All participants are 18 or over.
*****
I knew what to expect when Mr. Collins came into the store. He usually winked and waved in my direction and let his eyes hold mine for several seconds longer than felt normal. He usually managed to stand behind me for a bit while I swept the floors or stocked the shelves with canned goods. I never knew how to respond to these overtures.
Mr. Collins was not the only regular customer who eyed me this way. Mrs. Barron and Mrs. Tusk frequently checked me out, letting their eyes linger on my ass or crotch just a little longer than propriety would allow. Even the widow Mulkey, a woman in her late fifties, flirted with me shamelessly. These ladies all tipped well for their grocery deliveries too and I did my best to win them over with my smiles.
Mr. Collins was the only man who looked at me as if I was a woman.
It was 1988 and I was eighteen, working as a clerk, gofer and delivery boy in the last family-owned downtown grocery store. I was tall, rangy and clean-cut. As I said, I swept the floors and replenished the produce section and restocked shelves of dry goods. I never had to act as cashier in the store, a fact for which I was profoundly grateful; my job allowed me more mobility than being chained to a cash register.
In those days, family-owned stores offered their customers extra value, and free delivery was one of the perks of shopping at Grant's Grocery. Some of the orders were cash-on-delivery while others were pre-paid. My employer, Mr. Grant, would use his car to make larger deliveries, but he often relied on me to deliver the smaller orders by bicycle. The bike was specially fitted with an extra-large basket that could hold banana boxes filled with groceries.
This Saturday afternoon, Mr. Collins followed me around the store, filling his cart as he went. The store wasn't very large, so it was impossible for me not to notice him. When I looked at him, he smiled, but it was a lewd smile full of knowledge and promise. It made me uncomfortable because I realized that his overtures were similar to the women who flirted with me. I knew something about gay people, of course, but I had never been the object of a gay man's attention. Part of me was flattered while the indoctrinated homophobe in me rejected his overtures, but unconsciously, I found myself appraising him furtively in return.
Mr. Collins was probably fifty. He was taller than me with a powerful build and wide frame. He carried a few extra pounds around his belly, but otherwise he looked quite fit. His muscular arms made mine look like sticks. Brown eyes looked out from under thick black eyebrows. His hair was black also, straight and full, with just a little grey at the temples.
When Mr. Collins brought his cart to the front and laid out his items for the check-out girl, May, she called me over. May was Mr. Grant's daughter, and her orders were as good as her father's.
"Can you box up this order for delivery to Mr. Collins' place?"
I nodded, and as May checked out each item, I neatly placed them in a sturdy banana box. The rows of canned goods and other non-perishables layered the bottom of the box while fragile items like eggs, bread and buns were placed on top.
"Best buns in town right here," Mr. Collins said, and for the first time, he touched me. He closed his hand over my ass and kneaded my buttocks. I stiffened but I was too embarrassed to draw attention to this invasion of my space. May might have thought Mr. Collins was talking about the buns she just registered, or she may have thought he was making a flattering remark about her ass; either way, she smiled patiently and had no idea that her customer was fondling her stock clerk's arse. I blushed a deep crimson and it felt like my ears were burning. Mr. Collins withdrew his hand to complete the transaction with the cashier, paying for his groceries in full.
"I have some errands to do around town," Mr. Collins said. "I won't be home until five. Can you deliver then?" It was Saturday afternoon. We closed at five and I was sure he knew it. Delivering the next day was out of the question because the old-fashioned family business was closed Sundays. Making a customer wait two days for his delivery was out of the question.
"Do you mind a few minutes of overtime?" May might have noticed my colouring; I'm sure I was still blushing furiously. "You can take the bike home for the weekend."
"No," I fumbled over my words. "No, I don't mind. I'll be there shortly after five, Mr. Collins."
"Good," he said, beaming at me. "I will be ready for you."
Mr. Collins left the store, and I looked at the time: three o'clock. I would be going to Mr. Collins' house in just two hours.
The man had been clever, I thought. By scheduling my delivery errand for the very end of the day, he had arranged that I was free from work the moment I reached his place. Perhaps he was planning something more than flirting. This thought simultaneously frightened me and, to my surprise, aroused me. Well, was it so strange to be turned on when someone finds you attractive? Maybe not, but this was a customer, not to mention a man old enough to be my father.
When five o'clock arrived, I loaded up my bike with shaking hands and May locked the door behind me as she closed up shop. With the groceries in place, I shoved off with an anxious grunt and rode toward the address written on the side of the box in marker. I knew the area slightly, certainly well enough to find my destination.
I arrived at Mr. Collins' address and rode my bike up the driveway. There was a car parked there. If he has a car, I wondered, why have his groceries delivered? I wondered if it was just a pretext for my presence here. I got off the bicycle and lifted the box of groceries out of its basket, letting the bike fall on the customer's lawn by the front door. The canned goods made the box heavy and I carried it with all my might; at eighteen, my shoulders had yet to broaden and the muscles in my arms were still underdeveloped. I managed to reach the door and ring the doorbell.
A moment later, Mr. Collins opened the door and greeted me, beckoning me inside with a familiar, cheerfully-intoned invitation: "Enter freely and of your own will." I remembered that this was the line Dracula used on Jonathan Harker as he crossed the threshold of the vampire's castle. I felt uneasy. Things hadn't worked out so well for Dracula's guest.
I entered the house, prepared to carry the groceries to Mr. Collins' kitchen, and I started to kick off my shoes until Mr. Collins told me not to worry about that. I followed him to the kitchen with my burden.
"That looks heavy," Mr. Collins said. "Why don't you set it down on the counter?"
I obeyed, relieved not only to be unburdened of the heavy goods, but also at the completion of business. I could leave now without giving Mr. Collins any opportunity to accost me. Yet, I found myself delaying over courtesies.
"Thanks," Mr. Collins said.
"You're welcome," I replied automatically. "I, uh, I guess I'll get going."
"I have a bad back. Aren't you going to help me put this stuff away?" He had cleared the lighter products from the box, leaving the rows of canned soups and vegetables.
Bad back, my ass. I measured my dwindling chances of escape, but right now I was acting as my boss' representative for the store; what would he do? He'd put the customer's wishes first.
"Uh, sure," I said meekly. "Where do you want these canned goods?"
"I keep the cans in there." He pointed at a cupboard under the counter. I hefted the box off the counter and set it on the floor. I opened the cupboard door and saw that the interior was nearly empty. "Can you put them in as far under as you can?"
In order to do that, I had to get on my knees and lean into the cupboard, supporting my weight on my left hand while my right hand was occupied in loading the cupboard, can after can. I was suddenly very conscious that my position showed off my ass to Mr. Collins; my jeans were loose at the back and I was sure I was exposing the crack of my arse, plumber-butt style.
Even as the thought occurred to me, I felt a feather-light finger tracing its way down my lower back toward my ass. Startled, I jumped and hit my head on the top of the cupboard even as I placed the last can.
"Ow," said Mr. Collins. "That sounded like it hurt. Let's pull you out of there and get you to a seat."
Slightly dazed and seeing stars, my customer helped me to my feet. He walked me out of the kitchen and into the living room. I needed no urging to sit down on the couch. To my surprise, Mr. Collins lifted my feet up onto the cushions and lay my head back against a padded armrest.
"I'll get you a Tylenol and a drink of water. Stay here."
