This is the way I heard it.

Roy was not a pervert nor was he a deviant.

He was just a guy in a department store trying to consummate a simple transaction.

But the lady behind the cash register was not convinced.

Will there be anything else, sir, or will you be loitering for the rest of the evening?

Behind the cashiers, Super Silly is smile, a palpable wave of judgment informed her every move.

Like the various clerks who had refused to answer his earlier questions,

this woman stared down her nose at the man who had no business in this part of the store.

Her withering gaze, the very definition of disaprobation.

Please, ma'am, just put it in the bag and I'll be on my way.

Roy slid his credit card furtively across the counter.

The cashier lifted his items into the air, inspecting them, displaying them to the women in line behind him.

I'm going to need to see some ID, sir.

Two forms, if you please.

Roy could feel the disapproval buffeting him from all sides as customers and employees collectively wondered

how a degenerate had been allowed to creep into a reputable department store.

Today, some might say that those women were triggered by Roy's presence, as well as his purchase.

Others might say that Roy was in need of a safe space to explore his personal proclivities in peace.

Alas, in 1977 there were no safe spaces for men like Roy.

Perhaps if there had been a sanctuary of some kind, Roy would not be divorced 13 years later,

or bankrupt, or publicly humiliated.

Maybe if Roy had kept his secret just a little longer, he wouldn't have found himself

...