Peter Stenson's Blog, page 2

Stoked on The Lone Pubic Hair in a Size Ten Swimsuit

Not going to lie, I’m loving the lone pubic hair in a size ten swimsuit bottom.

This was at work. It’s a new job. Yes, it’s retail. Yes, I’m making less than I did when I was nineteen, but whatever. I was standing there at the folding station with a stack of overpriced button-downs, not totally sure if I was operating the rectangular plastic board correctly, watching the clock not fucking move, wondering why I’d just gone through eight years of school to be less employable than I was beforehand when I worked at a travel agency and took breaks three times a day to masturbate into the sixth story handicapped bathroom.

The changing room door opened.

Out walked a boring woman, probably a vegan.

The explosion of clothes she left behind made me hate her.

And of course she didn’t buy anything. She probably blamed it on our clothes and not on her fat fucking thighs and she left the store and I gathered her discarded clothes and brought them to my little station. They were mostly swimsuits. Small tops and big bottoms—not necessarily ideal. The clock still hadn’t moved.

So here’s the deal: I got a little bit of a chub handling the bottoms. Can’t help it. The reasoning is simple—these touched her pussy. I’m sorry. It’s immature and perverted and the woman was so far from attractive but that doesn’t matter, because, like I said, it touched her pussy.

Now, I wasn’t about to get all Darth Vader on it and huff the shit like it was a baggie lined with gasoline, but a peak inside the white lining? Guilty as charged.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to find.

But a stray pubic hair the length of a ruler was a both revolting and pleasant surprise.

I gave a cautious glance around the store for my coworkers or a customer and nobody paid attention because I was just the new awkward guy folding clothes and I looked back at the monstrosity of hair on stretchy fabric and honest to god, my first thought was to slip it into my pocket.

Why?

Don’t know.

I thought about everything I could do with it: floss, stitch up a hole in my shorts, tie it in a knot with my tongue like a cherry stem. Then I thought about giving it a name and a home, maybe inside of a match box, could line it with a tissue for bedding, and I’d keep it in my pocket and when life was getting me down, I’d slip my hand into my shorts, rub the outside of my box, happy to know I wasn’t alone.

I hung the swimsuit, pubic hair still looped around its crotch.

I hung the rest of the clothes.

People walked around touching everything, making messes.

I thought about that lady—the boring middle-aged vegan—and I wondered why she was in need of a swimsuit and maybe it was a vacation, her first one in years, a single’s cruise, a single’s cruise for middle-aged vegans with giant tufts of pubic hair, and it was splurge, for sure, financially speaking, but it was something she didn’t normally do, but she needed it, a moment of sun and being catered to and of being around other people. I thought about her in the dressing room a minute ago. I pictured her thinking our suits were so cute, circling them in our catalog. Then her trying them on. The cut too low, her hips too big. Size after size, style after style—I hate my fucking muffin top, I hate my fucking thighs—and then she sat down on the wooden bench inside of the dressing room and felt her stomach fold over on itself and her rubbed her temples and rethought the whole thing. What the hell am I doing? A single’s cruise? At forty-seven? Who the hell would ever want to look at this?

And she dressed back in her drab browns, pulling her hair into her uniform of a ponytail. She left everything and stormed out of the store and went back to her isolation of a cubicle, calling the cruise line along the way, telling them something came up, can’t do it, yes, a cancelation fee is fine.

So here’s to you, boring vegan lady with the size ten bottoms.

I hope you know that you’re being thought about. That I’ve engaged in a bit of fetishism with your giant curly. Know that I’m lonely too. That I’ll be the first to agree with you—it’s the cut of our clothes, not our bodies. That you still have time to take that cruise. That the shit will be perfect, just what you need. Know that your impressively thick, hemp-like hair is still attached to that pair of bottoms, waiting for you to come back and give them a home, waiting for you to flaunt that shit, not giving a fuck what that internal voice screams inside your head, ignoring the dicks like me, the ones first judging you by appearance, then by what you leave behind.