Not that I mind High Society. I used to work in a Cumberland Farms and it was my favourite magazine to skim through. That and Swank. I always found the guys in these magazines to be way better than Playgirl. Personally, I don't think they're magazines for straight guys, anyway.
Now, of course, Cumbies has a problem with employees stealing magazines, so here's what I used to do, if a particular male model caught my eye (and many did).
How to steal dirty magazines out of your favorite retail establishment...
At the end of each month, we would replace the old magazines with the new editions and place the old editions in the back room, for return to the dealer for credit. Those magazines would be stored in the back until they were picked up. Now I would always bring with me a notebook in order to write stories at work during the down time.
But the notebooks had another use, too. See, what I could do was to go into the back room with the pad, head to the box containing the magazines, and rip out those pages that I had taken a fancy to, and slip them into my notebook. Worked every time, and never got caught in my four years of working there. In fact, I even received a stereo for my years of faithful service..
But I was, primarily, a good boy. Sunday mornings were the best days to work. Waking up at five. Getting in before sunrise to put together the Sunday papers. The feel of ink of my hands. Hot jazz--Louis Armstrong, Ella, Sara, Billie--coming from the tape deck. The regulars coming in for their coffee. Ah, I remember the smell of the coffee, as I'd put in a new filter and open up a package. I'd hover my nose around the edge of the package and inhale deeply. Heaven.
My favorite regular was a lady named Joan. Short cropped, brown hair, steel blue eyes, pug nose. Chain smoker. Face had been scarred in an automobile accident. She had been drinking. Quit boozing after that. More sandpaper in her throat than Brenda Vaccaro, or a bird gone hog wild on gravel and grit.
Stories about Joan--warning--do not read if you're squeamish!
She worked in a mental institution and would tell me whacked out stories about the patients. Like one patient who would excessively masturbate to the point that his schlong became all red and raw, and so the head of the facility decided it was necessary to place his member under a heat lamp for healing. He asked for volunteers to hold the patient's tallywacker while the lamp was on.
"I'll do it." a little voice said from the back room.
"Who's that?" he asked, and the team parted like the Red Sea to reveal Wanda, a little 80-year-old lady who had raised her hand to volunteer. Get it however you can, sister.
The absolute worst story she told me was one involving a female patient who enjoyed inserting objects inside herself for sexual pleasure. The facility head decided that this was inappropriate behavior and removed all objects that could possibly be used as a phallus from her room.
The next day, my friend Joan noticed this patient sitting in the cafeteria, looking out the window intently. She didn't think anything of it, although she was wondering what the hell she was so interested in.
About two weeks went by, during which time, the staff was pleased to report to the facility head that this patient had not had any more "incidents." "Ah, case closed," he thought.
A few days later, this patient became very ill and had to be rushed to the hospital. High fever, severe abdominal cramps. Once there, the doctors gave her a thorough examination. Everything seemed to be fine, except for the dead bird that they discovered inserted inside her vagina...
Joan eventually became an employee there, and we had a lot of fun together. She was 40, and I was about 20. She even had me eat over for supper one time. But then I quit, and I never saw her again. Funny how life is like that.