Casey performed at least one sex act back in the Brentano's 'Kids' section. He told me about it while we walked from the Beverly Center to turn in the afternoon deposit. Or he told me while getting a hot dog at Tail O' the Pup after the deposit. Or in the store itself, opening or closing, or even back in a quiet moment between customers in 'Science Fiction/Fantasy', Casey's go-to for reading material.
It's all a blur. It couldn't help but be. About 1 in every 10 sentences out of Casey's mouth orbited his nutsack.
For someone so unapologetically sharing about his sexual exploits, Casey had almost zero tolerance for sex-related counter jabs.
Once he held up some new release, a book and frisbee sealed in cellophane, and he asked, "What do you think this is?"
"Your mother's diaphragm," I said.
Casey looked disgruntled. He did bounce back relatively quickly. Of course he did. I was locked in the front row, never complaining when he'd whisper fresh exploits, even with the curly haired waif on staff, one of the many women he delighted in denigrating, living up to his oft-voiced credo, "I'm not a nice guy, Bri."
Since virtually all of my adult working life involves serving the public, I collect anecdotes. A recent one, the creepiest one, the one with the most resonance involves a dad dropping his kid and wife off on university grounds. Kid and mom go to join a campus tour. Dad goes to find parking. Dad pays the gatehouse attendant for a parking permit. The gatehouse attendant can't help but notice in dad's lap is a smartphone, the paused screen displaying a naked woman arrested in what appears to be mid-writhe. Like she's riding someone. Like dad here has been driving the streets, porn spooling out on his khakis the entire time.
The problem for the harasser or the sex bragger or the sex addict is to balance variables.
For the harasser and bragger, it's target/audience and environment. For the addict, it's constant deflection of the unwanted on-looker.
Not being a woman, I can't vouch for it, but being harassed, it would seem essential issues eroding from control are safety and security -- the safety of the workplace and the security of the job.
For a harassed male, wanting to keep employment secure is important, but I'd substitute identity for safety.
Men aren't supposed to get harassed. It's like suffering rape if you're a guy. Does it mean you aren't masculine enough? Does it mean maybe you wanted another guy to give it to you? Maybe you're gay after all.
Remove the physical attack and substitute unwanted verbal gymnastics sourcing from a woman or man, and it's still demeaning, and a sure launch into the twilight zone. How can you stay on the same parcel of self if you're accusing someone who weighs all of a buck-ten of peeling back that supposedly hardy rind?
I never met Kevin Spacey. He never looked at me. No one ever introduced us. But not long after he won the Academy Award for American Beauty, he ended up at the Brentano's cash register. One of the temp employees freaked the fuck out -- an almost odd occurrence given the fact the Beverly Center was prime stomping grounds for celebrities from Jason Alexander to Larry Flynt. The 'almost' qualifier solidly in place since 6' tall Rebecca successfully betrayed her Swedish roots with vocal gymnastics arguably pertinent to the introduction of Keyser Soze to her afternoon register shift. At least one other employee, a perennial knock-knock-knocker on the acting fame door, was incensed that Rebecca couldn't display more decorum in the presence of newly entitled Hollywood royalty.
The closest I've ever gotten to getting propositioned was when an obviously intoxicated and quite possibly mentally unstable Los Angeles Public Library patron offered to suck my cock. We were in the 'Gardening' section at the downtown branch. He stood on the other side of the shelf, staring through the void created after I'd slid a book into my hand. After about three seconds of broadcasting system-wide confusion, the signal bounced off his antennae, and for all I know he wandered off and found a willing participant that very hour.
I don't question my would-be paramour's attempt. Deep cored in my being is an unsettling resilience, or, tolerance, or, flat out chicken-shit gene. A girl I pined for once pinched my arm black, laughing that I hadn't let her know it hurt. The current deluge of revelations presents evidence of the hegemony in if not decay, sudden disarray. The time for tolerance might be over. If it means scum like Brett Ratner faces prison time or just final total excommunication from the glittering basin, the world can't help but be a better place.
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