a Women Writers' Showcase
Women Can Be Such Pigs!
by Wayne Scheer

"The way they stare, undressing me with their eyes.  It makes me feel so dirty."  I paused as my wife held me close.  "Women can be such pigs!"

"I know, baby.  I know," she whispered, trying to calm my wounded pride.  "But when a man is as sexy as you…" I felt her hand gliding over my rear end. 

"Not now," I said, pulling away.  "Can't you just hold me?"

I had just gone to the supermarket to pick up a few things for dinner.  Since I guessed Vickie would be home when I returned from the store, I changed into a pair of tan slacks that were her favorite.  Something about these pants made my waist seem slimmer and my butt shapelier.  Tucking in my new black polo shirt that was just tight enough in the sleeve to suggest a little bicep cleavage, I checked my reflection in the mirror. "I look pretty good for a man who raised three children," I said aloud.

Before slipping black loafers onto my sockless feet, I brushed my naturally wavy hair, trying to give it a little height on the top.  Although my once black hair had long ago given way to white, I thought the contrast of silver against the black of my shirt collar gave me a rather sporty, prematurely gray look.

I felt good about my appearance.  I worked hard to keep my body firm, so why not flaunt it while I still could?

But once I pulled into the parking lot I wondered if I should have worn baggy jeans and a dirty T-shirt.  There was a group of teenage girls standing by the shopping carts, leering at the men.  "Hey, daddy," I heard one call to me.  "Yo mama's right here."  I offered no _expression and just kept walking towards the store entrance, holding my head high.

I'll admit at first I felt a slight twinge of satisfaction that these young women found me attractive.  But their calls became increasingly more aggressive and vulgar.  "Hey, where you going to, sweet buns?"  I heard one of them ask.  "Don't walk away from me.  You know I got what you like."

Now I was starting to get a little agitated.  I wasn't afraid; it was the middle of the afternoon and the lot was filled with people.  Maybe that's what I found so annoying.  Not one person offered to help.  In fact, I spied out of the corner of my eye a smile on the face of a woman about my age. 

Women.  They never seem to outgrow that adolescent sisterhood thing!

The girls followed me as I felt their beady little eyes burning into my flesh. Another shouted, "Ohh, look at that booty.  You wear boxers or briefs, man?"

I felt naked. Like I was in a bad dream.

"Whoo-whee," they were shouting now.  And whistling.  That did it.  There was nothing that annoyed me more than a whistling female. Could they possibly think that's sexy?  Wow, I thought. You can stick two dirty fingers in your mouth and blow.  Now that's a real turn on.

Out of control, I spun around and began shouting at them, hoping I wouldn't break into tears.  "Do your daddies know where you are?  Is this the way you want young ladies to treat your fathers?" 

My outburst had silenced them, and I entered into the sanctuary of the supermarket.  My hands were shaking as I checked my shopping list to regain my composure.

Must a man endure such rudeness just because he happens to be attractive?

Although they weren't in sight as I returned to my car, when I got home I was still a wreck.  My wife was sitting on her recliner reading the newspaper as I walked in carrying the groceries.  "Can I help you?" she asked, making no attempt to get up.

After telling her the story of my harrowing encounter she held me close for a few seconds and whispered in my ear, "I'm sorry you had to go through that, baby."  Then I felt her hand on my ass.

After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write.  Since he retired, he has published over fifty stories and essays in both electronic and print media.  His work has appeared in The Pedestal Magazine, Literary Potpourri, Fiction Warehouse, Prose Ax, Skive Magazine, Scrivener's Pen, River Walk Journal, Flashquake, Thought Magazine, Cynic Magazine, Espresso Fiction and Laughter Loaf.  In 2002, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Wayne lives in Atlanta, Georgia although he is originally from Brooklyn, New York.  He's also lived in Texas, Iowa, North Carolina and Louisiana.  Currently, he spends more time alone with his computer than he cares to admit.  He's been married for thirty-seven years to an extremely patient and understanding woman.

He likes email, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.