A story by Dean Swanson
My name is Sammy Stinkbutt and I have this fear of buying toilet paper. I fear someone will laugh when they see me walking down the aisle with my six-roll of Marina. I see them nudging their buddy's arm, hear them whispering, "Psst. Look. That guy over there wipes his butt."
It's especially hard on me when I see someone I know, or worse, someone I have a crush on; we stop and chat, all the while glancing into each other's shopping carts, analyzing the items, searching for clues that will give us information about each other. "Oh, great. This guy probably has a stinky butt." And then they'll never talk to me again.
The humiliation has reached a point to where I have to stand outside the store and ask people to buy toilet paper for me.
My mom was pooping last Tues-day. She ran out of toilet paper and asked me to buy some for her at 7-Eleven. "And make it speedy. Before it dries." It was 10:30 at night; not many people are out that late on weeknights in Issaquah, so my chances of someone buying it for me were next to nothing. That meant one thing: I'd have to confront my fear and buy it. Even if I had to deal with Beefy.
I had it all planned out as I rode my bike to the store. The job would have to be quick and clean, just like wiping a butt.
When I got to the store, Beefy was standing behind the counter filing his fingernails. A 1977 disco couple was looking at condoms. I sprinted to the back of the store, towards the frozen foods. I needed to distract Beefy. I grabbed a pint of Double Fudge Brownie ice cream; this also served as a positive reinforcement for facing my fear, for staring it in the brown eye. The couple was arguing over what kind of condoms to buy; she wanted regular non-lubricated, he wanted lambskins.
"Try the ribbed ones," Beefy said, blowing his fingernails. "My wife loves 'em. Says they tickle her insides pink." He looked at the couple. "Come on, Mister, ya owe it to your wife. And ma'am," he said, "ya owe it to yourself."
When the couple had left I snagged the toilet paper and ran up to the register. I slammed the ice cream down on the counter.
"Hustle, Beefy!"
"Why, Sammy, I didn't even see ya come in," he said, placing the nail file on the counter.
"I'm in a rush, Beefy. I gotta ..."
"Oooh, yer in for an excitin' night," he said, glancing at the items on the counter. "Looks like yer gonna wipe yer butt and have some ice cream. Mmmm." He smiled and flashed me the thumbs-up. A car pulled into the parking lot.
I tucked the package of toilet paper under my arm and waited for the change.
"Ya know," he said, removing the red bandana from his neck, "I enjoy sitting on the toilet with a big bowl of ice cream, too. Neapolitan." He squatted down like he was sitting on the toilet. He wiped his butt with the bandana and pretended to eat ice cream.
"The change, Beefy! The change!"
"It's nice to know someone shares a similar interest." He winked at me.
The door chimed open and Candy Cleanbutt, the most popular girl at Issaquah High School, walked in. Earlier that day I'd made a complete fool of myself in front of her. I'd accidentally spilled my chocolate milkshake on her lap when asking her if she wanted to play Scrabble with me. She'd glared at me and shouted, "Outta my hair, you little wad of Charmin!"
There was no chance of us ever playing Scrabble together when she saw me with the toilet paper. She saw how disgusting I am. She saw the real me.
She knows my dirty secret.
Reprinted with permission from Pinto Magazine, P.O. Box 2244, Olympia, WA, 98507. One-year subscriptions are $10 a year in the U.S., $18 foreign.
Dean Swanson publishes a 'zine called Dirty Diaper: An Anal Rag, dedicated to shedding light on the place where the sun don't shine.
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Contents on this page were published in the July/August, 1993 edition of the Washington Free Press.
WFP, 1463 E. Republican #178, Seattle, WA -USA, 98112. -- WAfreepress@gmail.com
Copyright © 1993 WFP Collective, Inc.