Ya just had to push me, didn't ya.

Every now and again for about the last twenty months a certain customer has put in appearances in my store. For our purposes, we shall call him Fauntleroy.

Now Fauntleroy is not someone that you'd usually think to be a habitué of an adult store. He's a quiet spoken man of middle years with a nice car and good clothing. I wouldn't be surprised in the least if he normally wears a suit in his professional life. I do know that he's never hesitated to buy movies or toys on seeming impulse without concern about the price. So he was either attempting to impress someone behind the counter, is well off, or both.

Sadly, it is not his shopping habits that have etched Fauntleroy in my awareness. Instead, it's because this guy is seven varieties of head-ache in an unassuming wrapper.

It is one of those odd circumstances that if a customer is going to attempt to flirt with me, it will be a man. Every blue moon or so, some lady will flutter her eyelashes at me, but largely it seems that men are the only ones who really want to attempt to chat someone up in an adult store setting. Fauntleroy is one of them. Whatever. If I wasn't able to accept compliments and attention from individuals outside my preference range, I wouldn't be behind the counter here.

Most folks upon receiving polite non-response will just take it in stride that I wasn't interested. No reason to be embarrassed. No reason to affect their continued patronage. For some benighted reason, Fauntleroy doesn't seem to possess this keen insight. Even so, this would only be a minor irritation if not for the rest.

Fauntleroy has some fetishes. From the beginning, he has inquired about whether he could do certain things in the arcade. Personally, I don't care what people do in the arcade as long as they're keeping their movies going and it isn't illegal, damages store property, or bothers other customers. At the time, I just thought the little booger was just an exhibitionist. If he wanted to strip naked and keep his door cracked, that was his business unless/until it impacted other customers.

Subsequent visits revealed he was in fact pursuing an agenda with his questions. It wasn't long before he wanted someone to keep his clothes behind the counter. He'd give them a large tip. OK, now things are moving in strange and murky directions. I tried to handle it in a polite, professional manner. Not the norm, but questions are not usually a problem.

That's what makes it such a delightful treat when the universe hand-delivers an exception.

It was as if the dam had burst with Fauntleroy. I had been unflappable and made the heinous mistake of answering him as if he was a rational adult. Abruptly he started asking less and less appropriate questions. He wanted me to issue him orders. He wanted me to watch him. He wanted me to touch him. He wanted me to hit him. (Granted I did want to strike him several times by this point, but do you have any idea how time-consuming it is to clean up medium velocity blood spatter and cast-off? Let alone disposing of the shattered corpse.) He wanted to know if I wanted a slave-boy. He wanted to know if I knew anyone who wanted a slave-boy. In short, he wanted to drag me kicking and screaming into his fantasy life. I was not amused in the least. He offered money, offered to buy anything in the store as long as I would use it on him.

The term "Red Flags the size of Canada" would not be uncalled for here. In my mind's eye, the Earth was suddenly fluttering with enough sanguine-hued fabric, Lenin would cream himself.

I had thought he'd accepted my solidly stated "no." About five months elapsed where if he did come into the store, he had a petite Asian woman with him. I was hoping this meant he'd found someone of his own and his days of being a snag in my shift were past. At the end, he started hinting around about whether I'd be interested in doing things to his companion. So much for my hopes. Didn't see him again for a couple months.

When Fauntleroy made his last appearance, he launched into attempting to schmooze or bribe me into agreeing to interact with him in some fashion. Eventually, he even asked me how much money he could offer me to let him grovel, serve, etc. after store closing or outside of work.

No. Fuck no. Congratulations, you've now stripped away whatever shreds of tolerance I ever granted you. Thank you so much for trying to talk me into things. Just because I told you "no" once, maybe I'd change my mind the fifth time you asked. I appreciate so much how you believe my professionalism is follows the highest bidder. And you have no inkling the depth of contempt and rage you have just tapped into. It is so wonderful to know that my forbearance and civility have backfired so hideously with you. I shall not take that misstep again I assure you.

He is not a customer here any longer. He will never be a customer here again.

It taught me a lesson however. I've skimmed around the internet for a while over the years and I've read blogs like Mistress Matisse, who've had entries about warning signs to recognize a bad client. They were largely written by escorts or as in the case of my example, a dominatrix. It honestly hadn't occurred to me that these signals would bear direct application in my work. Until Fauntleroy. Silly me, I thought the distance of a counter would prevent needing that particular level of scrutiny. (And honestly, the warning signs will save you lots of aggravation in your personal life. It's grade A distilled human behavior analysis.)

I hate when I'm slow to catch on.