Miss Suzie Satan Whore Pants

I loved going to Priscilla’s, an “adults only” store in the Detroit suburbs, and looking at the sexy toys and trashy lingerie while rock and roll played in the background. Here, they didn’t feel the need to coddle you while you searched for something to get your rocks off. It wasn’t as if they were pretending to be a ladies tearoom with lace and doilies. This was sex in your face with brightly colored bikinis only size zero strippers would fit in, platform shoes that could give you a nosebleed and more choices in dildos and vibrators than I’ve ever seen before.

This time I went to the store with a specific quest in mind. I was trying to find a penis shaped cookie cutter for this year’s Christmas cookies. My cutter from last year had gone missing, and the gags and gifts store I had originally found it in had gone bust.

Alas, a cookie cutter was not to be found amongst the bachelourette party favors like cocktail sippers, shot glasses, last night out badges and blow up boobies. I would be stuck with cookies in the shapes of trees, bells and stockings.

I decided to console myself with a stroll through the lingerie section and a subsequent stop in the domination corner where a leather-clad mannequin was sprawled out on a metal grate shelf above my head. Her curly brunette hair cascaded over bare shoulders as she gazed over her kingdom of eye masks, furry cuffs and nylon whips, but just like a real person, she wasn’t perfect. I noticed there was a tiny chip in her chin.

My last stop was the hard-core area with the magazines and DVDS in the rear of the store. An ordinary, middle class, middle-aged couple stood near by. What caught my eye was how he was nearly head first into the blowjob section, and she was standing there not really looking at anything.

At first, I thought she was just bored, but then I realized there was something odd about her posture. She was stiff as a board, like a little kid who didn’t want to be somewhere, and she had positioned her head at an odd angle so she didn’t have to look at anything directly.

Her outfit was like a little kid as well. It was almost as if her mother had dressed her up so she would be warm outside. Her coat was buttoned to the top button. Her hat was shoved down on her head. Even her hands were crammed into her pockets. The only visible skin was her round face.

As I paused in front of the magazine rack, I had to admit that I felt a little sorry for her. She was obviously there because her boyfriend wanted her to be there, and she had to be feeling so uncomfortable. I wanted to take her hand and show her that porn can be friendly. Being an erotic writer, I’ve long gotten over “the fear of porn,” but I still remembered the first time I looked through a Penthouse and was quite shocked at the amount of pink that was being shown.
Letting out a little sigh of empathy, I started thumbing through the magazines looking for something new and interesting when I found a magazine about pony girls and boys, full-grown adults wearing bridals and saddles. This was cool. Too bad the store had it shrink wrapped with another magazine.

I turned over the package to take a gander at the other magazine when I realized she was now looking in my direction. I turned to give her a friendly smile, but I saw something that stopped me. In her eyes, there was a full-fledged look of hatred at me. She was actually staring at me as if I was a Miss Suzie Satan Whore Pants and I was betraying the entire female race.

I felt as if any second she was going to point at me and start making an ungodly sound like in the movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers when the aliens spotted a human. Over the years, I have gotten looks of hated at my tattoos (all thirteen of them) but nothing had prepared me for this.

In an instant, I found she had reduced me to a grade school mentality of retaliation. What could I do back to her? I could grab a porn movie and go “boo” in her face. I could ask her boyfriend if he had seen “One Night in Paris” and compare notes. I could ask her “what is your problem, you uptight bitch?” I could give her an equally scathing look in return.

Yet, I hesitated because in the back of my mind, I was suddenly wondering if I was a “Suzie Satan Whore Pants.” Here, I was in an adult store unabashedly about ready to buy a fetish magazine that barely even made me blink. I had written short stories that had ended up in these very magazines featuring barely legal girls and busty beauties.

She didn’t know that though. To her, I looked like her, an ordinary Michigan girl in her winter coat and boots, mittens dangling from her pockets, who was out and about on a Saturday afternoon.

Maybe that was what bothered her the most. Maybe she was afraid her boyfriend might see me, which I doubted with his level of concentration on Cum Swappers 2, and he might say, “Why can’t you be more like her.”

I decided that I wasn’t Miss Suzie Satan Whore Pants. I was just me, a regular girl who wasn’t afraid of a little sex or this store. Just because I had the balls to stand here like a man and deal with it open-mindedly didn’t mean I had horns growing out of my head.

In the end, I didn’t do anything back to her. There was no spectacular confrontation, name-calling, or cat fighting. I just turned back to the magazines and wished Priscilla’s wouldn’t shrink-wrap all the magazines. It wasn’t as if I was going to stand there and jack off. Well, probably not anyway.

THE END

Ed’s Note: Tara Alton...being bad can read VERY well. Visit her site by heading to http://www.taraalton.com or her blog http://www.flirtykitty.blogspot.com