Hello, this is Grampa Dildo. Do I have any mail?

When my dad bought his business about five years ago, I was working at a private school as a teacher’s assistant. We’re a close-knit family though, so when he asked me to help him out and pick up a couple of shifts there a week, I obliged, happy to help and happy to get some unexpected money.

Initially, it was only one night a week and every other Saturday. The one night a week was usually Wednesday and I’d only work like 4pm-7pm so that daddy could leave the store and go to church. On those nights, I mostly just sat at a computer and checked my email and then counted down the tills.

On Saturdays though, it was another story. The regulars all come in on the weekend. We’ve got mailbox customers coming by to check their boxes, people with packages to ship, all kinds of copies being made. It’s a pretty fun day to work because the busy-stuff comes in spurts and then you can spend the rest of the day rockin’ out to the conservative soft rock on the radio and farting around on Facebook.

This is when I met one of our mailbox customers. He’s this sweet old man, easily in his eighties and clad in high-waisted pleated dress pants and cardigan sweaters or tucked in polo shirts. He wears orthopedic shoes and has this adorable soft-spoken, old-fashioned charm about himself that I just adored. My grandfather had passed away a few years previous and I remember squealing to my dad, “I want him to be my new grampa!”

He would call early on Saturday mornings, “Hello, this is [Grampa]. Do I have any mail?” He would go grocery shopping a few doors down on Saturdays and pick up the 2-for-1 pastries in the bakery and bring them to me. He’d pick up the Skirt Magazine or bring me something cute from the local paper. He was SO SWEET!

It wasn’t until I quit my teaching job and went back to college that I realized who he really was. I started working several days a week at the store and one of my new tasks was sorting the mail for the mailbox customers. It’s an interesting thing for someone like me who is inherently nosy (I just like to LEARN!). You have this direct access to people’s personal lives. When sorting the mail, you get familiar with what those Insufficient Funds notices from all the banks look like. You know when people are getting Playboy magazines. You can tell who is an impulsive shopper because they get every catalog known to man.

One day, I’m sorting mail and the first thing I do when I get the big tub from our mailman is pull all of the packages that won’t fit into mailboxes out. We process these by scanning their barcodes into the registers, attaching a receipt to a notification and putting the notification in their respective boxes. I pull all the packages out, go to sort the letter mail and then come back to sort the packages.

There’s one for my favorite grampa! What did he get? No doubt an industrial case of Werther’s Originals! Or maybe some wool sweaters!

Oh, no… That’s not it at all. It’s a large white padded envelope and when I pick it up, it’s quite heavy. Naturally, I’m curious, so I sort of smoosh my hands into the envelope to figure out what might be in there. It’s long… and cylindrical… with a sort of wide base…

No… It couldn’t be. I sort of think— no… C’mon, Jami. This… This isn’t a DILDO is it?

So I look up the return address on the envelope and sure enough, it’s a fetish sex shop… catering to the kind of crowd that likes to put boy slaves in ball gags and chain them up.

Shock and awe. My world was rocked!

So now, I watch his mailbox like a hawk. I cannot help myself. All he gets are packages from sex shops and catalogs from sex shops and Spice TV. That’s ALL he gets.

Needless to say, my entire fantasy about him being my grampa has been ruined by the mental image of his basement with some adorable sweet twink chained up to his pipe fixtures in the ceiling with a ball gag in his mouth.