I found myself gravitating towards the scat section of the store in the weeks leading up to my epiphany. I had cruised the tit torture display the month before and extreme spanking rack the month before that. These pilgrimages were limited to Friday nights and undertaken only out of necessity. I needed to be thoroughly disgusted.
You see, I had a life outside of ringing up the adult purchases of shifty shoe gazers, smoked out brothers, tipsy frat boys and steely-eyed lesbians. Unlike my co-workers, I had something going for me.
Being an attractive, single and straight honors student at a prestigious graduate school, I was an anomaly. The movers and shakers in my department homed in on unattached me after the traditional faculty-student orientation mixer. These folks were as a rule, all married. In the tradition of couples everywhere, they saw it as their mission that I join their ranks. Thus began the blind date project.
I am an easy-going guy. I agreed to meet with the friends of these professors and upperclassmen for two reasons; social standing and sex. I figured I could move up in my department if I made nice with the girls they thought I'd like and get some pussy from someone on my intellectual level in the bargain.
That is the way I found my Friday nights for several months booked solid with blind dates. That is what brought back to the shit film section. You see, on top of being easy-going, I am also easily aroused. It doesn't take much to get me hard. That is why I ride my bicycle to work. The subway ride would leave me open to charges of lewdness.
Working in an adult entertainment shop, while offering shelter, also exacerbates this condition of mine. That's one of the reasons I am a cashier and not the video booth janitor. All that videotaped moaning and smell of cum would turn me into a walking sex show. Plus for all the concentrated arousal material, most customers don't look at anything beyond the tape they want and their shoes.
They can barely look at me ringing them up. They are formulating their plan, if they aren't intoxicated, for exiting the store in the most inconspicuous way possible, when they put down their cash. Too nervous that they might bump into someone they know, too ashamed of their particular kink. I look at this and laugh. I am proud to work where I do. If it was socially acceptable, I would be making porn instead of writing a paper about it.
That said, having acquainted myself with good portion of the store's video library over the years, there remained little that disgusted me.
Up until spring; tit torture, extreme spanking, large object insertion and diapers on grown folks did the deflation trick. I would simply go over the offending section, pick up a video box and stare until the blood rushed out of my cock. I would burn one particularly gross image into my brain and clock out. It would be my erotic circuit breaker.
I'd keep the nauseating image in my mind, flipping it over and over on the train ride to the restaurant so I would keep soft when confronted with a train car full of pretty young things. I'd continue to keep the image in my head during dinner so as not to scare my date with my normal arousal.
This is how I maintained. But this tactic wasn't working lately as well as it had before. The clothespins clamped nipples and the rope that bound breasts until they were purple red started to get me hot. The two handed fisting of anonymous vagina made me catch myself groaning on the train. The talcum powdering of an Akron, real estate salesman in Depends got me to shifting in my seat. That is how I started going towards the scat section.
I didn't want to go because the images were enough to put me off of dinner sometimes but it was the only effective solution. If I was like my co-workers, I could leave work with my pants bulging, find one of the crack whores that patrol the area (the store borders the old shipping yards) and get them to jerk me off for 5 dollars before going to dinner with that night's date. They swore by it. But I found that I got more fuck crazy after ejaculating than before.
I ended up standing up my third date, the one time I took my co-workers advice, to have an all night orgy with two rock crazy white college students for 100 dollars in a transient hotel. They were walking up and down the peep show district in their hipster tee shirts and blue jeans looking out of place. I was trying to talk the video store's favorite crack head, Becky, into something more than a hand job when they passed by. Becky snorted in derision and tossed her head in their direction.
"Those bitches will do what you are asking for, not me", she sneered.
"Are you certain?" I asked incredulous.
" Fuck you mean, am I certain?" Becky snapped at me.
"It's just…" I paused.
"Honey, the biggest nastiest rock whores out here are white college students.
You are a smart fellow you should know your statistics", she scolded.
"It's not that", I replied tersely. " I know my figures, Becky, I was just surprised that you think they would go for the price I am quoting".
"Hell yeah, they will, white skin privilege and all." Becky schooled me. "They stupid! Their country asses haven't noticed the johns cruising them all day. Instead of tricking they've been making trips to the pawn shop, selling their luggage".
Becky shook her head and continued. "The Sweet Spot red tops got them. Took all their cash. Word is they traded in their train fare back to school for some hits. They will say they were robbed just like all the other strung out white boys and girls and their daddies will bail their butts out, but until then they are hooked and just want to party".
That was conclusive enough for me. I thanked Becky who was muttering something about racist police crackdowns following in the wake of this bullshit and ran after the girls. They were coming back from the pawn shop.
I flagged them down. They were a bit hesitant with an unknown black man with a large lump in his pants approaching them but after I had bought them a hot dog and some sodas, they warmed to me. That's when I asked if they wanted to make some money.
They looked blank for a good minute, as if I was reading their thoughts, and then both nodded at once. Then there was a pause.
"What do we have to do?" they asked in unison.
I smiled and cocked my head.
"Why the same thing you do for your boyfriends" I lilted.
They laughed uneasily, as if their thoughts were being read again, and then whispered amongst themselves. They turned to me and agreed.
Their names were Melissa and Katherine and they suggested the transient hotel they were staying in. They had thought it a prime place to screw since they knew a dealer who had set up shop down the hall from them. I went in before them and reserved a single room for the night. The hotel policy frowned on prostitution and drug use and so did not allow couples to check in. Melissa and Katherine already had a room and so encountered not so much as a raised eyebrow. The fellow at the front desk really bought their story about being foreign exchange students who couldn't find beds at the hostel.
They met me in my room, all sure smiles and secret giggles. Melissa looked the room and me over. Katherine worried at a loose thread on her sweater. Melissa emerged as the spokeswoman for the group.
"We have some conditions"
