Sex God Sunday
The place is empty, not even the attendant is in evidence. You sink low into the uncomfortable plastic chair, arms folded across your chest, eyes on the ancient, cracked, colorless linoleum and listen to the quiet slushing of the washer. The place reeks of soap and antiseptic. There is no hope in sight.
You don’t even look up with the chime above the door signals the entrance of another customer. Why bother? It’s not like Hugh Jackman is going to walk in or anything. And even if he did, you are hardly sexy in your sweatpants and t-shirt.