A new store popped up next to the freeway not too long ago.

At first it seemed like a house, but that was quickly dispelled when a large yellow and black sign was erected, adorned with 3 large X's.

This was one of those kinds of stores.

I imagine the inside smelling of latex, plastic, and something almost fruity yet synthetic. If it weren't for the lull of radio music descending from the ceiling speakers, the place would be a tomb. Even the library has more noise, which is odd since sex is anything but quiet, reserved, and tidy. The large, fake phalluses are alien in color, size and design.

 The mind reels attempting to fathom who designs these things. Are there meetings about texture? Color? Name? It's difficult to see factory testers fondling them before packaging.

Do the employees of such places confess to what it is they do all day? And what do they tell their children?

But the men who wander the sterile feeling aisles (because there is no use in pretending that equal amounts of men and women frequent such a place), the stories behind the eyes of these men are varied and tragic:

The business suit too dedicated to his job to find a true love, the questioning teens tiptoeing through foreign territories, and the more prurient often expected to be in such a place--all of them peruse the store shelves trying to find what tickles their fancies.

Outside, beneath those 3 large yellow and black X's, when one moves beyond entendre of stingers and honey pots, are the words: "Open 24 Hours"----

Fitting; loneliness never takes time off.