Lisa Carver and Nerve.com
Back in the U.S.A.
We asked the proprietor what was back there. He said porn movie booths, and we handed him two dollars for tokens. He was the strangest man, the kind of guy who looks like he would have no pants on. I can’t imagine him doing anything in life but sitting (pantless) behind that counter and picking up women who are helpless before his untethered libido (but who also feel no need to stick around for seconds). He was lanky and faded and dry. He called vibrators “vibes.” He was bald and his head was scaly and he was not dirty, precisely, but there was the sense that even at the moment he stepped from the shower, he was not exactly clean. It was as if he had greasy hair, although he didn’t have any hair. Yet there was something compelling about him, something pure in his sexfulness. It wasn’t “sexiness,” and it wasn’t “sexuality” I do believe sexfulness is what it was: bursting, unapologetic and dismaying to witness. He was the human form of lust. He told us that most couples who come into the store giggle and run for the door if he speaks to them. But we were transfixed. He twiddled his fingers and bobbed his head like a jack-in-the-box as he talked. He leaned forward on his elbows till his bobbing head almost fell right over the counter into the silver massage balls while explaining to us his philosophy of life, which is basically that he believes in pleasure.
At last there was nothing for us to do but enter that mysterious back room. There were no doors on the booths (New Hampshire law). Two-inch holes were cut in between each booth, for spying or, one supposes, sticking penises through to be licked. We switched between the selection of movies: the gay pool cleaner and the homeowner, the Asian girl with implants getting it from another girl with an enormous strap-on, and an old man in a bucolic setting paddling a pair of blondes wearing little socks and shoes and nothing else. Meanwhile, middle-aged, paunchy, roaming men watched us and each other, and we watched them. I could almost feel the layers of ghost-semen under my squirming bottom when I sat down. All of this, and the proprietor who was aware of everything (and who’d seen it a million times before), and the air of fetid amorousness in the room, seemed to meld into a single organism, and we were just a part of it, not independent individuals anymore. Our hands snaked into each other’s laps. When our tokens ran out, the spell broke, and we left.
Stupefied, we drove to another dirty bookstore, entered and went straight to the back like pros. The video playing was a series of come shots spliced together from different movies, mostly two or three men synchronizing their orgasms so that two or three streams of sperm would hit the girl’s face at the same time. It was all close-ups, nothing but hard, shooting cocks and pink lips licking and sucking and drinking. Very exciting. A man peered through our booth’s penis-hole, and for some reason I felt completely comfortable giving my fiancé a blow job while the eyeballer watched! First I told Dave to move his arm, which was shielding the penis I’d set free from his pants. I wanted the spy to get a quick look at the thing before my head obstructed the picture. It really is a fine penis, straight and tall. If it were in a display case with twenty other penises, I’d pick it. I’m in love with it!
On the way home, Dave felt dirty, sullied, but I felt like a perfectly reasonable person. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do in dirty movie places get a blow job while some gross guy watches? I want to go back to the first shop on a Saturday night that’s when Old Twiddle Fingers said it’s hopping: there are all kinds of couples in the booths, some lesbian, some gay, some straight, some swapping(!). Dave’s afraid he’ll be held down by the lone circlers and forced to do something bad. I think it’s just wishful thinking.