Sex in the Stop 'n' Go

I’m here in Myrtle Beach (“the Emerald City”) with the family on “vacation.” I’m a little disappointed, as Mom had told me that they were going to give me a room of my own so I could get some work done while still enjoying some time with everyone else. Some time between the time those words left her mouth and the time I arrived, something changed. I have never been verbally apprised of that change. All I know is that my bags are in the room where there are two beds, one of which my Granny occupies, and my computer is in the den… the hub of activity, which will tomorrow pit Gershwin against “Veggie Tales.” I can’t complain, because the ocean is through a window to my right, and I get to giggle tomorrow when the boys (4 and almost 2) will ask about the “penano” (piano) in the den. But it would have been nice to know.

As I was driving in today, I made a stop in Florence, SC, a place Dave once called home. I stopped for gas, a Dr. Pepper, and peanut M&M’s, but as any wise boy would do, I took advantage of the opportunity to utilize the facilities at this fine establishment. As I have encountered many times on the road, my view over the toilet was of a machine which dispenses various and sundry aids and/or forms of protection for use in sexual activity.

I have often wondered why gas station restrooms near major thoroughfares are the chosen venue for distribution of said product. I am to assume that this is the result of research which indicates that locations surrounding gas stations tend to be the site of more coitus than other locations. I am left to wonder what might be the cause of such a strange balance. Here are a few theories.

1) The word “pump.” Though this has never happened to me, I suppose that a particularly amorous individual could be driven to sudden stimulation by association with an overhearing of this word, and thus must make quick work of relieving his/her urges. Example:

Attendant: “Can I help you?”
Innocent individual (in very, very thick southern accent): “Yeah, awm, ‘at pack ‘uh Combos, pack ‘uh Wintagreen Skoal, and awm, Pump Seb’m.”
Subject: “Oh, God!”

2) The end of the fueling process itself. For males, the act of tapping the last few drops of fuel from the pump (Easy, now!) has been likened to a similar act when concluding the process of relieving oneself. One could conveniently forget the practical dissimilarities between the two (i.e. - little EPA regulation of urination devices, the fact that male organs can generally not process credit/debit cards) and theoretically fantasize to the point of arousal. Hmm.

3) The fumes, though I have good reason to believe that the fuel most likely to produce fumes which have an aphrodisiac effect is diesel. I did ride in the trucks for six years, and I saw some interesting stuff didn't I (you know who you are)?

4) The Harlequin-esque romantic propositions which can be found etched into and written in marker on bathroom stall doors, walls, mirrors, and anywhere else in a restroom where a would-be-Shakespeare has the potential to reach a flat surface with a spare key or Sharpie. Indeed the sonnets have nothing on, “For hot man luv, meet here on 5/18/05 at 11:40 PM SHARP!!! Rub hand over crotch.” This is often followed by an exquisite portrait of the poet’s physical intentions, sometimes including a diagram of the individual physical components involved in the proposed encounter, the accuracy and vision of which make the Vitruvian Man look like color-by-numbers. Editor’s Note: Guys, it may be wise to avoid the Shell on McLeod Blvd. in Florence late tomorrow night, especially if your britches aren’t fitting perfectly.

Perhaps an alert entrepreneur could take advantage of this and create “RandyMart,” where everyone who attends knows why they’re there. That way, those simply interested in fuel and a Slurpie can go to the Stop ‘n’ Go and not have it rubbed in our face... so to speak.