Stealing Sex

by JoAnne Heen

When the fourth armed robbery in two weeks culminated in a customer being shot in the parking lot, the owners of the dirty book store where I worked decided it was time to replace our current security – a couple of Korean War vets – with something a bit more, okay, a bit less grandfatherly. Not that Mitch, whose ability to knock perps flying with his walker was not truly awesome, but Dave, who set up surveillance on the bus bench outside the store, spent too much time negotiating blow jobs with the hookers who worked that corner.
Soon the “Guns” appeared – five of the most gorgeous testosterone-laden hunks of man-flesh I’ve yet to see outside of a Chippendales show.

“Mine, mine, mine!” I chortled happily as the store’s only female employee.
Since the company that supplied us with the Guns hired only ex-military and law enforcement personnel, I could pick between a State Trooper, a Marine, a couple of police officers, and my particular favorite, a mysterious Ninja-assassin who told me his Number One Priority was to save my ass.

“I’ll take a bullet for you, babe,” he said. Encased in bullet-proof vests and wearing Batman-like tool belts weighted down with all sorts of crime-fighting devices, I certainly expected all of them to take a bullet for me; still, I baked him a pie.

Robbery, murder and mayhem notwithstanding, probably the biggest problem at the store was dealing with shoplifters. Since the store was big and crammed full of stuff, it was almost impossible for the one or two clerks on duty to police the entire area. Other than the tell-tale sounds of a customer coughing up a lung to mask the noise of a bag being ripped open and shoved into a purse or coat pocket, there was little else to indicate crimes were being committed right under our noses. Okay, the guy who bent over to retrieve a penny and had fifteen copies of Double D Housewives spill out of his shirt was a gift, but this was a rare thing.

“Where can I stow this guy?” asked my Ninja late one evening, as he gently guided a very well-dressed gentleman aged about fifty into the store. I thought the man was sick until I heard the clink of chains and realized he was handcuffed.

“Caught him stealing, babe. Where can I stick him while I do some paperwork?”

“How about the break room? You can chain him to the fridge.” I guess there are things more embarrassing than spending two hours shackled to a major appliance inside a porn store, but at the moment, I’m hard pressed to think of any.

When the local cops arrived to take him away, they made Mr. Well Dressed empty his pockets and open his pants. Stuffed inside his slacks were five pair of silk panties and a package of glow-in-the-dark condoms. In his jacket pocket was a copy of the novel “Mrs. Porter Spanks the Milkman,” and in his left sock was a bottle of cinnamon flavored massage oil.

“Did you steal this stuff?” one cop asked. I thought it was obvious that he did, but apparently the law walks a very fine line. If he had enough money to pay for everything, he could claim he was merely carrying it in an eccentric manner. Luckily for us, he only had $6 on him, and he had taken $88 worth. The cops led him away after reading him his rights and it was just like being on TV.

A few days later, I heard shouting out on the sidewalk. When I peeked out the door, I saw two of the Guns struggling with a little skinny guy. The air was cloudy with pepper spray and invective.
“Want me to call 911?” I yelled, and one of the Guns shouted back, “Ya think?” It looked like pro wrestling, with the two big Guns twirling the guy around over their heads. Every time they’d hit him – POW – like a piñata, another item stolen from the store would fly out of his shirt.

Suddenly, with a heart-rending shriek, the shoplifter threw himself in the air, squirted through the Guns’ fingers like mercury, and was gone, disappearing into heavy rush hour traffic.