S.G. Browne

There’s a sign on the door that says:

Not Responsible for Accidental Pregnancies

When you walk into the room, the first think you notice is the lifelike sex doll in a black g-string and bra, bent over the love seat, her vacant eyes staring back at you over her shoulder.

Next to her is a floor to ceiling bookcase filled with videotapes and DVDs with titles like The Cunt of Monte Cristo and Cum Like It’s Hot, while issues of Playboy and Penthouse and Hustler are fanned out on the glass coffee table that seems to hover above the thick, white shag carpet.

In the bedroom, mirrors reflect you from every angle.  Dildos and fleshlights and lubricants adorn the bedside table, while the circular bed is covered in blue silk sheets and purple velvet pillows.

Barry White is singing “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe.”

There’s a condom dispenser in the bathroom.

Looks like Grandpa’s been shopping again.

I find myself unable to deal with the horrors that confront me each morning as the clock strikes eight times and the bone chilling shrieks of hellish monsters assault my sensibilities.  I can barely breathe at the frightful stench, can barely hear my thoughts through the endless screams, can barely keep from succumbing to madness at the hideous sight of mucous flowing from noses, spilling over lips, and spraying out in long, ichorous ropes and foul mists into the fetid air of my home.

Curse the spirits that compelled me to open this day care center.

People are always asking me what it’s like to look like urine.

These are the people who laugh at me.  Who walk away snickering and high-fiving each other and thinking they’re all that.

Men usually.  Teenage boys.  Fraternity members.

Assholes.

Women, on the other hand, are more likely to ask me how they look in me.  Personally, I wish they’d ask the question in reverse but for some reason, most women tend to think I’m gay.  Maybe not as many who think the same thing about Pink, but then that’s kind of a no-brainer.  He’s Pink, for Christ’s sake.

Then, of course, there’s Red, Pink’s cousin, who most women find totally hot.  Fucker.  He’s all show and no substance.  But it’s kind of hard to compete with Red when your complementary color is Purple.

I walk into the room.

Into the bar.

Into the club.

Music pumping and bodies sweating and alcohol lubricating libidos.

I see women clustering together in two and threes for safety.  I see single women forcing false smiles and looking uncomfortable.  I see the reason for their discomfort moving through the room in a wave of testosterone — aggressive and tactless and completely devoid of class.

Men hover over the women.  Leer at them.  Force themselves upon them with alcohol on their breath and sex on their minds — their hands grasping, their pelvises thrusting, their mouths speaking in coarseness and vulgarities.

This is my quest.  This is where I belong.  To teach these brutes the fine art of romance.

I am Captain Charm.