I saw a lot of shit working retail.

I mean that figuratively AND literally. A small child once dropped a deuce in his pants while I was checking his mom out. The mess was so bad his mom left the store and left her groceries there. I never did know if she ever came back for them.

As fun and enlightening as that experience was, it didn’t have a profound impact on the way I saw the world. When you’re a woman, and you work in the service industry, people feel like they can say whatever the hell they want to you. A regular customer of ours told me that he could always tell when women stepped in too close to the frozen section, as he cleverly put his index fingers at nipple level, and extended them yelling, “Ding! Turkey’s done!”

That was not only one of several comments I heard about nipples, but the least vulgar. The most vulgar was directed at me. About my nipples.

I spent Thanksgiving of 2015 at my grandmother’s house in rural northeastern Pennsylvania. I ate some great food, and had a wonderful time. When I left the next day, and came over the other side of the mountain and got cell service, I was not prepared for the messages I received.

From a five-digit number, with a username I will not mention, I received this:

“Hey East Hill cutie. Aww :D”

My brow furrowed and my mouth formed a small “Who?” Who was this creep? Is he a customer at the Fresh? How does he know my full name? Why did he text me through Skype when I haven’t used it in six years?

My phone vibrated again and my heart jumped. It was him.

“I wanna suck your pink nipples til strawberry milk comes out.”

What the actual hell?

I read it over and over again: I. Wanna suck. Your pink nipples. Til strawberry milk comes out.

One- no fair guessing what color my nipples are. Granted, I am a very pale white woman, so your color choices were limited, but come on- taking away the mystery ruins all the fun.

Two- this (I’m assuming) grown-ass man followed the same logical pattern as a young child. I don’t know about y’all, but until I was about four or five years old, I thought that chocolate milk came from brown cows. Following the same postulate, this man, assuming I had pink nipples, concluded that if he could suck them into lactation, they would produce strawberry milk.

Which is- arguably- the worst flavor of milk. I had half a mind to be insulted that he could possibly think such an abomination could come from my bosom. Obviously, this man had no idea how to talk to women, nor taste in dairy products. I sent a single message in reply, censored here for the more faint-of-heart:

“Who the [redacted] is this and how did you get my number?”

Unfortunately, it failed to deliver.

The moral of the story is, if you find someone attractive, just introduce yourself to them like a person- and don’t trust anyone who likes strawberry milk.