Shopping for a Massager

This is a short little ramble that I had put on a blog at stumbleupon. A friend suggested I try posting it here. We'll see how it goes...

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It's always an exciting experience buying a product such as a massager at a mall rather than through the mail. It's like buying a cucumber at the grocery store when you're planning a party for one, or buying lingerie at any store other than something like Victoria's Secret. You are out in the open on a secret mission of masturbation, public activities to prepare for private pleasures. I'm always wondering what everyone else knows, what everyone else is thinking. Those thoughts, those doubts, just add more fuel to the fire, like dumping gasoline on an open flame. It's constant arousal, interminable moisture, when you try to pry into the mind behind every set of crystal eyes.

I remember when I bought a massager last Christmas at Sharper Image at Crabtree Valley Malley, the same mall where I go almost weekly with my children, bringing home toys or clothes or vacuum filters. But today's mission was different. It was about me, for me. It was about a basic necessity of life. I woke up horny and needed to do something about it!

The girl at the counter, a temporary clerk supplementing the Christmas rush, helping out part time after school I'm sure, and needing the money for her own personal weaknesses and indulgences, gave me that look. That half smile, knowing, her red lips slightly pursed, showing only a hint of the whitest teeth. Her blue eyes shining through me. She had the look of omniscience, like she knew everything about me.

She had a simple snowman pin atop a her perky right breast, the slight bumps of two covered nipples showing through, two bite sized candies, two deliciously pink m&m's. Got I just wanted to lean over and take a bite, one nip on the sweetest of cherries. Her breasts lifted as she breathed, as if they were looking back at me as I stared at them.

Her long brunette hair hung down in waves, hiding most of her face. I just knew the boys had grabbed her by that hair, their strong fingers grabbing it like a rope, her face and her mouth their toy, on a string like a yo-yo, a toy the boys could play with for hours. I knew those locks would have equally fit in my hand, her auburn mane wrapped tightly around my fingers, arching that thin sweet neck back, forcing that rose colored tongue out from between the lips of that sly red smile and deep into the sauna of my pink folds.

As I put the massager on the counter she gave me that look, that look of omniscience. I felt naked, like she could see right through me, right into my soul, or maybe past my soul and deeper still into my most primal instincts. I felt more exposed in that plain cotton skirt, surrounded by the Christmas crowds, under the upward stare and half-cocked smile of that young girl than I have ever felt in the skimpiest of outfits.

She knew that I planned to take that "massager" and turn myself into a screaming ball of pleasure, exhausted by a little electric toy. She knew about the lingerie I was wearing, the black and red silk and lace I put on this morning. The outfit I picked out especially for shopping, hiding it with the plainest of outer attire, knowing it would make my loins ache all day long dressing like a hidden harlot, lace covered by cotton, desert covered in a brown paper bag.

She knew that I shaved myself that morning. Well, mostly at least. She knew I felt the razor sharply scraping my tender skin, making my lips clean, smooth, a small landing strip left above, left because I wanted to direct all tongues and cocks to a wet and grateful home. She knew I was picturing her tongue there now. Everything is so electric after you shave down there. The air always feels too cool or too warm. It's never just normal, never forgotten, always calling out to your conscious mind to pay attention to it, to touch it, soothe it, a little voice inside your body that just screams out louder the more you ignore it.

Just the thought causes you to ache even more, the whispering voice now screaming. God can everyone hear that?! Lips calling out to be kissed and stroked, to be probed and prodded, and to be used and filled and spread and fucked and covered and...

With one short glance she had me, undressed, naked, spread across the table, reading me as easily as Whitman might read Dr Seuss. Staring at her breasts, breathing heavily, red with lust and embarrassment, that half smile and those eyes looking up through the hanging strands of her auburn mane left me open before her. Humbly, quietly, I scribbled my name on the receipt, picked up my toy, and walked out counting the brown and grey tiles along the floor, moisture covering my thighs, steam, but never staring into those eyes again.