The Touchers

People that touch you.

Everyday I’m made to handle countless people in this gas station. I hear their complaints, stories, suggestions for the store, conversations on their cell phones, and their problems. I touch more people than I should really be allowed too. Why? Because it’s my job.

I was behind the counter counting back change to a young woman in her mid twenties repressing my sexual aggression like any other day. Her body was slim yet supple and it enticed me almost to the point of becoming unprofessional. Touching the customer was off limits due to a few prior incidents that aren’t worth mentioning. Except that one where my crime was merely an innocent hug to a grieving mother. She had just discovered that her husband and two kids had been in a traffic accident and were being rushed to the hospital. She requested a pack of cigarettes and broke down into tears right in front of me. I had no idea what to do so I walked around the counter and embraced this poor emotionally wounded woman.

The thing is that while we hugged and she sobbed into my chest her perfume crawled seductively up my nose. It wreaked of feminine pleasure intoxicating my mind and erasing any momentary decency I might have had. My hands began to caress her back which felt so soft and tender I had to take another drag off her perfume. That was it, I was in love, and so was she; with me. Forgetting that we were complete strangers I began to make intimate contact with my love. Pushing her deeper into my chest and me to hers I lowered my hands down to her rump when she suddenly became aware of trouble. Without any kind of warning my lover’s knee shot up into my groin liquefying my balls catapulting me to the floor. Now, crippled and paralyzed with indescribable pain I was left victim to the maddening assault of a grieving mother hell bent on purging her sadness through violence. She was temporarily insane. I was terrified. The mother beat me mercilessly for about five minutes, even going so far as to take off her heels and plunge them into my skull, before throwing her money on the counter and taking her cigarettes. She never called the police or reported me but thanks to the security videos I was strictly ordered to stay behind the counter.

Now as I attend to the mid twenties girl I remember my past lessons and suppress the urge to embrace her soft electrifying hands. As she leaves a young man in a blue dress shirt replaces her. His touch is no less exciting and I can’t help but envision how it would feel if it was wrapped around grasping my/ “Excuse me,” he says with an uncomfortable look on his face, “but could you stop rubbing your thumb against mine. I don’t roll that way man.” I quickly release his hand scattering his eighty two cents across the counter. “I don’t either,” I say afraid that this man’s hand may contain some homosexual element. “I was just daydreaming about sex and I guess I got a little excited.” I say this without even contemplating how it sounds. The man’s eyes narrow with distrust and fear and he quickly backs up out the door ignoring his scattered change. As he leaves a woman who looks to be in her seventies comes through the door. She buys a caffeine free diet coke and hands me a twenty. As the bill is placed in my hand her old skin brushes up against my own making my body jolt with excitement. As I hand back her change I find myself succumbing to the sinful urge of feeling up this elderly woman’s thumb. I may even have to come out from behind the counter.