An Unexpected Visitor Surprised Me as I Came Down a Stranger's Throat in an Adult Video Store

I can finally cross "cruising in a 80's-style video store" off my sexual bucket list.

Despite saying yes to nearly every sexual opportunity that hits me in the face, there are still some sexual classics I haven’t experienced: I’ve never been to the Ramble in Central Park for some late-night cruising. I’ve never been fisted. (I’m such a tight, delicate virgin flower!) And up until recently, I’d never been to the backroom of an adult video store. 

I didn’t know video stores still existed in New York. I thought Grindr, ubiquitous access to online porn, and greater acceptance of faggolitahs had put these spots out of business. (I am also dying to know who still buys porno DVDs anymore because these stores still have walls of ‘em.)

But I had a day in Manhattan where I brought my laptop, attended meetings, and meandered around town. On my afternoon stroll, I passed a sex shop and peeked inside. (I never walk past a sex shop; I have to see which brands of sex toys they’re selling and at what markup.) 

I noticed that this quaint establishment had a backroom behind the checkout counter. A sign reading “$10” hung over the door, obscured by a beaded curtain.

“What’s back there?” I asked, damn well knowing the answer. 

“A video room,” he replied slowly. His skepticism was subtle, but I knew what he was thinking: If you don’t know what’s back there, you shouldn’t be going there, sir.

I handed him a Hamilton and cautiously entered the dark abyss. A dozen cubicles were inside, each equipped with a wooden bench and a 12 x 12 CRT television (the opposite of flat screens). Above each “cell” entry hung a curtain that wasn’t wide enough to cover the doorframe fully. Undoubtedly, this was purposeful. Walking through, you could glimpse who was in each room.

I mosied through the corridor, hearing faint sounds of masculine daddies saying, “Yeah, harder” (from the porn, not from the guests). Periodically, I’d hear a low moan or a man would cough as I passed his room, hoping to grab my attention.

It was a random weekday afternoon at 3 p.m.—too late for the lunch break and too early for the men who make a pit stop on the way home from work. So there weren’t many guys. I passed one fellow jerking off in a room alone. When I peeked in, I could only see the whites of his eyes staring back at me, like when you accidentally shine a flashlight on a raccoon. I backed away slowly and kept walking. 

In another booth, I saw a man with a Santa Claus beard getting blown, which I would have loved to join, but these booths hardly fit one person. Two people is challenging. Three is impossible. 

I entered one of the empty cells, put down my backpack, unzipped my pants, and started rubbing my cock. It stiffened quickly. I am always quick to pop a massive boner in a cruisy space. I’m not sure if it’s because the anonymity turns me on or because it’s low-pressure. If I can’t get hard, it doesn’t matter. These men don’t know your name and don’t have your Instagram handle. They are (typically) not the men you see proudly out in Hell’s Kitchen or even Brooklyn. They are their own horny entity that exist in a different plane.

I spat on my cock while I stroked, realizing it was BYOL. (They want you to purchase lube there.) This was unfortunate, as I’m a lube man. I have a hard cock and no foreskin, so spit doesn’t cut when pulling my pud.

Luckily, a man pulled back the curtains to my cubicle to peep inside. He looked like a mischievous Scooby-Doo villain up to no good. I leaned back and arched my hips, showing off my rigid dick. His eyes bulged out from their sockets as he rubbed his hands together. (Maybe he actually was a cartoon villain?)  

He entered, unzipped his small fanny pack, and pulled out a bottle of poppers and a travel-sized bottle of lube. Evidently, this wasn’t his first time. I awkwardly shifted over, trying to make room for him to drop to his knees, but no matter how hard we attempted to Tetris our bodies, he couldn’t kneel. He ended up bent over, half-squatted. I was impressed, considering this man looked to be in his mid-forties. Between my bad back and knees, I couldn’t get into that position and hold it while blowing a dude. Look at you, boasting of all that extra cartilage in your knees, I thought before realizing I was focused on the wrong thing.  

He looked up at me, licked his lips, and then stared at my cock. He was salivating—a cock hungry goblin. He took a hit of Rush and passed me the bottle. I shut one nostril and inhaled, letting the warmth take over my body. 

He spat directly onto my dick before swirling his tongue around my head. Drool oozed down my shaft. He opened his mouth wide, relaxed his trachea, and I was deep inside him. I could see the outline of my dick bulging in his throat. “Good boy,” I whispered. He gurgled affirmatively.