I know. I’m sorry. The mortification splashed across your face made it clear that you’d never been in a leather bar before, much less ever imagined you’d one day find yourself surrounded by bondage paraphernalia and ball stretchers while clutching a bag of somebody else’s Lebanese food.
Oh. Right. I guess from where you were standing, you couldn’t see the ball stretchers.
I’m sorry I just brought the ball stretchers to your attention.
I also want to reassure you that you don’t physically resemble Kim Davis. However, you were wearing glasses and sensible shoes and a sundress over a long-sleeve shirt, and those items combined weave a story that reads, “county clerk from Kentucky who doesn’t understand the separation of Church and State.” I hope this explains why I maybe yelped a little when I turned around to find you standing quietly behind me, doing your best to remain professional in the face of all the unfortunately-named products around you.
Nasty Pig is just a clothing line, by the way. It’s not necessarily a lifestyle choice.
Regardless, please know how impressed I was that you kept your composure, and I sincerely appreciate that you opted to back slowly out of the store when I’m sure you would’ve preferred to just scream and run away. I do not regret tipping 20% in advance whatsoever, although you might want to brace yourself, because I order a shitload of food from that place, so we’ll more than likely be seeing each other again in a couple of days.
Oh, wait. You probably don’t approve of cursing.
I’m sorry for saying “shitload.”
I have Tourette’s.
Thank you for the falafel.