Numéro 6 Feb 2013
Le numéro sur l’écriture imaginaire
kid at fifty-something, I like to think. But no one really knows what happened to him. He went downtown to look for work one day and never came back. This job has been my secret for close to six months now.
a while, but one quick look has always been enough to send them out the door. I’m a good-looking type – white guys especially go for me – but I’m not into that. As I said, I’m not into much of anything right now.
shops for his retail therapy very often. He was followed by a short replica of himself. He wore the same kind of outfit, only his chinos were green instead of khaki, and his shirt had
Shame seems to seep from their low, guarded tones. I’m ashamed of the work I do, though I’m not a prude. Sex is sex, and people can do what they like, I just feel embarrassed to be in the business of it. I mean, how often will you hear someone saying, I work in an adult shop, except maybe in one of those kitsch magazines that are targeted at our “liberal” rebellious youth? But I never imagined anything like this could happen. My grandmother used to say events you can’t imagine ever happening are like seeing an albino snake. It’s rare to find one, but they do exist. The guys who come to “Slick” are mostly either sad old characters who’d rather wank than deal with a real human being or they’re high-school kids on a dare. I tell them where to find what they’re looking for, take their money and ignore them. They usually prefer to ignore me too. Sure I’ve had guys come on to me once in
I guess some people might get turned on being surrounded by porn all day long. The boss, for example, disappears into the back room with a new DVD half the times he stops by. But for me, all this stuff just makes me droop. It had been a very slow morning. I was having lunch when the buzzer went off for the first time in more than an hour. I opened the security door and saw three men who didn’t look like they could harm an ant. Fortyish. Office types, or maybe IT salesmen, that kind of thing. Chinos and golf shirts. Regular guys you see on the street every day. The man who came in first was tall. White and chunky. A little rough around the edges when you got closer to him. He once went to a gym, but not lately. He looked at me and nodded, then looked away, following the racks of DVDs with his eyes. Not someone that went to sex 48
horizontal stripes that made him look even shorter. The third man was coloured. I am intimidated by coloured men, don’t ask me why. He looked almost white, but his hair gave him away. He wore khaki cargo pants and a tight t-shirt. Bulging muscles that he was obviously proud of. His gym membership had not lapsed. They entered the shop in a line, which they couldn’t help doing because of the way the entrance was constructed, but they stayed in single file as they cruised down the aisle. They’re probably here on their lunch break, I thought, just to browse around and boost their libido for their wives or girlfriends later that evening. They separated and went around the small shop browsing through the stacks of DVDs, never stopping for long in one place. A bit like young boys doing something they think will land them in trouble. I get