Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Of a Brush With Fame

I probably met a porn star once.

This was while I was a register biscuit at a used bookstore: I was at said register when a strikingly familiar-looking lady came in and started browsing the science fiction section. I stared at her for a minute or two, wondering where I knew her from; eventually, I realized I was having a hard time recognizing her because I'd never seen her with clothes on. Obviously, the next step was to talk to her.

This presented some difficulties.

First, I couldn't be sure of who she was without asking her. And how, pray, does one ask that question? It's not like I can just walk up and say, “Excuse me, but have you ever taken a dick on film?” There's no precedent for this; normally, when you think you recognize someone, it isn't because you once saw a video of them getting nailed against a van by some blowjob wearing a pair of Newbalance sneakers and a Kanji ass tattoo.

Second, any compliment or statement is suddenly pregnant with implied filth. She knows exactly what I've seen her do; she knows I've seen her butthole, for fuck's sake. I imagine, then, that anything I could ever say to her would have this raw sexual subtext where even the most mundane and innocuous phrases suddenly become the most suggestive phrases imaginable. Observe:

“I really like your work,”...especially the way you work the undercarriage.

“You're a very pretty lady,”...when you're getting pounded.

“I'm a big fan,”...of your vagina.

Ultimately, I decided that conversation was out of the question.

So I just asked her if she needed help finding anything.

Turns out, she didn't.

That's all for now.

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