EXCESS HOLLYWOOD:  PORN THEATRE BATHROOMS AND BESTIALITY Image

Boston. More than a decade ago. I was on a little vacation with a few of my friends. I owed one of them, we’ll call him Silky, some money. As we cruised through a porn district, Silky came up with an idea. “If you go into one of these shops and find me some bestiality, we’ll call it square.”

“Why don’t you go?” I asked. “I don’t have my ID.” He looked about fifteen, so that would be a problem.

His deal sounded fair enough to me. I love porn, so visiting some adult bookstores would be a pleasure. Porn, horror movies and good pizza. That’s the life I want to lead.

The first store I went in was fairly typical with magazines and videos as far as the eye could see. I felt like an eight-year-old at Disneyworld. So many breasts, vaginas and gaping anuses. So much sperm. Look! There’s an “actress” on the box of some bj gonzo film who looks like Susan Sarandon. I had no time to check that out, though. I had to find animal sex.

I checked out the magazines and didn’t see anything that looked remotely like bestiality. I noticed that I was the only customer in the store, which meant it was safe to approach the man behind the counter. He was preoccupied with a newspaper, so I had to cough to get his attention.

“Yeah?” he asked, looking up from the paper. Behind him, on several black and white monitors, were different views of the store’s viewing booths. For those who don’t know, viewing booths are where people pay some money to “preview” dozens of different pornos before buying them. You’re not supposed to jerk off in the booth, or even go in with someone else, but I don’t think that rule is strictly enforced. In other words, it’s a masturbation closet with a television.

“Do you have anything different … special?” I asked, not really knowing how to approach the subject.

“Different? Special? What do you mean?”

I looked around nervously. Years later when I would work in a porno store, I would find this type of behavior amusing. “Like … harder,” I elaborated.

“You mean like kids or animals?” he asked.

“Animals! Yes! Animals!” I’m such a dork.

“Nope.”

As if on cue — like something out of an independent film of worth — a man exited the viewing booth area. He had a huge black dog on a leash.

I got out of there so fucking fast there were Looney Tunes speed lines behind me.

Silky was pissed that I came out empty handed. He didn’t want to hear about the guy and his dog, either. He was more of a visual type.

A few stores later, and I still had no luck. In a moment of desperation, I bought him a copy of a magazine called Hong Kong Cocksucker. I knew he liked Asians, so why not?

“What the hell is this?” he asked as he paged through the awful magazine. “This lady is forty and ugly!” He was kind enough not to mention that she was wearing too much makeup.

“True,” I agreed, “but she is a Hong Kong cocksucker. She’s a dog, right? Well, that’s kind of like bestiality.”

“You still owe me the money.”

I had one more store to try, and it was a beauty. It actually had a movie theatre attached to it where porn played 24/7. When I die, that is where I want to go.

I started to go through the doors when an Asian female, who kind of resembled Jabba the Hutt, stopped me. “You can’t go in there,” she said from behind the box office glass.

I flashed my ID and started to walk back into the store.

“Five dollars!” she shouted.

“What?”

“Five dollars to see the movie.”

“I don’t want to see the movie,” I told her. “I just want to go in the store part.”

“Five dollars. You can watch all day.”

“I don’t want to watch all day. I’m looking for something to buy.”

At this point the manager came out to see what the fuss was about. I’ve had managers come out of their offices before because of me, but never at a porno store/theatre. That was a first. I’m kind of proud of that, too.

They agreed to let me into the store without paying my five dollars, but I couldn’t see the film. Fair enough.

As I looked at the magazines, I could hear the sounds of the skin flick bleeding through the store’s cardboard walls. There was lots of grunting, moaning and screaming. It all sounded very exciting. I know I promised not to see the movie, but I had to debate the merits of breaking that promise. What was the worst that could happen? Arrested? That would be funny. Nobody was looking ….

I made my way toward the back of store. There were no signs to tell me where to go, so I went down this long, dark hallway, the sounds of copulating actors growing ever so closer. I pushed open a door, prepared to see a vagina the size of Mighty Joe Young on the screen before me.

Discarded condoms on the floor. A stained sink. The smell of stale urine. Toilet stalls with holes cut out of their partitions. Oh fuck, I’m in the men’s room.

Folks, take it from me. If you go to a porno theatre, you don’t want to use the bathroom. Girls may not know this, but men’s rooms –especially those in porno theatres, public parks and certain Catholic churches — are used for gay sex. If you accidentally wander into one and don’t want to give or receive a blow job, your best bet is to leave ASAP, which is what I attempted to do.

I spun around … and found a huge guy standing in the middle of the doorway. When I say huge, I mean football player huge. I’m talking tall and wide with a face all pushed in by genetics and fighting. Muscles barely contained by his shirt. And that grin. I was so fucked. Good-bye anal virginity. And I really hate warm liquids, too.

“What ya looking for?” the man asked, continuing to grin at me. I was waiting for him to drool.

“The exit!” I exclaimed as I ducked past him.

He turned. “Come back!”

That was the second store I ran from that day. I bolted right past the manager and Asian Jabba as they counted money. Speed lines and cartoon smoke marked my exit this time.

As far as Silky and I go, I think we called it even, but I actually came out ahead because I learned a bunch of interesting things that day. Bestiality isn’t easy to find in Boston, and you don’t want to accidentally end up in the men’s room of a porno theatre. I also learned that Hong Kong Cocksucker was far too expensive for what it delivered, but that’s the case with most professional porn.

I still wonder about that one movie, though. The one with the actress who looked like Susan Sarandon. Could it have been her? Is it possible she starred in some blow job movie that isn’t in her filmography on the Internet Movie Database? Anything’s possible I guess, but next time I’m back in Boston, I aim to find out.

And this time I’ll pay the five fucking dollars and ask for directions.

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