group of girls, about
sixteen or seventeen years old I would guess, standing by the shopping
carts smoking cigarettes and leering at the men. "Hey, daddy,"
I heard one of them call to me. "Yo mama's right here." I
offered no expression and just kept walking towards the store entrance,
holding my head high.
I'll admit at first I felt a slight twinge of satisfaction knowing that
these young women found me attractive. But their calls became
increasingly more aggressive and vulgar.
"Hey, where you going to, sweet buns?" I heard one of them
ask. "Don't walk away from me. You know I got what you like."
Now I was starting to get a little agitated. I wasn't afraid; it was the
middle of the afternoon and the lot was filled with people. Maybe that's
what I found so annoying. Not one person, man or woman, offered to help.
In fact, I spied out of the corner of my eye a smile on the face of a
woman about my age.
Women. They never seem to outgrow that adolescent sisterhood thing!
I walked faster. The girls followed me. I felt their beady little eyes
burning into my flesh. I couldn't help but check my fly and ran my hand
over my butt as if trying to cover myself. That made the girls laugh
even harder.
"Hey, silver fox. Lemme do dat fuhya," teased one of the
girls. Another shouted, "Ohh, look at that booty. You wear boxers
or briefs, man?"
I felt naked. Like I was in a bad dream.
"Whoo-whee," they were shouting now. And whistling. That did
it. There was nothing that annoyed me more than a whistling female.
Could they possibly think that's sexy? Wow, I thought. You can stick two
dirty fingers in your mouth and blow. Now that's a real turn-on.
Out of control, I spun around and began shouting at them, hoping I
wouldn't break into tears. "Do your daddies know where you are? Is
this the way you want young ladies to treat your fathers?"
That silenced them momentarily and I escaped into the sanctuary of the
supermarket. I knew they wouldn't follow me into the store and I knew
they would be harassing another innocent man in a matter of seconds. My
hands were shaking as I checked my shopping list to regain my composure.
Must a man endure such rudeness just because he happens to be
attractive?
Although they weren't in sight when I finished my shopping, I was still
a wreck when I got home. My wife was sitting on her recliner reading the
newspaper as I walked in carrying the groceries. "Can I help
you?" she asked, making no attempt to get up.
After putting down the groceries I walked to her, still shaking. To her
credit, she saw my state immediately and stood up, taking me into her
arms.
When I finished the story of my harrowing encounter, she held me close
for a few seconds and whispered in my ear, "I'm sorry you had to go
through that, baby. You're too good a man for that." Then I felt
her hand on my belt buckle. "Why don't you take off your clothes
and make yourself comfortable?"
After twenty-five years of teaching college writing and literature,
Wayne Scheer recently retired to heed his own advice and write. His work
has appeared in Flashquake, Prose Ax, NovelAdvice, Kafenio, LoveWords
and Wee Ones Magazine, among others. He lives in Atlanta with his
wife.
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