BBC Breakdown
A South Florida Universe Story
Copyright 2025 by Stormbringer
It was a blistering night in 1978, the Florida air thick as soup, as Jimmy and Linda Parker roared down I-95 in their '68 Chevy Impala convertible, top down, hot wind snarling through their hair. They were twenty, high school sweethearts married six hours ago, speeding toward a Key West honeymoon, flush with happiness on the special day and looking forward to spending the night together as a married couple for the first time. A Just Married sign flapped on the rear bumper, streamers whipping in the dusk, the edges fraying from the relentless breeze. Jimmy's 8-track blasted Sweet Home Alabama, its twangy guitar fighting the engine's faint wheeze, a sound he'd ignored for weeks, chalking it up to "character." The A/C had been dead for years, sweat beading on their skin, dripping down Linda's neck and pooling between her breasts. She lounged with her bare feet propped on the dash, cute red-painted toes wiggling, flip-flops crisscrossed on the floor mat. Her sleeveless summer miniskirt dress rode up, baring toned legs from mid-thigh down, her big tits bouncing free under the thin, damp fabric, semi-hard nipples poking through like defiant little beacons.
Jimmy gripped the wheel, broad mustache twitching, his shirt open to reveal a hairy chest matted with sweat and a gold chain glinting dully, orange bell-bottoms matching the fading sunlight. "Another three hours, babe," he yelled over the music, his voice hoarse from shouting, but the Impala had other plans. The engine coughed--a wet, hacking sound--then sputtered, smoke rising from beneath the hood, the car lurching as it lost power. Jimmy cursed under his breath, wrestling the wheel and managing to take the Overtown exit to get off the new interstate, gravel crunching under the tires as the Impala finally died on the side of the road in front of a rundown store, the neon sign of BBC's Adult Books -- Peep Shows -- Open 24 Hrs. buzzing ahead like a taunting mirage. "FUCK!" he screamed, fist pounding down on the steering wheel. He yanked the top up with a grunt, the canvas creaking, sweat pouring down his face. "Won't stop thieves, but it's something," he muttered, kicking the driver's door open as the headlights flickered and died, stranding them in a ghetto of broken streets, a distant siren wailing through the humid dark, the air heavy with rot and desperation.
Jimmy popped the hood and stared futilely at the engine. He didn't know anything about car engines, but made the gesture anyway. He slammed the hood back down.
Linda dropped her feet, scowling, slipping her feet into the flip flops as she got out of the car. "This place doesn't look safe, Jimmy. You should've had the car checked out." Sweat trickled into her eyes, stinging, her dress clinging to her thighs like a second skin, the heat pressing her into the seat.
Jimmy snapped, sharper than he meant, "I'm a bit short on cash, babe," the honeymoon and wedding ring having wiped out his savings. "Let's go inside the store and see if we can use their phone."
"I'm not going in that sleazy place," she said, her eyes drawn to the flashing neon sign like a moth to a flame.
"It's that or wait here, Lin. Overtown's a ghetto--safer inside." Groups of blacks could be seen in the distance, clustering around the steps leading up to apartments and hanging out in front of a liquor store half a block away. He locked the car. "Let's go."
Bells jangled over the door as they stepped into BBC's, a shrill clatter slicing through air thick with cigarette smoke, musty paper, and the stench of body odor. A rattling A/C unit struggled against the Miami humidity, cooling the large building by only a few degrees. Rows of nudie mags and pulp smut sagged on shelves, covers curling at the edges, faded from too many hands. The counter displayed dildos: pale and small at one end, darkening through shades of tan to a jet-black giant over a foot long that loomed like a grotesque trophy. Linda stared, revolted, her nose wrinkling, shocked anyone would buy such a ridiculously sized sex toy. The clerk--a young black man with a towering Afro, a comb jammed in it--puffed a cigarette, a full ashtray by his side, his bored eyes barely lifting from a tattered comic. A small rotating fan on the counter helped to keep him cool. Above him, a dying fluorescent light buzzed and flickered, casting jagged shadows across the room. The store was empty of customers.
In a large stockroom behind the store, Benjamin Blackwell Calhoun sprawled in a battered chair, a porno mag splayed open beside a half-empty whiskey bottle, its amber contents catching the dim glow of a bare bulb. A Harley jacket hung over a crate of unsorted mags, the leather creased and worn, the words Black Panther MC above a leaping black panther on the back. He'd opened BBC's two years ago in 1976--bad timing, as the interstate's construction caused Overtown's decline. He was still struggling, but his porn store and the nearby liquor store had managed to survive. A boxy CCTV unit hummed on a rickety table, its grainy black-and-white feed showing the entrance and register, mostly there to keep the clerk from skimming. At thirty-two, he was a Black man with a fighter's build--broad shoulders, thick arms, bigger than Overtown's own Sweet Jimmy Robinson--and a 14" black cock that was a legend among the local women. He glanced at the monitor as the bells rang, fixating on Linda; white women were rare, and none had looked like her. Her Farah Fawcett-style hair caught him first, feathered and damp with sweat, but she more resembled the blonde who replaced Farah on Charlie's Angels--gorgeous, blue-eyed, killer body, bigger tits straining that dress, jiggling unrestrained with every step. "Well, fuck me," he hissed. He tossed the mag aside, hooked, leaning closer to the grainy screen.
Jimmy leaned in toward the uninterested clerk, asking, "Got a phone?"
While the clerk pointed to the back with a lazy jerk of his thumb, Linda wandered, looking-not-looking at the porn mags. An endcap screamed interracial covers--white women sprawled under Black men, a sign in black marker: Staff Recommended, a crude black penis doodled beside Staff. She frowned, a memory flickering--her mother commenting to her ***, "People should stick to their own kind," while watching Guess Who's Coming to Dinner on TV, her voice tight with righteousness. "I don't hate negros, but the races shouldn't mix. It's not natural," Linda thought. Her eyes snagged on a corkboard--six Polaroids of giant black cocks, none under ten inches, dwarfing Jimmy's five-inch prick, which was the only penis she'd ever seen. She wasn't even aware they came in different sizes. Phone numbers scrawled beneath each in smudged ink. Her stomach twisted, guilt and a dark, unbidden thrill clashing, her breath catching as she turned away. Another black-markered sign tacked to the corkboard read, BULL PEN.
Jimmy hung up the payphone, the receiver clattering, his curse sharp. "Two hours. Maybe more."
"What do we do, Jimmy?" Linda shivered, flip-flops slapping the sticky floor, her skin crawling under the flickering light. "Stay here? In this filthy place? It's disgusting."
The clerk overheard, snorting, amused.
Jimmy smirked, a nervous edge to it, nodding to a sign: Booths -- 25¢. "Could pass the time."
She bristled, crossing her arms, pushing her tits up unwittingly. "Porn's filthy." But the streets were worse, so she followed, reluctance stiffening her spine, to the peep show--a grimy dive of voyeurism and mechanical sleaze. A narrow hallway stretched ahead, wooden booths reeking of stale smoke, sour sweat, and the sharp bite of cheap disinfectant, the projector's clatter a low, relentless drone. Sticky floors sucked at her flip-flops, tugging at her soles; graffiti scarred the paneling--crude cocks and numbers scratched deep. A NO LOITERING sign dangled crookedly, ignored amid the clink of quarters and a faint, desperate moan leaking from a nearby booth, the sound curling into her gut at the thought they weren't alone in here.
