Von

You’d think that a 31-year-old adult male wouldn’t get excited about stuff found at the dollar store.

But sadly, I do.

On my way to visit my grandparents, I stopped by their local dollar store to pick up some candles and incense (they help me relax).

I hit the jackpot soon thereafter.
They had those bottles of scented oil that you put the sticks in—that make the whole room smell good.

They sell those in the dollar store now? I couldn’t believe it!
’Cause they’re usually kinda expensive.

Nice.

I’d put one in the bathroom to mask odors that linger after unspeakable atrocities are committed in there.

One in the bedroom. The kitchen.

A worker approached me while I was deciding what scents (jasmine, fresh linen, etc) I wanted.

“Can I help you find anything, sir?”

I told dude I was good and continued what I was doing.

It was odd, I thought. Why’d he approach me—out of nowhere—and ask if I needed help? He walked past the white lady I was chatting with earlier to get to me. He didn’t ask if she needed help. Maybe he thought I was tryin’ to steal. But I’m usually only harassed at Target. Plus he was a brotha. My complexion. Skinny. With colored contacts that made his eyes a light-brown, hazel-ish color.

Later I walked the isles to see what else I may “need” (I don’t really “need” any of that stuff, but since it’s only a dollar…). I passed the one-dollar pregnancy tests, which always amuse me (somehow, if I had to buy a test that could alter my life forever—I’d want it to cost more than a dollar).

A few minutes later the same dude ran up on me again.
Said he had a question. And walked down an empty aisle—I guess he wanted me to follow.

I knew exactly what was goin’ down, ’cause I’ve been down this road too many times not to know the deal. I should’ve just ignored him and checked the hell out. But for some inexplicable reason—I played along.

Cautiously.

He stopped toward the end of the aisle, looked me in the eye, and said…“Never mind.” And walked away.

Disaster averted, I thought.

But minutes later, guess who was waiting for me at the checkout isle?

Dammit!

There were two lines.
One with the light-eyed weirdo.
One without.

Naturally I chose the line he wasn’t in. Even though it was much longer.

“I can help you over here, sir.”

Son of a bytch!

At this point, yet another critical decision had to be made. I could A) ignore his punk ass and stay in the longer line, or B) get in his line and check out now. After a few tense moments, I decided on B. ’Cause he wasn’t actually ringing stuff up. He was just supervising ol’ girl who was.

But as soon as I went over he sent her on break—so he could ring me up himself.

NOOOOOOO!

I tried not to make eye contact.
It was awkward.

He rang me up. Bagged my stuff.

But before I could leave, dude slid me a folded-up receipt.

I opened it slightly…I saw a phone number.

Stripped of any remaining dignity, I took my bags and made the humiliating walk of shame out of the store.

I read the rest of the note when I got in the car:

“Caleb. 708-XXX-XXXX. Call me ASAP!”

Dude didn’t want me to call when I got a chance.
Or at my earliest convenience.
Nah, he wanted me to call As Soon As Possible.

Guess I can’t go back there no more.

Too bad, ’cause I really like those oil and stick things.

I logged into my Myspace account (we’ll discuss the ethics of me having a Myspace at a later date) a few days ago to find that I had “new messages.”

Upon opening my inbox, I was greeted by a message from a gentleman with a disturbing profile pic.

It was one of those close-up, homemade camera pics.
But this one was different.
Every part of his body was cropped out.
Except his upper body—his unclothed upper body.
Basically, you couldn’t see nothin’ but his naked chest, abs, and the beginning of his torso.

The subject line of the message was empty.

In retrospect, I should’ve just deleted that shyt and went on with the rest of my life.

‘Cause why would a dude like that send me a message—completely out of the blue?

But for some inexplicable reason, my curiosity got the best of me.

I decided to open it:

—————– Original Message —————–
From: XXXXXX
Date: Oct 6, 2008 11:29 PM

wuts good fam.. we met at macys a couple fridays ago.. i knew i knew u from somewhere..

__________________________________________

 

Oh yeah! I remember that.

It was weird.

A couple weeks ago I hit up Macy’s (the department store) on my lunch break—when this dude rolled up on me out of nowhere. Sayin’ somethin’ about how I looked familiar, and that he knows me from somewhere.

 

Man, I ain’t know that dude from Adam. But he swore he knew me.
Perhaps he’d mistaken me for my hard-partying evil twin brother.
Or maybe we had met before—and I’d just forgotten.
‘Cause I’ve been known to forget folks’ names and faces.

At any rate, I wrapped up the conversation and went about my business—thinking I’d never hear from dude again.

But that wasn’t the case.

Apparently, I looked familiar because he’d visited my Myspace page.
But how’d he just happen to find it and remember my face? I don’t know about nobody else—but I don’t be browsing other guys’ pages on there. I got an unsettling vibe from the whole situation. But then again, maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe he was cool people and not up to any tomfoolery.

See, I’m beginning to hate the person I’ve become.
As a result of some of the horrific stuff that’s happened in the past, I’m suspicious of any unfamiliar men I come across. Whether it’s dudes who approach me on the street, in the gym, at the mall, in the club—wherever—I always think they’re tryin’ to get in my pants. Or make me their bytch. Until they prove otherwise, I’m really tryin’ to keep my distance.

But that’s not really a good way to treat interactions with people in life.

 

 

With that being said, at that point, another decision had to be made:

Should I just ignore it? Or be cordial and reply?

I chose the latter:

—————– Original Message —————–
From: ..Von..
Date: Oct 7, 2008 11:28 AM

I’m good, dog. What’s up with you?
________________________________________

That was innocent enough, right?

I wish I could say that I was surprised by the reply I got the next day.

But sadly, I wasn’t.

—————– Original Message —————–
From: XXXXXXXX
Date:

working to dog on hard… Maybe soon we can grab a drink..
________________________________________

Unbelievable.

See what I get for tryin’ to be nice to folks?

I couldn’t comprehend what I was reading at first.

The other day at work, I came across a news story about Idaho Senator Larry Craig. Apparently dude had been arrested in an airport bathroom for “lewd conduct.” 

Apparently, this was some gay deviant shyt that happens all the time in airport bathrooms across the country. And a fukkin’ US senator got caught up in it.

 

Crazy, right? You never know who’s on the DL. And you never know what’s goin’ on beneath the surface.

I’ve been harassed many a time by gay dudes: on the train, walking to the police station, and at the train station. I get harassed most frequently at the gym by the suspect dude.

But of all of the times I’ve been harassed, nothing left a more bitter taste in my mouth than dude who violated me in the bathroom.

 

Flashback to the year 2000 where I was a 22-year-old fresh out of college answering phones at the governor’s downtown Chicago office.

It wasn’t the greatest job, but it put some money in my pocket.

We had a bathroom in our office, but sometimes when I needed an extended break I would go down to the lower-level bathroom. There was a food court there and a lot of nice looking young ladies.

So I often found myself going out of my way to go down there (I had to take an elevator from the 8th floor, then go down an escalator, then go about 15 to 20 feet to the bathroom).

One day I went down to the basement bathroom only to find a couple dudes waiting around for a urinal to open up.

WTF are y’all waiting on a urinal when there are two open on either side of the dude in the middle?

Had I been thinking, I would have put two and two together right then and there.They weren’t using the urinals next to that dude for a reason.

 

Without thinking, I took my happy ass right over to the stall next to the dude in the middle and proceeded to take care of my business.

I quickly figured out the other dudes knew something I didn’t: ol’ boy in the middle was a gay perv waiting for his next victim.Who turned out to be me.

 

No sooner than I started taking a leak…dude, du…the gay dude turned his head right at me and proceeded to look right down at my dyck!

And these were the stall without the dividers next to them; so dude could pretty much see everything.

What the fukk!

I couldn’t believe what was happening.
I felt so violated.
It was like I was frozen in time. 
Pissing usually takes 5 to 10 seconds, now it seemed to be taking forever.
And dude looked at my manhood the whole time.

Careful not to make eye contact with his azz, I finally finished and zipped my shyt and walked past the dudes who were waiting.

Thanks for the heads up, fellas.

I washed my hands as quickly as possible.
As I did, I noticed that the gay deviant was right beside me, washing his hands too.

Fukk!

I didn’t wait around to dry my hands. Instead I wiped them on my slacks as I rushed out of the door. On my way up the escalator, guess whose punk ass was right behind me?

Damn!

Dude followed me right to the elevator…and got on with me!

I didn’t press what floor I wanted right away. I wanted to know if dude was actually going someplace, or if he was just following me.

This was the moment of truth.

Naturally, dude didn’t press a floor and waited for me to press what floor I was going to.

In retrospect, at that point I should have: a) whooped on dude’s punk azz and threw him off the elevator like Uncle Phil did Jazzy Jeff back in the day, b) or confronted him like, “Dude, what the fukk is wrong with you????”

But he took me completely out of my game. I couldn’t think straight or process what was going on.

I pressed the 8th-floor button. After a couple extremely awkward seconds, we made it to my floor. For a second I thought dude was gonna get off there, but mercifully he didn’t.

I went back to my desk and tried to make sense of what had just transpired. I couldn’t. From that point on, I tried to never use the downstairs bathroom again. And if I did, I made sure to keep my head on a swivel.

Since then, I’ve tried to put this horrific event out of my memory, but it’s still there.

So when I read about what happened with Senator Craig, I can totally see how that happens in bathrooms everywhere.