Here is how it started. I was in the convention center which was like its own world, like you could be there and forget the real world even existed because it didn't exist, not really, not while you were in there with the artificial lighting beaming at you like alien mind-control rays and the people acting more like aliens than people until you started thinking they really were aliens trying to numb your brain and turn you into a pod person.
There was this guy at one of the booths, a country boy in maybe his thirties, with his black dress shoes and his dark blue Levis, ironed nice and stiff, and his white dress shirt. I watched him war for a while with his collar, notching it out with a forefinger, pulling it away from his nice red neck. Yeah. He was a T-shirt guy, and he looked out of place in there.
I laughed when I saw what he was selling.
"That's quite a package," I said unambiguously.
"Most ladies seem to like it," he replied, in an entirely non-sexual way. "Are you interested?"
In all innocence I replied, "I'm not sure I'd know what to do with one that big."
"I bet if you got your hands on it, you'd be so excited you wouldn't even notice the size."
And maybe that would have been true once, in the past, but not now, not at my age; now, I wasn't prone to such unfettered excitement and I knew that like any new toy the novelty would be gone and the memory of it would gather dust on a shelf somewhere. I mean: at my age; I mean: who sells dildos at an organ convention? So I just fucked him instead, because it didn't matter what happened in there, because when you walked outside, it would all go away, because Mrs. Smetson, best damson plum jam three years running, really needed something new to talk about.
Opening: Robin S......Continuation: Anonymous