Memory #5
My first adult bookstore, as an adult - Mundelein, IL
During my first legally eligible cruising years, I was either in college or the army. In other words, I didn’t do a lot of cruising. Like most newly-minted adults [I hope], I was getting more than my fair share most of the time. Most of the cruising I did was in theatres and arcades in the suburbs. At that time in Illinois, Cook County required a minimum age of 21 for all XXX establishments, while Lake County’s was only 18.
I wondered at the time if my experiences in the suburbs were tame or muted compared to the cruising action I imagined was happening in Chicago? Or Boy’s Town? But as I’m sure many of you know, when you put two men next to each other in a theatre, or separated only by a gloryhole, the same things are going to happen almost everywhere. Generally.
All I knew at 18 [plus one day] about “adult bookstores” was what I witnessed years earlier in Germany, and what was explained to me once on a commuter train: they don’t sell a lot of books at adult bookstores. “Arcades” and “Theatres” and “25 cent Peepshows” was what you were looking for on the signage outside the business.
I was also coached on the generally accepted arcade etiquette, that standing outside a booth to advertise availability for a 2-in-1 booth, or where gloryholes are provided, sliding two fingers through the hole, to invite your neighbor’s cock through the hole, is part of an international language. Why 2 fingers? I have no clue.
I wasn’t sure where my limits were at first. I’d had copious amounts of gay sex up to this point in my young life. But most of that sex was with people I knew, and most of them were civilized, clean, upscale people from the exurbs of Chicago. My cruising mentor on the train warned me about the bums, and “trolls,” and the “cum-pigs” who hang out all day sucking cocks through the gloryholes. He made it all sound like a smelly sea of dirty perverts, with some of the men bordering on homeless! And sometimes it really is like that.
He told me to always smell a guy’s dick before you put it in your mouth. Some are going to be so filthy, you don’t want it. One might even have just come out of another guy’s ass 2 minutes earlier and not washed. Ewww! That bothered me. The things I’ve done since then would make the 18 years old me gag. But…I’m still squeamish about dirty cocks. Raw oysters and gloryhole penises are the two things on earth that I still smell-test before putting in my mouth.
The difference for me now in the act of “cruising,” from most everything I’d ever done before, was the “strangers” aspect of it all. Going in cold, I wasn’t sure how open I would [or could] be with anonymous strangers. It took me a few years to realize that the complete anonymity of the whole experience was more than half of the excitement. No strings, no awkward embarrassment or shame. For a bisexual guy who spent a lot of time with women, the idea of sex without the myriad attachments, or obligations, or politics, or debt, was beyond freeing! This was as deliciously selfish as masturbating; except you’re using a comrade’s mouth or cock or ass to do it with.
Real “cruising” felt entirely different to me than at Dr. Mueller’s. I was so nervous. My stomach was in my chest. Maybe I just didn’t have the hormones of an adolescent raging through my veins giving me confidence? Maybe I didn’t have that feeling of adolescent immortality or maybe I was intellectually aware that I was now 18, and I could be arrested for public indecency? Regardless of the root cause, I was feeling infinitely more timid than I had years earlier. To me, this was my first anonymous adult cruising experience, and I was not feeling bold or cavalier.
Maybe I was just lucky that I started when I did as a late bloomer. There always seemed to be a bumper crop of older men at the gloryholes, with their fingers sticking through the hole before I even locked the door and sat down. I spent a long stretch of time just selfishly getting my cock sucked [well], over and over again. As an 18-year-old kid, I was that guy, the one who zips up and scrambles out the door to his car, seconds after squirting a load in your mouth. To all those men who I never reciprocated for, I am genuinely sorry!
So back on point to my first ever “adult” cruising experience which happened in a town called Mundelein, Illinois. At that time Mundelein was a much more low-rent town than where I grew up. It boasted rowdier bars and seedier businesses; even the gas stations sold porn magazines from under the counter. It was the nearest town to mine that welcomed an “adult bookstore” within its borders, although the store was intentionally off the beaten path.
When I entered the store, I was proud to present my driver’s license proving my age. The clerk chuckled, I assumed at my birthday, making me certain that he knew I’d been waiting for years to learn the secrets kept behind that papered-over glass door that said: “STOP! 18+ ONLY – XXX.” He asked politely for the $1 browsing fee, just like Dr. Mueller’s. And the walls and racks were filled with XXX magazines and sex toys. There was so much about the place that felt comfortably familiar to me, that I didn’t waste time and went straight to the arcade.
There was an awkwardly handmade sign in back over the entrance to the arcade, but there was another smaller sign that said, “Quarters Available at the Register.” So, I sheepishly went back to the polite clerk and asked for $3 in quarters. I entered the arcade through a thick floor-length curtain of strung plastic beads, that was a few layers thick. The curtain of beads made more noise than a front door alarm in a retail store. Through the dim light on the other side, I noticed at least two men dash inside the booths they’d been protecting, like cockroaches scattering when the lights go on. Those beads were still crackling long after I was inside the arcade. I wanted to shout, “Ya! New guy!” I could feel my face blushing hot red.
As my eyes adjusted to the light, what I saw in front of me was a single, dark dingy hallway lined with too many doors, too close together, on each side. It looked to me at 18 like a hotel of bathrooms. Nothing at all like the Alice in Wonderland impression at Dr. Mueller’s. There were red lights over every door, that I later learned lit up when a movie was being played. There was only one red light lit, and most of the doors were closed. I didn’t want to go startling customers by juggling doorknobs, or worse yet, opening doors and interrupting someone doing something. I didn’t know for sure that there would be locks on all arcade doors.
I slowly strolled down the hallway between the rows of doors, looking left and right for an empty room. Out of nowhere a short, heavy-set older Mexican man appeared in front of me, from my right. He asked me, “Jew new here?” Now please don’t tag me a racist! I am not! I am telling you exactly the vernacular as it was spoken, especially because of its impact on an 18-year-old white boy from the wealthy suburbs. It took me a few moments to process and understand what he said. I also considered that we might have some communication issues. I didn’t know yet that you don’t need a lot of pesky words to cruise.
When I realized what he was asking, I politely replied, smiling, “Yes! I’m new here.” He just smiled and grunted, gesturing for me to follow him. He walked back towards the entrance, passing several doors, and opened a closed door, as if that was his booth. He nodded at me and walked into the booth himself. With the door open, I could see the light from a dormant, white screen radiating from inside, and I followed him. He seemed to be anything but dangerous.
He was meaningfully shorter than I, and stout. I remember him looking 40-something, but I was 18. He could have been much younger. To be honest, he looked like a bum. Just like my train-mentor had warned me about. It was an unusually warm Indian summer day in late September, so he was dressed temperature appropriate. He wore shorts that were way too tight, a thread bare t-shirt, and old leather sandals. But unlike my mentor, I made no socioeconomic judgements about potential anonymous sex partners.
In the white light beaming from the open door of the booth, and also fully illuminating him standing well inside the door, I saw something that gave him away: just above his sternum in the center of his chest, clung a small perfectly round pearl of semen stuck to his shirt. It still glistened wet in the white light. There was no question what the substance was, and now no question about the man’s role here.
I admit that for about 5 seconds, I was a little disgusted. Again, I was a rich boy from the suburbs, and he was a bum with cum hanging on his shirt. Seriously? But then I started to relax, thinking that if this guy was one of those bums, trolls, cum-pigs, well…why not? If this guy lives for hanging around a porn store and sucking dicks all day long, and there wasn’t even a line. OK! I was a cute 18-year-old kid, and he was leering at me like a thirsty pervert. I should confess, that’s my kryptonite. Whenever anyone wants me really badly, even a crusty old horndog, that makes me feel so good, I just want to give it to them.
So, I walk into the “booth,” which was more like a small 6’ X 12’ room, like a large walk-in closet. The room was plain, empty, dirty and without a ceiling. The tops of the booths opened up into the industrial ceiling of the building, so noise would definitely carry. That also explained the thick smell of cigarettes, without anyone smoking in site.
The thing that shocked me to distraction, however, was the 25-cent movie player. Affixed to the wall in the center of one side of his rectangular room, was the same damn lunchbox-sized, super-8 movie player with a lunch box sized screen! It looked like it was made by the same manufacturer from the 1950s. I’ve only seen this technology twice in my entire life now, and they were my first and second times in a porn store arcade! Four years and 3500 miles apart!
My tour guide reached behind me, closing and locking the door behind us. I was on autopilot now, feeling a little like I was in an out-of-body experience. I dropped a quarter in the slot on the top right of the box, and a shaky, unclear porn movie came to life. The visual clarity was so bad that it really wasn’t worth looking at, even back then when we didn’t have much video porn yet. It also didn’t help that an apparently disappointed customer shared their frustration, by ejaculating right on to the screen, creating an opaque blind spot right in the center.
My tour guide asked, “Jew like??” nodding at the screen. “Jew like girls? Looking at girls?”
I felt obliged to confirm that I liked girls, and nodded “yes” as I pretended to be interested in the unwatchable film clip. I certainly wasn’t turned on by him, but that feeling of him wanting me was turning me on.
My tour guide pointed to my crotch and said, “Jew like?” as he made the universal hand gesture for jerking off.
At first, I mistook what he was asking. At first, I thought he was asking if I wanted him to jerk me off. Or if I would jerk him off. I nodded “No,” looking back at the screen and trying to ignore him for a moment. I didn’t have a next move. But that horny little fucker was just gaping at the rock-hard bulge in my shorts and rubbing his own bulge through his shorts. Why the fuck was I so excruciatingly erect? Betrayed by my own life-partner in crime?
Then he made more grunting gestures, using his hands, he pantomimed unbuttoning and unzipping his own shorts, and then pretending to jerk off his own imaginary cock. Then he extended both hands, palms up, toward my crotch. I finally got the message. It was like he was explaining, that’s what people do here, as if I hadn’t already presumed that from the drying puddles of cum on the floor in front of the movie screen. So, he was asking me to jerk off in front of him. Well…that I could do. And he wanted to see my dick so desperately, that alone was turning me on more and more! Sure, I can jerk off for you. Like a male stripper, sort of. So, I unbuttoned and unzipped my shorts.
Normally I’m not this daft. Normally I’m acutely aware of the physics and functionality of my own clothing. But this particular pair of shorts had a tight waistband that grabbed me just above my hip bones. With the weight of my wallet, my keys, a pocket full of change, plus an additional $3 in quarters, the moment I unzipped my shorts they slid down my legs crashing to my ankles. Loudly!
My horny tour guide beamed and said, “Hey, hey!” as he stared at the ridiculous sight of my hardon, like a tent pole in the front of my white cotton underpants. I was past the point of no return now; he was gawking at my penis bulge with his mouth open. I stepped out of my shorts and moved them to the floor along the wall behind me.
Then my guide, and apparent suitor, began whining like a puppy, still staring at my erection. For a moment I had to consider, “What if he’s mentally handicapped?” I chased that vile thought from my head, but I allowed myself to swoon in his arousal and obsession with my penis. While he stared, I stripped my underpants down and placed them on top of my shorts. What happened next only took a few short seconds, but it was very important. When I turned my back to him to stow my briefs, he let out a hushed squeal - a desperate high-pitched squeal that sounded like he was in real pain. I quickly turned back to look at him, but his head and eyes were locked on my ass. He was craning his head to the side to see more of it, like he’d never seen a bottom before.
Now I couldn’t stop myself if the roof caved in. I began jacking off my raging hard cock, while watching him stare at my butt. His eyes were wild. There was something childishly excited in them. I was charmed and aroused by his interest. Then he made another gesture, opening his mouth and using his right hand to simulate sucking my cock. I nodded “No,” and he respectfully continued watching and rubbing himself through his pants.
To this day I still don’t understand why I said “no” to his first offer. It wasn’t like I didn’t want it. I was just so insecure and off-balance in this new environment. A commercially sanctioned cruising venue, practically in my own back yard, was actually a lot to adjust to. It was turning out to be a lot like the man on the train described, only not hostile or dangerous. I think I was just trying to go slowly at first, which curiously is something I never do.
Then my tour guide changed his position to look more closely at my penis. He said excitedly, “Heyyy! Jew big! And jew so clean!” That last part left me ambivalent. I was flattered to be called large, especially by someone who probably saw a lot of dicks. But his amazement at how clean my penis was, still from a few feet away, only worried me that his scale for cleanliness was calibrated differently from my own. Suddenly I was certain that I didn’t want to meet his penis.
He reached forward unthreateningly while he asked, “I touch?” I didn’t say yes, and I didn’t say no, but as his fingertips touched the lower part of my shaft, which was not covered by my own hand, I felt the sparks of human contact. I released my cock and hands, and he instantly replaced mine. He began pumping me like a whore fuck; “Make him cum!” Fast!” His pace and friction were exceptional. He was instantly synced with my own orgasm rhythm.
Now my inevitable orgasm was about to arrive. I knew it and so did he, but I said so anyway: “I’m gonna…cum!” He dropped to his knees and opened his mouth, taking at least half my organ into his mouth and throat. All I could do was mumble “Oh fuck it!”
He moaned like he just tasted his first bite of holiday meal, which felt so welcoming. But his tongue felt like sandpaper. Like the way I would a imagine a lion’s tongue would feel. Just like a housecat’s, but ten times bigger and scratchier. It was the worse feeling from a tongue I’ve ever encountered, and I’ve probably encountered 1,000 of them. But I still came buckets down his encouraging throat, listening to him moan and gulp and swallow. I felt like I was feeding a starving calf.
He clasped my bubble-butt cheeks in both hands and kneaded my bottom as he pulled me harder into his face. He was whimpering as I spurted out my last dribbles into his mouth. He kept sucking away about mid-shaft on my tool, still moving up and down slightly, until I was completely spent. But even then…when it was obvious I was done; he wouldn’t let go.
He kept the suction on me as he added more new, slippery saliva to my shaft. He began lip- fucking me with slowly tightening pressure and friction, up and down my length. I couldn’t go anywhere. His hands still held my ass so tightly to his face, like he was punishing himself. Every time his tongue grazed across the delicate skin of my penis was like an electric shock! I yelped my displeasure, and he clearly was no stranger to such complaints. Mostly, he succeeded in avoiding contact with the flat of his tongue. But everything else he did felt so good. I’d faded from 100% erect to about 70% after I came. But before I realized that I was at least temporarily a detained prisoner, he had me right back to 100% hard again.
My window of post-orgasm shame and running away had come and gone. I was back in his gullet, rock-hard and fucking his face. His hands weren’t just kneading and squeezing my ass anymore, they were spreading open my cheeks, with his fingertips exploring into my crack, pretending they weren’t looking for my little hole. Then he stopped pretending.
He took his right hand away from my ass and boldly stopped fellating me for a moment. I wasn’t going to move a muscle. He wet two of his fingers thoroughly and obscenely. Then he reached that hand between my legs, under my scrotum. His left hand opened up a path right in front of my anus, with his thumb and fingers spreading my fatty flesh apart. His right hand came up from under my balls and his fingers found their target instantly, coordinating perfectly with his left hand.
He pushed his two fat digits against my anus, keeping constant pressure on my sphincter to open, while he kept sucking and mouth-fucking my penis harder and harder. He was not mentally disabled! I could feel when my rubber band gave way, and his thick fingers penetrated me almost completely. There was the quick, sharp sting at my entrance, which caused me to let out a tiny yelp. But I was more aware of his lascivious groaning at his own personal triumph, then my own minor stinging. From his animal moans, it was clear he’d wanted to get in my ass in any way he could, and he was in there now, and he was very happy about that.
Yes, I had some fleeing moments of fear and anxiety, not knowing how far this would go, how far he would go. Was I ready? Did I want to be fucked by a dirty troll? No, not really. But I kept fading back into the moment, where this frantically horny man was fanatically fellating my dick, while also wildly finger-fucking my ass: jabbing, rubbing, dabbing, and flickering his fingertips over my prostate bump. He massaged me with such an intentional inconsistency that I now thought this troll was a genius.
I have no guess as to how long this entire session lasted. Not even a ballpark estimate. Or even how long just the second blowjob lasted. But at the time, it struck me as embarrassingly fast how quickly I came a second time. I could feel the gobs of cum racing through my urethra, pushing up along that bottom seam of my shaft and blasting out from the tip of my cock like a volcano. He instantly moaned and gulped again like a hungry cum-pig. This time I was trembling. My legs were shaking violently, and he was partially holding me steady, like I was a puppet with his two fingers till jammed up my ass, and the other hand holding my ass affectionately, holding me to his face. My hands were gripping his shoulders, first like a lover, now to steady myself from falling.
He kept nursing on my penis like a calf feeding at its mother’s teat, draining me dry like he’d get a prize. I kept wobbling, my knees buckled a couple of times, but I recovered without falling. I was also dizzy and gasping, while my throat made this agonizing sound of pleasure and crisis that I’d never made before. Those last spasms clearly announced the finale of my orgasm, confirming it was bigger than my first. That had never happened before.
Finally, he released my shrinking tool from his mouth, and I staggered backwards. His fingers slid out of my rectum, and his hand slid free from between my thighs, just before my butt cheeks pressed into the front of the warm, filthy movie screen. I let out a loud, “Ewwww!” He began laughing hysterically as he reached for my underwear and shorts. He handed them to me, still laughing.
As he handed me my clothes, he stopped and lifted my shorts up and down, like he was examining their weight. He asked, “Jew rich?” Then he laughed louder and handed them over. Was he hinting for money? For a tip? Was he a blowjob whore? Was there even such a thing? Wouldn’t that be great.
I really didn’t know anything yet abut cruising, so every detail and every clue were critical. If he was asking for money, he would have be clearer about it, because I was only 18 and didn’t know what to do. I dressed quickly said “thank you” and briskly walked with my shame and self-loathing out into the bright and fluorescent light of the retail floor and out into the shaming sunlight to my car.
I drove straight home, still buzzing from head to toe, and I immediately showered. I don’t know why. It wasn’t a sobbing in the fetal position on the floor of the shower thing. Maybe just washing off the shame and the troll cooties? I think it’s very telling to share here, so early in my cruising arc, that it would be 30 years later before a man ever clearly solicited me for money in an arcade booth. [You will read about that in Memory #45.] So, for any of the you just starting out on your own journeys – no - it’s not really a thing. Most of us just want to suck your dicks!
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