the pimp-regular

I am a gas station attendant, not a "gas pumper;" the word "pumper" is not even recognized by my t-9 dictionary. But tonight was the second time I've been told I was the prettiest gas pumper someone has ever seen.

The first time this happened, it was an at-least clause. Like, "well, she spilled fuel all over four of our six cans, but at least she's the prettiest gas pumper I've ever seen." And hey, on days when you feel like a failure at the easiest job on earth, you'll take all the sad, well-meaning encouragement cute, old, country men are willing to give.

Tonight thoughk I was told this by a pimp. Now, I'm not in the habit of calling people pimps (please ignore the case of the eerily similar man who works at the Rep), but this guy might as well have had a vanity plate reading "B MY HOE." I didn't catch him with a gold-tipped cane or two waifish women, like the pimp-usher on an opening night, but he came complete with gold teeth and a purple-rimmed, feather-topped fedora. Don't be surprised when, after a few more visits and with a selling smile, he offers to let me B his HOE.

It is a new and disconcerting thing for me to be relentlessly hit on at my place of work. I'm not all that self-conscious about my looks (anymore), but I am by no means stunningly attractive. If a good number of my posts are about attempts at flattery and strategies for keeping my number private, I'm sure it's because standards are lowered and men emboldened in small-town, minimum-wage America.

*edit*
he came back again, said we have to stop meeting like this, asked me how old I was and if he could have some change for the air to inflate his flat tire. he officially creeps me out.