I went down to the adult bookstore on the west side of town this afternoon. I was out on an errand run, to get a window blind fixed and drop off some books at the library. Adult bookstore was not on the errand list. I parked a few blocks away, on a quiet residential street just off the main highway through town; I liked the walk and the anticipation of what was to come. I thought I'd buy some lube and maybe walk through the arcade; but it was just after 2 in the afternoon and I didn't expect much action. The day was cool and the sky was gray.
As I walked the unpaved alley leading to the store I had to step aside as two diesel pickup trucks passed me. One made a left turn into the fenced parking lot at the end of the alley. I knew that this gravel parking lot was for the bookstore. The other continued out to the street, turned left and parked just off Seventh Avenue. I considered a parade of Dodge Ram diesel pickup trucks near the adult bookstore in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon to be a good sign. As I made room for the Dodge Ram guys I could feel my mood, already expectant, but not really needing anything, become even lighter. A couple of guys just finishing their shifts, I thought. As I approached the chain-link fence that marked the parking lot, the man in the first truck walked toward the rear entrance of the store, which was unmarked but ajar. His truck was a crew-cab, white, four-wheel drive with large tires. He was tall and well built and looked like he'd just finished a shift on a construction job of some sort. Concrete, I decided. His jeans were rough and he wore a dark t-shirt with an elaborate WHISKY logo on the back. His pal in the maroon Dodge Ram hadn't entered yet. They must be pals, I figured, because two trucks rolling down the alley one after the other both headed to the adult store at 2 in the afternoon on a Wednesday in November was too much for coincidence.
I got some ones from the guys behind the counter and wandered toward the arcade. Just before entering I got a glimpse of the very tall guy who'd come in from the maroon truck. A big guy, not fat, but probably six foot four and maybe forty-five or fifty years old. He was looking at the gay videos and glanced at me before going into the darkened corridor of the arcade. He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that said "Route 66" on the breast pocket. He had a neatly trimmed white goatee and short silver hair. I didn't see him in the corridor of the cave-like arcade, but I started walking up and down the hallways to see who was about.
One room that was occupied had glory holes on two sides and I slipped into the unoccupied cubicle and watched for a few minutes as WHISKY man from the white truck got a blow job from someone on the other side. All I could see was his jeans down around his knees and the back of his t-shirt and his naked ass thrusting at whoever was sucking his dick. He was moaning and just about ready to cum when I started my observation. And a moment later I heard him say something like "Oh fuck!" and I knew he'd blown his wad into the mouth of the lucky guy next door. He turned around and I could see his rather large still erect dick dripping with cum as he reached for a paper towel to clean himself off. He pulled up his pants, tucked in the WHISKY shirt and left cubicle number 14.
I continued my rounds down the darkened hallways, noticing my own reflection in the mirror placed at the end of the furthest hall. There were only three or four men around, one who looked like he might live on the street and whose left pant leg was rolled up to his knee and seemed like he might be high on something. I avoided him, except to touch his penis briefly when he was in room 14 and hoping for a blow job. He had a long circumcised penis and nice brown pubic hair—lots of it, which I like in a man. But I moved on.
