This afternoon I ate out for lunch before therapy and developed a two-hour crush on the host at the restaurant. Honestly, he wasn’t really my type–high-water pants, mustache, probably patchouli for deodorant. I mean, I didn’t get close enough to know for sure. But basically, he was a hippy–or hipster–I really don’t know the difference. Plus, it’s so hard these days to tell if someone is gay or not. Once when I was with my aunt at a department store, a hot young number offered to clean our glasses, and I could have sworn he was hitting on me. But short of someone sticking their hand down my pants, I never like to assume. He could have just been on commission.

Anyway, the host at the restaurant. I told my therapist about him and said, “Oh my god, I just realized he had a braided belt on,” and my therapist said, “Like a leather one–from the nineties?”

“Yes, how awful. How did I overlook that?”

“You were just horny,” she said.

Fair enough.

Of course, we talked about other things too, like people pleasing. My therapist said the problem with people pleasing is that it makes us externally focused. What will she say? What will they think? But she said we should ideally be internally focused, which simply means being authentic and true to our own values and morals rather than someone else’s. In short, we should be true to ourselves.

This evening I met my friend CJ out of town for dinner. We weren’t technically celebrating my birthday (which is next week), but she said we were, so woowho! I’m all for early and prolonged celebrations. As my friend Marla says, “You get one day a year all to yourself, you might as well make it count.” Anyway, after eating in Rogers, we headed toward Fayetteville to see a show at Theater Squared. Since we arrived early (a first for me), we decided to go for a walk along Dickson Street, and when we passed Condom Sense, CJ said, “Have you ever been in there?”

“Never,” I said.

Grabbing my arm, she said, “Let’s go!”

Well, right off the bat, the little lady behind the counter told me a sex joke, something to do with the penis jewelry around her neck that could point up or down. She kept playing with it like a see-saw. Well, I’ve been in a sex shop before, but I’m always a skosh uncomfortable. So I just glanced at all the dildos–don’t mind me–and the lady said, “There’s more in the back room!”

Oh, this back room?

Y’all, there was a penis cage. I sort of thought it was like a chastity belt, but honestly didn’t know what it was for. It just looked like a penis-shaped cage with a little lock on it, something you might put on your luggage to feel safe. You know, protect the family jewels. Well, I’m a curious person, so I asked the lady behind the counter, “What about the cock cage?” Then she came down from her perch behind the counter, not even joking, and said, “Which one?” Then she explained that a cock cage is a training device, almost like something you’d put on your kid’s bicycle. And then–and then–she started pointing her finger at me, and said, “You’re the slave. I’M THE MASTER. As long as this is on your cock, you can’t get an erection. You only get a hard-on when I SAY.”

I mean, I grew up in church. How do you respond to that? Uh–yes, ma’am? No, thank you?

Honestly, I was itching to get out of the store because the show was about to start, and I can only listen to a woman my mother’s age talk about erections for so long. But before CJ and I could get out the door, the lady started talking to us about lubes–water-based, oil-based, and silicone. Just imagine this short woman with long hair of indeterminate color talking with a smoker’s voice, pointing her finger at you kind of angrily, and saying, “I’ve been having sex since before anybody knew what sex was. Sure, water-based lubes are better than spit, but it’s nothing like this silicone.”

Dear god, make it stop.

I kept thinking she was going to say, “I used to walk ten miles uphill in the snow to have sex,” but instead she pumped some of the lube on my fingers and then CJ’s fingers. Well, what do you do? So we just stood there, rubbing our fingers together, rubbing our fingers together, as the lady kept talking. I thought, Lady, I’m gay. That’s enough about your vagina. Although, yes–I guess it is cute that you call it Fluffy. Much less threatening that way.

“Boy, CJ, look at the time. The show starts in ten minutes!”

“Okay, Marcus. Let’s go.”

Then the lady said, “Pardon the expression, but come again.”

You can’t make this up.

Okay, I didn’t mean for this blog to be about my trip to the sex shop. But really, how do you beat that? (No pun intended.) Seriously, CJ and I had a great time at the show, a musical called Fun Home. But even a production about a singing lesbian who grows up with a closeted father who works at a funeral (fun) home doesn’t really top a lube-hawking grandma with a sterling silver see-saw penis around her neck. But I suppose few things would.

Currently I’m at CJ’s, spending the night on her farm. I’m inside, but the air outside is the coolest it’s been all summer. The full moon is shining bright in the sky, like a spotlight announcing fall’s arrival. Earlier CJ and I went for a walk down her dirt road, and her three dogs and one of her cats followed along. When we got back, we pulled some chairs off her back porch and into the yard, sat under the moon, and traded stories. CJ said I should have hit on the hippy at the restaurant. “What would he have done?” she said.

Now CJ is in bed. The house is quiet, and the world is still. I can hear crickets outside the door, maybe a neighbor’s dog barking. Across the room there are several five-gallon buckets of dehydrated food. CJ said she bought them cheap from a friend who’s a “prepper,” apparently a person who stockpiles food, guns, and whatever for the end of the world. CJ plans to resale them, but considering each bucket contains 275 meals, if something drastic were to happen tonight, CJ and I should be fine for roughly a year and a half.

So don’t worry about us.

When CJ told me about “preppers,” I thought it was a sex thing, but–then again–it’s been that sort of day. Jokes aside, I thought, That’s so bizarre. Who lives like that? Honestly, it’s the same thing I thought when I saw some of the items in the sex store. I imagine some people reading this blog may find it odd, offensive, too–uh–personal. But it was my day, and, as my grandpa used to say, “It’s a big old world.” Ultimately, I’m glad I live in a time and place where I can talk to my therapist (or the internet) about a hot hippy host, where women who voted for JFK can sell condoms to college students, and where singing lesbians can take the stage. Personally, I don’t want to hoard dehydrated food or put a cage on my penis, but I’m thrilled to be in a world where other people can if they want to. So as soon as I hit publish, I’m going back out on the porch, looking at the moon, and getting some fresh, country air. I suppose that’s all any of us really want–to breathe deep, to breathe true to ourselves, whatever that means.