Hardly Clerkin'

  For those that don’t know, I recently took a job clerking at a book and cigar shop. Much like the mall in the Blues Brothers, this place has everything—including sundries for Dennis. The magazine selection is particularly impressive, one of the largest collections in the state including the largest porn assortment (not including porn shops which are a dime a dozen in this state).
  The best thing about having a porn stash that rivals Terry’s, is watching the different mannerisms and strategies of those that obtain porn from our store. There are plenty of connoisseurs that come right in grab what they need and go, but there are more that attempt to disguise their purpose.
  There is the “intellectual” porn guy that will hover around the current affairs/science/political sections for ten minutes flipping blindly through titles before strolling over to the porn section, as if surprised that it’s there, and within moments grab a sealed copy of Playboy or Penthouse and head out.
  Then there is “can’t buy porn in front of women” porn guy that will neither stand perusing the porn nor purchase the porn if there is a female in the store. You can see their eyes darting to see if they have left yet so they can saunter back and get there copy of Mega-Boobies quarterly Bosom Bonanza Special.
  Similar to the previous buyer is “can’t buy porn in front of anyone” porn guy. Surprisingly, this guy is not ashamed to stand there as long as he needs to make a selection. Instead, he seems more embarrassed by the title he choose—he will hurriedly make his way to the counter if and only if there was no customer near the register.
  I honestly never checked out all the titles we had in store—not because I didn’t want to—just because I usually have too much to do as an employee. However, I was stunned the last time I worked by two separate porn aficionados—if that’s what you want to call them.
  The first “gentleman” was a straight-up, “can’t buy porn in front of anyone” guy. When he finally made his John Deere hat-wearing-self way to the counter there, sandwiched between a copy of WWD (Woman’s Wear Digest) and Cosmo, was a magazine whose title I have repressed and don’t care to remember. However, I do know that it was a magazine of transvestites. Judging by the other two titles, he not only got off on RuPaul but liked to dress like he/she in his free time.
Second up was a modified “intellectual” porn guy. He came in and interrupted a customer talking to me about cigars in order to loudly ask about Thomas More’s Utopia. After I took of my tobacconist hat, I located the book for him. He didn’t actually want the book he said, “Just price checking.” He then asked about the availability of a profound economics book that he supposed to read in college that predicted today’s economic instability. After chatting for a few more minutes he moved onward to the porn. When the store cleared he hurried to counter and slapped a copy of “60” on the counter. Sexagenarian porn, as it turns out.
  That’s right, Tranny and Granny porn.
  I felt Lady Macbeth that night, washing out the imaginary stain that those two purchases left on my soul. Out damn spot. Out.