Tuesday, March 2, 2010

The Sephora Man

Some Sundays I walk downtown to Sephora and think about stealing things. Sunday is a good day to go there and steal things because it is packed. Packed with girls with pert tits and small asses. Their mouths are many shades of reds and pinks and they are open-- just so-- making these round O’s while they put on lipstick in the circular mirrors. Their jaws drop even more when they put black or brown mascara on those innocent eyes.

I’ve been getting obsessed with watching the Hispanic security guard and wondering what he thinks about his job. If he gets so fucking turned on and hard by these girls; even though their batty mothers are there too, even though he is old enough to be their grandfather, even though he is at work, and even though he has been working there for seventeen years.

I am not kidding. I know this because I asked him. I was curious and I had drunk six cups of coffee. I hadn’t stolen anything so I wasn’t rushing or paranoid, and he gave me this warm smile on my way out into the rain, and I smiled back and asked him how long he had been working there and he said seventeen years and counting and I tried to mask my disbelief and disgust because I mean who am I to talk, I’m a fucking babysitter. Then he asked me why I wanted to know and I told him it was because he was good at his job. He said that it was better than his previous job of scraping gum off of the floor at the Costco warehouse and I said it sure looked that way and he winked at me.

He has been part of the pornography that is Sephora for seventeen years.

Once my friend in New York told me he looks at girl’s hands gripping the pole while they are standing on the subway. He imagines the pole his dick and imagines those hands gripping his dick. Thinks about what they would look like. The different fingers, nail colors, skin colors, bracelets and rings.

I think the Sephora Man looks at these fourteen and seventeen and twenty-two and thirty year old wet and eager round mouths and thinks about how those lips would feel on his late forty-year-old penis.

They’d feel really amazing, naturally.

I wonder if he chooses one lucky girl a day and singles her out—takes mental pictures of her, checks her receipt on her way out, notes the color of lipstick that she bought, later draws a circle with that lipstick around his dick and pretends she was there.

The thought of touching her lips, her boobs and hips sometimes gets him so wound up that he either has to quick run to the bathroom and wack it or if he’s just like, god damn it, I have worked here for seventeen years, I’ll do what I want, and just blows a load in his pants.

I wonder if any of these girls ever get under his skin. If he’s like, oh, low-slung Levi girl is here and the large breasted redhead with bright green eyes is back.

He probably lets the sexier girls steal, even when he sees them blatantly do it. He lets them because he wants them to like him. And, if he’s honest with himself, he actually likes seeing them shove eyeliner down their little jeans towards their wet vagina's.

He sort of hopes that maybe on their way out they will lean in close smelling like five different kinds of tester perfumes and lotions and rub up against him and give his cock one hard stroke and they’ll say, “Hey thanks man. I really needed that mocha colored eyeliner and that berry lip stain and times are tough right now. You’re the best.”

I wonder if he thinks that he has the greatest and shittiest job in the world, the way I guess most of us think about our jobs.

If he’s like: wow, I get to look at open mouths and cute asses stick out all day and I don’t really have to do shit but stand here---but Jesus Christ, I work at a fucking MAKE UP store.

by Nancy Wheeler

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