It’s a Wednesday night at Target, right between the suppertime rush and the late-night, drunk college student rush. You’re hoping to avoid all contact.

There’s technically only one item on your list, but you grab a basket just as cover. Any classroom credibility you’d built up would be sufficiently dashed if a student spots you wielding a set of car keys in one hand and a blue box of KY product in the other. So much for a nondescript package.

No familiar faces greet you when you walk into Target, but there’s an equally horrifying sight: no self-check out.

That’s only Wal-Mart! Shiit!

So you quickly dig into evasive maneuvering: you’ll need to purchase other products. Encircle the item in question with a variety of household products so as to sneak past the condemning gaze of the Target cashier.

Luckily, you need some stuff: so after grabbing the $15 KY jelly, you round up dish soap, one of those puffy chairs for sitting up in bed, and toilet paper.

You assemble your items in your covert basket, but suddenly, you realize all these items could play integral parts in a not-too-creative sexual fantasy—industrial-strength lube (for back-up), leverage, and clean-up tissue.

So you stop by the cereal aisle for a bag of Cocoa-Puffs.

That’ll throw her.

Then you make your way to the cashier. She’s a humbling sight. Her name is “Marcia.” She’s roly-poly. And she’s got a nice smile—like one of those cats playing piano.

When was the last time she had sex? Will she get depressed when she sees my products? Is she a closet freak who listens to Ludacris and may make some off-color comment about lubicrant?

Now you’re terrified. So, instead of facing your fears head-on, you spin the tables.

“Hey, how ya doing tonight?!” You bark as you eagerly unpack your basket. “Some snow coming I hear!”

At “I hear!” you slam down the bottle of Ajax dish soap and a long stream of red juice spurts up and out the nozzle from the pressure. There is red goop everywhere. Essentially, the metaphor is lost on no one. You’ve blown your wad.

“Oh my god, I swear this never happens.”

She looks at you funny.

“I mean, of course it never happens. Only when I want it to,” you stammer.

She still eyes you funnily.

“Do you want me to clean up?” She asks.

“Yes, please clean up. I’m sorry. Just so sorry.”

You leave the experience feeling cold, shallow, and humiliated. Marcia will never call back. And you think about going over to Wal-Mart, but it’s just too easy now. So instead you head home, prop up your pillow, set out the KY next to your bedside, pull back the sheets, and pour yourself a bowl of Cocoa Puffs.

You sad bastard.

~Dunstan McGill