Men. Am I right, ladies? (I, the author, am a male. So don’t start dong bashing or pig calling just yet.) Today I stumbled across a little gem that was scotch taped to the side of a locker in a man’s working area.
The locker, tucked away in a corner, had one side that would rarely be visible to anyone who wasn’t inching towards the back of the room, and on this side featured a little escape from the work day. Let me explain, this locker is located in the boiler room of a middle school. The only person who would regularly frequent Ashley and Shana, the two Trentonians as the newspaper clipping proclaims, would be the maintenance man that keeps a desk down there. He, who is shut away in a dingy boiler room reminiscent of that in Nightmare on Elm Street, who is possibly ridiculed daily by punk kids with pimple faces; may just need a little distraction from all the hustle and bustle of his busy day.
The myth is that men think about sex every seven seconds. But any man might tell you titties that this is highly inaccurate Scarlett Johansson and that us fellows have much more important things Edith Bunker lying under blankets with Archie on our minds than pointless fantasies every few moments Saved By The Bell (when they’re older, not the Indiana years, weirdo.)
However, this did get me thinking. It’s definitely no secret that there are guys out there making these images of the “Sex Starved Male Psychopath” very real for those around them. Some of these guys are obnoxious tools with probably little more on their mind then how quickly they can get voted “Most Likely to Die from STD’s” or “Father of Most Bastard Children.”
But others are a little more subtle in their need to spew hetero banter like it’s a virus needing to be detoxed from the body. And sometimes these guys wait for another guy they presume is likeminded enough to banter back obnoxiously in an open environment.
These are their stories…
I accepted a promotion at a movie theatre in New Jersey when I came across this guy. He was a regular at the low-volume theatre. The first time I met him and took his order he used a fake accent. I was a bit put off by the interaction, you know, the way anyone would be when someone is talking to them in an obviously fake accent.
To make matters worse, he spoke at a barely audible tone except every now and then I’d be able to pick up a curse word. Not directed towards me but more like, “I’m just kidding I don’t have a fucking accent.”
Otherwise the transaction was relatively painless. After he left, seasoned employees told me the guy came around often and would talk to associates for hours, often mentioning how he used to work at the theatre. When talking to female employees he was known to get wildly inappropriate.
One day he returned, saw a movie, and when he was leaving, stopped and talked to the associates. When I returned about an hour later he was still around. I joined the conversation looking to see if he needed to be removed. One of our female employees walked past, his eyes followed and his sentence trailed off. The second she was gone he leaned in to me whispering, “man, she looks just like Lexi Belle.”
I had to ask who Lexi Belle was. Not to say I’m some higher-than-thou dude. I mean, I can name my fair share of adult film actresses. But this particular video darling was not somebody I was familiar with.
The Regular responded first with a smirk, then with a gyrating thrust from his hips. I nodded and looked around my building uncomfortably hoping there weren’t any guests shielding their children’s eyes from this middle aged man’s air humping.
When I noted that the coast was clear I informed him that the girl of the discussion was only 16 years old. This did little to faze him as he exclaimed false surprise, seemingly more to quell my disdainful tone then to cover up his pedophilic folly.
The Male Cheerleader
Living my life in an apartment has always brought one particularly rotten activity: doing laundry at a Laundromat. Laundry itself is just boring as fuck. I’d rather go grocery shopping with Casey Anthony than spend two hours at a Laundromat.
I’ve also spent much of my life scrambling to do my errands midnight or later due to an inherently poor sleeping pattern modeled after that of a baker’s or graveyard ghost watcher’s schedule. So I’d say most of my clothes have been washed in the middle of the night.
One night I was loading up the washer and dumping precious quarters into the machine when a guy in his mid-twenties rolled in to do the same. I nodded and he took the simple gesture as an invite to begin…
He claimed he was new to the building and from out of town so he asked about some area bars and such. I’ve noted this is often used as a lead into hormone-fueled sex talk. First, he noted my high school wrestling t-shirts being laundered. Asking if I played any other sports, he eventually told me he was on the cheerleading team back in high school.
I smirked and gave a trademark, “oh yeah?” Always sounding pretty intrigued but usually barely following along with the conversation.
He said in addition to male cheerleading being a great source for college scholarships, it was also a great way to get a free ride…in vagina.
Having been from out of town, I imagine this guy didn’t have any buddies to talk to yet because he was spilling his guts to me like a bad actor in an Eli Roth film.
The Ex-Male Cheerleader even told me about his neighborly quarrels with the people downstairs. They protested to him making noise all the time. So in an attempt to get back at them, (and maybe impress me, a kid he just met in the Laundromat) he would have wild sex with his girlfriend, who apparently shrieked louder than Axl Rose and slammed headboards harder than your mother last night.
The Lonely Guy
Here’s another wildly fascinating tale from my movie theatre job. (If you’re getting sick of these stories, I’m sorry. I work there a lot and have to try to pick some kind of humor out of my meaningless time there.) Years ago, when I wasn’t being a bo$$ in upper management and people were still not yet using dollar symbols in place of the letter S, (she used to just be “Kesha” until those music industry fat cats corrupted her) I was a teenager working ten hours a week if I was lucky, sweeping up popcorn.
One shift, while I was assigned to a wing of theatres designated for late-run movies, independent films, and anything not expected to perform solidly; I was approached by a gentleman inquiring information about one of the films.
The film he was seeing was The Quiet, which if you haven’t heard of it (and we all know you haven’t) stars Camilla Belle as a deaf mute and Elisha Cuthbert as a girl getting sexually abused by her father. So basically, it was a hot movie for a lonely guy to turn into masturbation fodder later on, right? That’s what this guy thought I guess.
Being an indie movie lover and a kid with a lot of free time, I made it a point to use the one privilege I had and see as many free movies as possible. The Quiet was something I’d seen in an empty theatre its opening weekend. No more than a few moments into my plot description, I was saying how this girl’s parents just died, and The Loner cuts me off asking, “is she hot?”
I was visibly shaken by the question and could only fumble over my tongue in a slur of uh’s. The Loner, perhaps noting that he was treading on uncomfortable grounds, retracted claiming he was only kidding. So I continued about the story to which The Loner wondered if there was any nudity.
“Surprisingly no,” I said in retrospect of how many awkward sex scenes were laced through the movie but none of which featured nudity.
“Eh I’ll check it out anyway,” he replied. “Thanks anyway.”
The Loner turned and vanished into the dark depths of the vacant movie house, probably to use his buttery fingers from the fistfuls of popcorn he was feasting on, to relax his mind in privacy with his images of Cuthbert and Belle.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the theatre door, taking in what had just happened. As I continued sweeping up popcorn, I knew that a little piece of my adolescence had slipped away.