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From: "Matt Carpenter" <paragon38@lycos.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} BFE  -  Chapter 3 (MM)
Date: Thu, 13 Dec 2001 09:10:08 -0500
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BFE - Chapter 3 (MM)

This story is intended solely for the entertainment of adults. 
Anyone wishing to correspond may e-mail me at paragon38@lycos.com
paragon74@hotmail.com . 
I would welcome any comments or reviews.



3



"Can we stop at the comic bookshop?"  Danny didn't even say "hi"
first.  He slid into the front seat of my Buick, tossed his book
bag into the backseat and turned to me once again.  "Dad?!" he
asked again, slightly more perturbed this time.

"We can't today," I told him as I checked my rearview mirror and
then the blind spot to my left.  Pulling out onto the street in
front of Harrison Middle School was always a tricky maneuver at 3
in the afternoon.  I wasn't the only parent in a hurry during the
after-school rush hour.

"Dad?!" Danny protested again.  "You promised ..."

"I have to work early tonight ..." I sighed, negotiating a sharp
turn into a break in the steady stream of cars.

"You don't start `til 5 on Tuesdays ..." Danny scowled.

"Listen, I got called in early ..." I heard my voice harden, and
I stopped.  A long silence developed as I stared into the crowded
street ahead, looking for an opening.  But nothing materialized,
and we just crawled along in silence; neither my son's glare nor
the bumper-to-bumper brake lights showed any sign of yielding.  

"You always get called in early," Danny scowled under his breath.
 "All you do is go to work."

Of course, my son was right.  I always was getting called in
early, and I always was working now that Camille was gone.  My
day-job at the library didn't furnish near enough money to pay
the mortgage on the house, much less make ends meet.  Camille had
always been the breadwinner in our family.  She could make more
brokering one deal for Dimex than I could make in five years
slaving at the research desk.  

Needless to say, for the twelve-plus years of our marriage, I had
learned to become dependent on the steady stream of six-figure
commission checks that appeared on a regular basis.  Life had
been very safe and secure for Danny and me with Camille footing
the bill.  My son and I worked and went to school without a care
in the world, never thinking that anything could ever disturb our
tiny, cozy universe.

And that was pretty much how our lives had progressed for a dozen
uneventful years.  But then last September came, and suddenly -
within the blink of an eye - nothing of our once safe, suburban
symbiosis remained.

"We're going right to Aunt Janine's," I finally spoke after
almost five minutes of dead silence.

"Whatever ..?" Danny sighed.

"We'll go to the comic book shop on Thursday - I promise," I
offered.  "I don't have to be at work until 11, and ..."

"It's okay, dad," Danny cut me off.  "I'll get Uncle Hal to take
me.  Can I just have $50?"

"$50?!"  I tried not to raise my voice, but I couldn't help it. 
"What do you need $50 for?"

"They've got a totally mint issue of Protectors #10," he
announced as if $50 for a comic book was no more than the
25-cents I used to pay as a kid.  "It's the origin of Maze. 
Overstreet's lists it mint at over $100.  I've got to get it,
dad.  Then I'll have #10 through #406 consecutive."

"I'm not going to give you $50 for a comic book, Danny," I
couldn't help throwing my hands up in disbelief.  "You know how
low on money we've been since your mom left."  The words stung my
lips as I spoke them.  "We don't have $50 to waste on a comic
book.  We just don't."

"I bet Uncle Hal and Aunt Janine would lend it to me if I paid
them back," Danny thought aloud.  "If I don't spend my allowance
for three weeks, I can ..."  

"You are not going to ask Hal and Janine for $50."  I could hear
my voice hardening again.  "Do you hear me, Danny?  NO!"  I took
a deep breath, and tried to regain my composure.  "If it's that
important, you can save for three weeks and then ..."

"It'll be gone by then, dad," Danny cut me off, speaking to me in
a voice that said he now thought I was the stupidest human being
alive.  "It's Protectors #10."  He sighed and glared out the
window.

Why couldn't he see how hard this was on me, too?  How could he
possibly think I wouldn't love to give him $50 to spend on a
valuable issue of his favorite comic book?  How could he possibly
believe I'd rather spend nine hours working at the X-Zone than
taking him to the comic book store, cooking him dinner, and
watching TV?  He knew I needed to work.  He knew we needed the
money?  Why couldn't he just allow himself to understand?

"I'll take you to the comic book store on Thursday," I tried to
soften the edge in my voice.  "I promise ..."

"You'll need to take a nap on Thursday, dad," my
thirteen-year-old son replied knowingly.  "You ALWAYS need to
take a nap on Thursday when you work the graveyard shift. 
ALWAYS!" he repeated for emphasis.  "Uncle Hal will take me if I
ask him.  He doesn't mind."

"Listen, if I can't take you Thursday, then we'll go this
weekend."  I was trying so hard to maintain an even tone in my
voice that my jaw was actually trembling.  "I have Saturday off
during the day.  We can go in the afternoon ..."

"My issues will be sold out by then," Danny answered coldly. 
"Nothing will be there, and I'll have to wait for the reorders -
which won't come in `til NEXT Tuesday."

"Maybe you can call and have them hold the comics ..?"

"They won't do that for me, dad.  They don't do holds.  You KNOW
that!"

He was right.  I knew that.  I shook my head and kept driving. 
We were only a few minutes from Janine's now, and we spent the
rest of the drive immersed in a cold silence.


"Ray ..?" Janine's voice and eyes showed she was surprised to see
me so early.  "I wasn't expecting you for another hour or so.

"I got called in early again," I explained as Danny slid past me
and trudged through the door into Janine's living room.  He
dropped his book bag on the sofa and started towards her kitchen.
 "Danny!" I stopped him in his tracks with the sound of my voice.
 "You know your book bag doesn't belong there.  Now pick it up
..."

"Really, Ray," Janine started.  "It's all right.  He can ..."

"Danny ..." I ignored her.

"I'm just getting something to drink, dad," he turned back to me,
an exasperated look in his eyes.

"Did you ask Aunt Janine if you could get something to drink?"

"Dad ..?!"

"Really, Ray," Janine cut in.  "It's all right.  He can ..."

"Pick up your bag, and ask your aunt if you can get something to
drink," I ignored her.  Danny knew his manners, and I was not
about to let him use my guilt against me.  We locked eyes.

"Whatever ..." he sighed.  He moped over to the sofa, picked up
his bag and looked back to Janine.  "Can I have something to
drink, Aunt Janine."

"Sure, Danny, help yourself," she replied.  "There's soda and
Kool-Aid in the refrigerator."

He glared at me as if to say "Satisfied ..?," then whirled back
around and stomped into the kitchen.

"Really, Ray," Janine gave me a pained smile.  "It's no big deal
if he ..."

"He knows his manners," I cut her off.  "Even if he's angry with
me, that's no excuse for him to act this way towards you."

"He's a teenager, Ray," she tried to laugh.  "He acts like that
towards everyone.  That's what teenagers do.  Or have you
forgotten."

"Believe me, I haven't forgotten," I managed a grin despite my
subsiding anger.  "It's just ..." I broke off.  I didn't need to
go into what I was thinking with Janine right now.  Camille was
her sister, and despite the distance between my estranged wife
and me Janine had continued to stay close.  I certainly didn't
want to jeopardize our somewhat tenuous relationship by venting
my anger at Camille.  "It's been a tough day," I sighed.

"I understand," she nodded.  "It can't be easy on you.  I really
wish you'd let Hal and me loan you some ..."

"I've got to get to work," I cut her off, not wanting to hear her
complete the offer.  Given my state of mind at the moment, I
might have taken her up on it.  

How easy it would be to take a few thousand dollars, quit at the
X-Zone, drive Danny to the comic book store, buy him Protectors
#10, make him dinner, watch TV, and pretend that our lives were
back to normal.  Too easy.  I'd spent the last thirteen years
getting caught up in that kind of easy, and I wasn't about to
start again.

"Just think about it, okay ..?" she pressed as I turned to the
door.  "For Danny ..." she continued.

"I'll see you at 1:30," I ignored her, turning around to wave
before trotting down the driveway to my car.


The streets change when you drive under the Ridgewood Bridge and
cross into The Stretch.  Located a mile from Dunham International
Airport on a mile-long stretch of Ridgewood Road, The Stretch is
home to four adult bookstores, ten girlie bars, six no-tell
motels and anywhere from two to twenty "working girls" cruising
the corridor either on foot or in cars.  The X-Zone is a
combination bookstore, peep show and juice bar located smack dab
in the center of The Stretch.  I began working there as a clerk
last October, a month or so after Camille's departure when it
became apparent that I needed a second job ... FAST!

After two fruitless days scanning the want ads, I decided to
answer a classified seeking a "bookstore clerk."  It was a
Saturday afternoon.  I called the phone number in the ad and
spoke to a stern-sounding woman.  She asked me three questions --
my name, my age, and whether or not I was offended by
pornography.

I thought the last question was odd, but I innocently answered
"No."  She then told me where the "bookstore" was and asked me if
I wanted to come in for an interview.  Curious and desperate for
money, I agreed to check it out.

She told me to meet her at the X-Zone Adult Pleasure Palace in an
hour, and to ask for Clare.  I didn't have time to say another
word before she hung up.  Not allowing myself time to reconsider,
I showered, shaved and headed out.

I still remember the first time I set foot inside the X-Zone.  A
life-sized poster of porno starlet Misty Sheets and a haze of
disinfectant assaulted my senses the moment I stepped into the
gilded glitz of neon and mirrors.  A very obese, painted-up blond
woman sat perched behind the front counter.  She could have been
anywhere from 35 to 55; it was just hard to tell.  I noticed
immediately that she was studying my entrance on the multitude of
closed-circuit television screens suspended from the ceiling. 
She'd obviously had her eye on me from the moment I pulled into
the parking lot.

"Raymond?" she arched an eyebrow at me.  I nodded dumbly.  "I'm
Clare," she sighed.  "You're early."  She looked at her watch,
sighed again, and then waved me around the counter and into a
back room.  We sat down at one end of a stained table while a
bored dancer scarfed down a pack of Hostess Ding-Dongs at the
other end.  After sizing me up with a few minutes of perfunctory
questions, Clare handed me a badge that read "X-Zone Staff" and
asked me if I could work the 3 to 11PM shift.  Thus began my
exciting career in the field of smut retail.

Because of my college education, lack of a criminal record and
unrelenting punctuality, I was made a shift supervisor four days
later.  This bumped my pay from $6.75 to $7.50 per hour. 
Scheduled at 40 hours per week, with time-and-a-half for any
extra shifts, I began netting an extra $400 or so with every
bi-weekly paycheck.  It wasn't enough to cover all my bills, but
it was better than nothing, and it certainly helped.

Yes, I know I could have found a better-paying, more-reputable
second job.  But at that point, I needed something FAST, and I
viewed the position purely as a stopgap measure to ward off
creditors.  In the forefront of my mind, I was bound and
determined to find a better paying position at Kennington or
somewhere else in my chosen profession of library science.  The
best-laid plans of mice and men, though ...


"Clock in early ..." Clare's voice greeted me this evening as I
stepped into the X-Zone.

Nothing had really changed since my first day of work.  Clare was
still behind the counter mounted on her perch, her eyes fixated
on the closed-circuit TV screens.  The life-sized poster of Misty
Sheets still greeted everyone who entered the front doors.  "Star
Whores, Episode 1," the caption above Misty's head blared in
bold, block letters.  "The Phantom Penis."  The
surgically-enhanced blond bombshell pouted in a silvery, metallic
bikini, a dildo-shaped light saber brandished in her outstretched
hand.  

I didn't say a word back to Clare, merely smiling and nodding her
way as I shuffled through the sales floor to the back room. 
She'd been there since 11PM the night before, working the
graveyard shift and Donny's morning hours after he called off
sick.  I could tell she was in no mood for conversation,
especially considering she had to be there again at 7AM tomorrow.
 The best thing I could do for both of us was punch in and let
her leave ASAP.

"Well hello there, Raymond," Murray, the swing shift cashier
grinned at me as I entered the back room.  With his virtually
hairless, pear-shaped body, he reminded me of a seal as he sat
perched next to the time clock.  Company policy dictated that all
cashiers work strict 40-hour weeks with no overtime.  Hence,
Murray made sure he never punched in one minute before his
scheduled time.

His regular shift was 12 noon to 8PM, and he was obviously
waiting to clock back in from his lunch break.  "Don't you look
all spiffy tonight ..?" He was referring to the fact that I still
wore the tie I'd had on at my day job.  "What's the occasion?" he
feigned curiosity.  "Or should I say `Who's the occasion?'"

"Certainly not you," I shot back.  We both laughed.  Murray was a
full-blown, flaming faggot, and I was just about the
straightest-laced guy in the world.  We amused each other, and I
always enjoyed working with him.  At least the next four hours
would go quickly.

"Yo, professor." Nate, the doorman from the X-Zone's all-nude
juice bar, swung around in his chair when he heard my voice.  He
was the X-Zone's "protection" if anything unsavory went down. 
Even the hard-cases who frequented our establishment respected
the barrel-chested, bullet-headed black man with the red
teardrops tattooed below his eyelids.  He gregariously clasped my
hand with the complicated "street" handshake he'd taught me a
month back.  I did my best to mimic his gestures, and he laughed
good-naturedly.  Nate was also waiting to punch back in after
lunch, using the opportunity to chat up some of the X-Zone's new
"talent."

Three "twenty-something" dancers sat around the break table,
chain-smoking cigarettes and complaining about money and
menstrual cramps.  I had no idea who they were.  By this time,
I'd discovered it was a waste of time learning their names unless
they stayed there at least a month.  This particular trio didn't
look like they'd last until the end of the week.  One of them, a
brunette with visible needle-tracks on her legs, looked like she
was ready to walk that very instant.

"This place BLOWS!" she announced, as if she'd just resolved
Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principal.  "I need to make some serious
cash."

"I'm tellin' you," Nate turned away from me and back to the
girls.  "I know how you can make some serious green in here.  You
just need to stick with me ..."

"Fuck you," the brunette spit.  "I told you.  I don't suck no
dick, okay ..?"

"I told you, don't never say `never,' awright ..?" Nate grinned,
unfazed.  "Things sometimes has a way of turning on you."

"It ain't so bad, Amber," one of the other girls, a dishwater
blond, cut in.  She was speaking from all of her two weeks of
experience.  "You can get `em off pretty fast in the booths.  I
don't even have to get my lips on my most of them.  Just a few
good jerks, and they're putty in your hands."  She thought about
what she said and laughed at her own witticism.

"Listen to her," Nate pressed Amber.  "I've been looking out for
her since last week, and she's been pulling in .. what .. like an
extra 3 bills a night ..?"  He turned to the dishwater blond for
further help.

"Minus your cut, you fucking pimp," Amber spat back in disgust. 
"I know how you fuckers work in this place.  And 50-50 is
bullshit when you're sucking dick.  Bullshit."

"Depends on the dick, sweetheart," Murray shot in.  The time
clock clunked to 4:00PM, and he punched in, skedaddling out of
the back room before Amber could respond.  I inserted my own card
into the slot, waited for the next clunk, and Nate followedsuit.

"Listen you just don't understand how it works yet, baby," Nate
continued his rap as I headed back out into the bookstore.  "Let
me explain ..."

"I got a call from Charlies," Clare told me as I crossed the
sales floor and approached the counter.  Charlies was a notorious
hooker bar down at the west end of the Stretch.  Overall, we had
a pretty good working relationship with most of the business on
the Stretch, and we all kept each other informed concerning
neighborhood "business."

"What did they want?" I asked, watching her climb off her perch.

Clare already had on her coat, and her purse was slung over her
shoulder.  "Vice was sweeping through their lot around 1:00
looking for curb crawlers.  You see any girls in our lot, even
the ones that work here, you kick their butts outta here, you
understand ..?  We don't need no shakedowns tonight."

I nodded.  Periodically, Fremont's vice squad trolled through
parking lots along the Stretch, busting streetwalkers and trying
to shake down the bars and bookstores.  By law, the cops could
close us down if they caught anyone engaging in any kind of
prostitution on our premises.  This wasn't what they really
wanted to do, though.

Fremont's vice squad was looking for money and sex, NOT law and
order.  The only time they even threatened a lock down was when
they came across a girl who didn't want to play ball with them. 
Then they'd turn on the pinball lights, play storm trooper and
see what kind of action they could get on the inside.

Of course, the X-Zone had contingency plans to deal with such
tactics, namely an envelope of ten $100 bills taped to the inside
of the safe.  But the overall strategy in such situations was
always "an ounce of prevention equals a pound of cure."

When Fremont Vice was out and about, you had to keep an eye on
the premises and chase out the working girls before they set up
shop.  I hated nights like this, patrolling the back lot in the
cold, peeking in parked cars, rousting pissed-off hookers and
johns.  Luckily, the only things I'd run into so far were four
letter words and some empty threats.  But still ...

"Don't worry," I assured Clare as she sauntered out of the store.
 "Everything's under control."

"It better be," she warned me with a stony grin before the doors
closed behind her.

"I thought she'd never leave," Murray quipped from behind the
cash register.

I watched him ring up a fidgety old man buying some of the
"youth-oriented" magazines: "Naturally Smooth," "Barely Legal,"
"Tight," and "Hawk."  Midway through the transaction, Murray paid
lip service to the obligatory "up-sell" he was required to
perform with every transaction.  In this instance, he politely
suggested some oils, lubricants and/or condoms to complement the
magazines.

The man wheezed and shook his head impatiently.  Murray shrugged
his shoulders apathetically, read off the total on the register
tape, and finished ringing up the sale.  The man wheezed again,
paid with exact change, and practically ripped the bag out of
Murray's hands before dashing for the door.

"Good night," Murray called after the man sarcastically before
lowering his voice so only I could hear, "you old pedo."

I smirked and began categorically and alphabetically sorting the
stack of video box covers Clare had pulled from the VCRs behind
the counter.  Along the wall to Murray's rear, a bank of 25
videotape players fed the X-Zone's 25 video booths.  The empty
video boxes I now sorted through matched up with the various
tapes that had been playing in the booths all day.

Because of the constant threat of shoplifting, we never kept the
actual tapes inside the boxes on the sales floor.  Instead, the
videocassettes were pulled from their gaudy cartons and replaced
with Styrofoam inserts.  The tapes and box covers were then
labeled with corresponding ID numbers that designated both the
category - Amateur, Anal, Bi-Sexual, B&D, Discount-Packs, Fetish,
Gangbang, Gay, Interracial, Lesbian - and relative age (lower
numbers indicated older product, higher numbers belonged to newer
merchandise).  The box was then placed on the sales floor while
the video was shelved behind the counter.  Then, when a customer
decided to either buy or preview a tape, the box and video were
reunited at the cash register.

Most of my shift was spent reorganizing the tapes and box covers
and making sure everything behind the counter and on the sales
floor was shelved in perfect numerical order. The most difficult
part of the job came with keeping track of the various tapes and
boxes that customers requested in the "preview booths."

In addition to selling porno tapes, the X-Zone also provided
private viewing booths where patrons could choose a title from
the shelves and then "preview" it before purchase.  Of course, no
one ever really bought the tapes they "previewed."  The $10
previewing fee really just gave customers access to "the pens" in
the back of the store.

The pens were the old 25-cent movie peepshow booths.  Back in the
70s and 80s, the "peeps" had been the staple of adult bookstores
nationwide.  In the old days, the booths afforded a cheap
cruising ground for sexual thrill seekers.  Each tiny cubicle was
outfitted with a makeshift hole in its wooden partition dubbed
"the glory hole" or "hell-mouth."  A man could stick his penis
into the opening and be manually or orally serviced by the person
in the next booth.  Many "cruisers" dispensed with all that
formality, though, and just crowded into booths with one another.
 Then came the mid-90s and the "crackdown."

Now, according to a local vice ordinance passed several years
earlier, the bookstores along the Stretch were no longer allowed
to feature the quarter-peeps.  A few cases of AIDS and other
sexually transmitted diseases were obliquely traced back to the
anonymous, homosexual couplings that occurred in the booths. 
When this came to light, Fremont's city council quickly and
unanimously pushed through the new "peep law," which, in effect,
"closed" the pens by making 25-cent movie booths illegal. 
Needless to say, all this sound bite and fury ultimately
signified nothing.

Undaunted by the "peep law," the X-Zone and its competitors along
the Stretch simply slapped some paint on the old booths, replaced
the hard wooden benches with padded seats, and re-designated the
peeps as "preview booths."  Now patrons paid $10 for limited
access to the pens, instead of 25-cents to simply roam free. 
Those perverts who were seriously trolling gladly paid the
increase, while the riff-raff that used to mill about the pens
for hours on end moved their act down to the men's room at the
downtown Greyhound Bus terminal.

At least this is the "history" that Murray has been sharing with
me ever since I started here.  Being the information junkie I am,
I've been soaking up everything I hear from him, Clare, Nate and
the other Stretch denizens.  The stories are truly fascinating in
their own twisted way, and they do make the shifts pass more
quickly.  Part mythology, part tall tale, part urban legend - the
untold epic of the Stretch would make a fascinating book someday.
 And who knows, maybe I'll be the one to write it.

"Now he is SERIOUSLY checking you out," Murray whispered to me,
nudging my ribcage as he sidled up next to me.

"What?" I looked up, distracted from my sorting.  I was devoting
every ounce of my taxonomical genius towards resolving the
dilemma posed by the video "Interracial Pregnant Gangbang."  It
was coded with the Gangbang tapes, but I wasn't so sure that was
really its correct designation.

"Look at Grandpa Munster over there," Murray nudged me again. 
"He's smitten with you.  It just HAS to be the tie.  You are
looking so Dylan McDermott tonight."

"Just keep an eye on him, okay ..?" I tried to ignore Murray's
mocking attempts at gay matchmaking.  "He's been hovering around
the back since I got here.  I think he's trying to sneak into the
pens when we're not looking."

"I think he's trying to screw up the courage to ask you out,"
Murray snickered at his own pun.  "You two would make such a cute
couple.  I bet an old queen like that would love to take care of
you and your son."

"If he looks so promising, why don't you make a play yourself?" I
shot back.

"He's not my type," Murray wrinkled his nose.  "Haven't I taught
you anything?"

"And what makes you think I'm his type?"

"Darling, you're EVERYBODY'S type," Murray cackled.  "My friend
Santos, he came in here the other day, and he's like: `Who is
that divine slice you're working with?'  And I'm like: `That's
Raymond.  He's straight.'  And he's like: `I bet I could change
all that.'  And I'm like: `Honey, I've tried ..'"

"Just keep your eyes on him," I dismissed Murray's baiting,
nodded towards the old customer, and went back to the tapes.  For
some reason, "Interracial Pregnant Gangbang" struck me as
belonging more to the Fetish-Pregnancy genre than the Interracial
or Gangbang categories.  The starlet's pending childbirth was
certainly the video's most outstanding thematic aspect here, far
more than the miscegenation and group-sex elements.  Silently, I
mulled over the pros and cons of changing its ID-code.  

"Don't look now," Murray's whispers interrupted my train of
thought again.  "But he's coming up here.  I think he's going to
make his move."

"Just ring him up," I hissed under my breath.  "I'm serious,
Murray."

"How are you doing tonight?" Murray raised his voice, greeting
the old man as he approached the front counter.

"Fine," the old man replied.  His skin seemed unnaturally waxy,
and with the wild outcroppings of hair above his ears he did
resemble Grandpa Munster.  "Are you familiar with this video?" 
He looked at both Murray and I but extended the tape in my
direction.  "I was thinking of previewing it ..."

"Fucking Kids XVII," the box cover blared.  It was part of a
youth-oriented series that was quite popular with the repressed
pedo set.  The disclaimer on the box insisted that the starlets
were all over 18, even though they all looked and acted like they
were barely out of junior high school.  What separated this
series from the scores of similar videos - Cherry Poppers, Video
Virgins, Young `Uns, etc. - was the director, Steady Eddy.

Somehow, Steady Eddy had gained access to an old school building,
complete with classrooms, chalkboards, globes, desks, even pencil
sharpeners.  His revolutionary use of set design had put Steady
Eddy far ahead of the porno pack when the series first appeared.
After the first six or seven installments, however, he'd pretty
much run out of contrived situations to exploit.

Now "Fucking Kids" strictly relied on finding fresh-faced,
undiscovered talent to spice up its hackneyed scripts.  This task
that was becoming much more difficult, too, as other directors
borrowed the formula and began recreating faux school sets of
their own.  At least, this is what Murray tells me ...

 "I'm not really familiar with that one," I answered the man. 
"Murray, maybe you can ..."

"She looks HOT!" Murray announced flamboyantly, pointing to Randi
Moore, a young blond hopeful that vaguely resembled teen pop star
Mandy Moore.  "Just look at her take that dick up the ass!  Wow!
This one definitely deserves a look."  Murray cocked his head to
one side, locked his face into an expectant look and waited for
Grandpa Munster to commit one way or another.

The old man obviously denoted the sarcasm in Murray's voice but
chose to ignore it.  "I'll preview it, I guess."  He handed
Murray a $10 along with the Styrofoam-stuffed video box.  Murray
matched the ID-number taped to the box-cover with the indexed
videos on the shelf behind the counter.  He slid out the
corresponding tape, slipped it into the VCR labeled "Booth 18,"
inserted the box cover into the display rack next to the machine,
and pressed the tape player's Start button.

"Booth 18," Murray told the man.  "I'll let the previews run. 
You have a fast forward control in the booth, and there's an
intercom to let us know if you have any problems."

Grandpa Munster looked at me again before shuffling off towards
the pens.  I went back to sorting the re-shelves.  There must
have been about fifty of them, which meant Clare had had a busy
morning.  No wonder she was so anxious to get going.

"Could you ever fuck a dog?" Murray suddenly asked me out of the
clear blue sky.

"What?" I looked up from "Interracial Pregnant Gangbang."  By now
I had decided that maybe the original coding - Gangbang - was
correct after all.  I mean the box cover showed 18 black men
lined up to service the fertile female lead.  Then again, perhaps
the video's real raison d'etre was its examination of
cross-racial breeding?  Ultimately, the deciding factor might be
whether or not a white or black man had sired the starlet's
child.

"If I gave you a thousand dollars, would you fuck a dog?" Murray
repeated.

"You have way too much time on your hands," I replied.  "Maybe I
should have you sort these boxes?"

"You avoided my question," Murray scolded.  "$1,000, fuck a dog
.. would you do it?"

"For a thousand dollars?" I scoffed.  "I wouldn't fuck you for a
grand.  What makes you think I'd fuck a dog?"

"Ten thousand?" Murray upped the ante.

"Give up," I answered.  "You couldn't pay me any amount of money
in the world to fuck a dog or anything or anyone else I didn't
want to fuck.  I'm a human being, and we evolved, in case you
missed all that in school."

"Listen, if I opened a briefcase and showed you 100 grand, you'd
think about it, Raymond," Murray taunted, leaning over the
counter and pointing to his ass.  "Just look at this," he jeered
before smacking his ass.  "Darling, you'd end up paying me."

"In your dreams," I went back to my classification dilemma. 
Perhaps I needed to watch Interracial Pregnant Gangbang to truly
make a judgment regarding its genre.  It certainly did look
interesting.

"Um .." a voice crackled over the intercom system hooked up to
the pens in back.  "The sound in here isn't working."

I peered over the counter to gauge the situation.  The indicator
light for Booth 18 was lit.  Grandpa Munster was having trouble.

"Um, turn the knob CLOCKWISE ..?" Murray spoke into our
transmitter with an exasperated sigh.

"I tried that," Grandpa Munster responded.  "It's not turning
either way.  Can one of you come back here and look at it?  I'm
really no good with these things."

"We can just move you to another booth, sir," Murray informed him
impatiently.  "Booth 19 is open, and ..."

"I don't know if it's the controls or me," he cut off Murray. 
"Can't one of you please just come back here and look at it?"

Murray unkeyed the transmitter and looked over at me.  "There is
like NO WAY I'm going back there with that old queen," Murray
snapped.  "He thinks just because I'm gay, he can slip me a
twenty and get some sucky-sucky, the old pervert.  I'm NOT in the
mood for this tonight, Raymond.  I'm just not."

"I'll take care of it," I shrugged my shoulders and headed back
to the pens.  Obviously, the old coot had been back there scoping
out the booths.  When he realized he was the only one in the
pens, he probably decided to try his luck with the help up front.
 Men had propositioned me a few times since I'd started at the
X-Zone, so I really wasn't bothered by it anymore.  It was just
one of the hazards of the job.

I always tried not to breathe too hard when I entered the pens. 
This is where the cloud of disinfectant originated, the one that
permeated every molecule of air in the bookstore.  With the busy
day Clare had, the haze was still thick after the last cleaning.
Clare always mixed the chemicals strong, too, and the mop bucket
remained filled in the corner.  If we continued having a slow
evening, I might only have to clean up once before my shift ended
at 1:00AM.  

I navigated my way through the maze of cubicles, paused for a
moment, took a shallow breath, and then stopped outside Booth 18.
  "It's the manager?" I announced, rapping on the wood frame.

"It's okay, come in," Grandpa Munster called from behind the
yellow shower curtain.  I drew back the plastic screen and peered
inside the booth.  "You see," he explained, trying to twist the
knob.  "It won't budge."

I reached in and tried it myself.  He was right.  It wouldn't
budge.  Curious, I stepped further into the cramped booth and
gave it a good crank.  God only knows what was gumming it up.  I
felt it give slightly.  One more crank, and it turned slowly. 
Whatever had been making it stick was now encrusted in the gear.
A couple more hard turns - back and forth - and I managed to
begin loosening it.  With another hard crank, I sent the knob all
the way to maximum volume.

" ... LET ME SHOW YOU WHAT A REAL MAN'S COCK LOOKS LIKE, YOU
LITTLE CUNTS!" Steady Eddy's voice boomed over the speakers. 
Without thinking, I began to watch the movie as I played with the
volume knob.  Steady Eddy was playing a teacher, I surmised, and
two childlike starlets - one brunette with real acne and a red
head with real braces - sat quivering and giggling in their
desks.  On the chalkboard, someone had scrawled Cocksucking 101
in big letters.

I fiddled with the volume some more and turned to Grandpa
Munster.  "Is that all right?" I asked.

"That' fine," he answered.  "Thank you so much."  Suddenly he was
pressing a $20 bill into my free hand, his eyes alit with an
expectant gleam.  Before I could back away, he rubbed the back of
my thigh and lightly patted my butt.

"No .. sir," I tried to return the oily bill, but he threw his
hands back and shook his head.  "Sir .." I started, but he
scooted down the bench away from me.  I shrugged my shoulders and
dropped the bill on the vacant space he'd left along the bench. 
He didn't move.

For some reason, I locked eyes with him.  I wanted to see him
pick the bill back up and put it in his pocket.  I needed to see
him do this.  We stared at each other in silence another moment
before he moved again.  He was going to take the bill back.  This
was all going to over.  I waited to breathe a sigh of relief and
leave.  But suddenly, he was withdrawing another bill from the
breast pocket of his shirt.  This one was a $50.

A $50.

He laid it atop the $20.  "Just let me see it," he whispered,
nodding towards the bulge in my Hagar dress slacks.

A cold chill ripped through me now, starting at the top of my
spinal column and rifling into every nerve of my body.  `Christ,
I'm .. hard.'  My silent epiphany riveted me to the floor.  I was
unable to breathe or move.  Somewhere along the way, between my
musings on the "Interracial Pregnant Gangbang" and the scene now
playing on the screen before me, I had become vaguely and
disinterestedly aroused.

I certainly was not at full erection, but one look below my waist
left made my condition obvious.  My cock looked like a rolled-up
sweat sock stuffed into my Hagars. I wondered now if my state had
been so apparent when I was out on the floor.

Had Murray seen it?  Is that why he'd started asking me about
fucking dogs?  Had Grandpa Munster seen it when he first
approached the counter?  Is that why he was looking at me so
intently? Even Murray had commented on it.  And what about that
last look the old man gave me before going to the pens?  Had I
been somehow asking for this?

A part of me wanted to vomit right there.  I was literally
trembling in my loafers.  The thought of what the man wanted from
me, what he believed I would provide him for seventy measly
dollars appalled me.  Me fist balled up.  In my mind, I saw my
blow smashing into his face.  I saw the blood spray onto the
video screen, coating the image of the two waiflike whores as
they slobbered over Steady Eddy's rampant, ruthless cock.

"That's it, you fucking cunts," Steady Eddy ranted at the
starlets, the sounds of their gurgles and slurps punctuating the
video's knock-off Ramones soundtrack.  "There's your school
lunch, you cocksucking little teenage whores.  I'm gonna teach
you to suck cock just like Britney Spears does.  I'm gonna teach
you what being a cunt is all about.  How's that sound, you little
cum dumpsters, huh ..?"

"Yes, Mr. Edwards .." they droned hollow-eyed, like
computer-generated characters in one of Danny's video games,
nothing more than fantasy-animated approximations of human
beings.  "We'll be good little cum dumpsters for you.  Just teach
us how to suck cock, puh-leaze ..."

I felt my dick pressing harder against the confines of my 100
cotton crotch now.  Why was I getting so hard?  Why?

Grandpa Munster now slid another $20 out of his breast pocket. 
He placed it gingerly atop the $20 and the $50, as if he was
worried that any sudden movement might destroy the building mood
and send me scurrying back to the sales floor.

"Hey, is everything all right in there?" Murray's voice suddenly
crackled over the booth's speaker.

"Y..yes," I stammered.  "The knob is stuck.  I .. I've almost got
it."

"Do you want to just move him into 19?" Murray asked, the
exasperation in his voice palpable by now.

"No, it's all right," I replied through the sweat now condensed
on my upper lip. "I think it'll just be another minute.  If not,
I'll let you know, okay ..?"

"Whatever," Murray sighed.  "You're the boss.  Over and out,
Ponch."

"Can you close the curtain?" the old man asked, pointing to the
screen.  "The light ..."

Without realizing what I was doing, I slid the plastic screen
over the entrance behind me, stepping completely into the booth
during the process.  We locked eyes again, and the scene prattled
on across the video screen.

"You fucking little cunts need to know how to take a dick down
your whining throats," Steady Eddy spat in the acne-ridden face
of the brunette.  "Now shut your mouth and open your mouth."

The brunette went slack jawed, and Steady Eddy pried her mouth
open like he was opening a bear trap.  She grunted in discomfort.
 He jabbed his spit-covered cock deep into her open mouth and
swiveled his hips sadistically.

"You're hurting her," the red head squealed through her braces.

"I thought you little sluts wanted to learn how to suck cock like
Britney Spears," Steady Eddy laughed malevolently.  "I can tell
you, Britney doesn't whine she gets a big dick shoved down her
stupid little throat.  She just opens wide and takes it like a
little whore, doesn't she ..?"

"Yes, Mr. Edwards," the red head giggled, her eyes glazed in a
narcotic stupor.  "I'm sorry ..."

"God damn right you are." Steady Eddy hockered in the red head's
eyes now, ripping out his cock from between the brunette's
blubbering lips and shoving it into the red head's face.  "Your
turn, cunt," he grunted, grasping her skull, wrenching her jaws
apart and savagely impaling her tonsils.

My eyes were plastered to the screen.  The scene inside the booth
seemed just like the scene in the video.  Neither was real, and I
stood outside both of them, not really participating, just
watching.

"Yes," Grandpa Munster whispered.  His eyes were glued to my
crotch, just as mine were affixed to the screen.  "That's it. 
Let me see ..."  

Doing my best to ignore the old man, I absently stroked the pent
up cock raging inside my Hagars.  In my peripheral vision, I
spied him patting the pile of money and nodding to the pounding
rhythm of the video's soundtrack.  With my eyes still fixated on
the screen, I unbuckled my belt, undid the clasp on my slacks,
grasped the metal tab of my zipper and slowly drew down my fly.

Grandpa Munster smiled and leaned back in the booth.  I heard the
sound of another zipper.  I bit my lip and tried to shut out
everything but the video screen.  I continued wrestling with my
slacks and shorts until I could finally wrest my cock free.

I shivered as the cool air wrapped around my exposed groin and
chilled my genitals.  Both my cock and my hands were strangely
numb.  Momentarily terrified, I looked down to make sure they
were really there.  The sight of my dick in my hands sent another
rush of nausea coursing through my guts.  I took a deep breath
and fought back the bile that bubbled in my stomach.  I'd come
too far now, too far ...

"My God," Grandpa Munster gasped.  "It's .. God ..."  Out of the
corner of my eye, I saw him suddenly lean forward in the bench
and reach his hand out towards my glans.  "Can I ..."

"No," I hissed back at him, suddenly furious that his reality was
invading my space.  "No," I repeated with bated breath, "just sit
there."

"It .. it's the biggest I've ever seen," he shuddered, leaning
back into his seat.  I heard squishing sounds and turned back to
the screen, trying to lose myself in the video again.  I needed
to get this over with quickly.  I needed to get that $90 and get
the hell out of there.  "Oh, yeah .." Grandpa Munster gasped. 
"God, it's so huge.  I mean it is really .. God, I'd do anything
to touch it."   

I continued to ignore him.  "Just shut up!" my mind screamed into
the flicker of the video, the pulse of its soundtrack, the hushed
swell of our labored breathing.

After a few more pitiful pleas, he finally sunk into silence save
for the occasional exclamation: "God, it's so big."  The pathos
in his bleating, the utter awe and exaltation triggered something
inside me.  Despite my revulsion, my shame, my abject terror, I
found my heart drumming inside my chest like Buddy Rich, pumping
even more hot blood into my engorged prick.

Yes, I do have a large penis - 10 inches long with a 7-inch
circumference to be exact, which places me smack dab on the
optimal end of the bell curve.  Believe me, though; having a big
cock is not the Holy Grail that Hustler magazine paints it out to
be.  In fact, unless my pants are down and I'm sporting an
erection, genital size really doesn't even play a factor in my
life.  I mean who even looks twice at a male librarian, or long
enough to check out his package.  Needless to say, I've surprised
quite a few people in my time, Grandpa Munster being the latest.

But I needed to forget about him for the moment.  Just the
thought of him sitting there, no more than three feet from me,
devouring my manhood with his eyes - I quaked with another
succession of nauseous tremors.  I gripped my dick more savagely,
boring my eyes into the glowing television screen, trying to
thrust my consciousness out of the booth's reality and into
video's twisted fantasy.

By now, Steady Eddy had the red head on all fours.  He was
preparing to anally penetrate her while the brunette soullessly
sucked his balls.  "How did you like your oral exam, slut?" Eddy
taunted the redhead.  He pressed his bloated cock-head against
her puckered sphincter.  "If you thought that was hard, you're
gonna hate this ..."

He shoved forward.  The red head screeched.  The brunette covered
her mouth with her hand and giggled.  Grandpa Munster coughed.  I
closed my eyes and pumped furiously.  

Behind my fluttering eyelids, an image flashed, flickering like
an old home movie - Camille's face bursting into laughter, her
hand suddenly covering her mouth, the way it always did, like she
was filled with secrets and afraid they might spill out ...

"Get out ..."  

I wrenched open my eyes and forced my attention back at the
screen.  

The next few seconds were a blur.  My eyes pasted to the screen,
I pulled and pumped my cock to the thudding, slashing pulse of
the soundtrack.  The images from the video deluged my senses,
dragging me into their undertow, transporting me to a schoolroom
set where a man abused and degraded two waiflike starlets. 
Everything else -- Grandpa Munster, the booth, the X-Zone,
Danny's $50 comic book, Camille - turned to wisps, candles caught
in a hurricane.

"Get out."

The next thing I recall was my sperm, surging and spattering
against the ghastly glow of the video screen ... and a rush of
bodies, colliding into one another like sideswiping cars.  I
remember coughing, too, only I don't know if it was my cough,
Grandpa Munster's, or one of the actors on the video.  But the
coughing triggered something, and the here-and-now rushed back
into my consciousness.  Suddenly I was drowning in the truth of
what I had just done.

Shivering, I opened my eyes.  I forced myself to peer into the
corner of the booth, to gaze upon Grandpa Munster and confront
what had just happened head on.  I was going to take the old
man's $90 and shove it down his bleating throat.  If he made one
sound, I was going to wring his turkey neck and rip out his
lolling tongue.  I stared into the flickering stillness, the
moans of fucked waifs caterwauling their siren song. 

The bench was empty.  The booth was vacant save for my dwindling,
dribbling cock.  I whirled around, as if Grandpa Munster could
somehow be behind me or hiding somewhere else within the confines
of the 5'-by-5' booth.

But I was alone, the droning video and scent of fresh sperm the
only evidence that anything had occurred at all.  I forced my
sticky, still-raging cock back inside my boxers, then reassembled
my shirt and my Hagars.  Brushing the hair from my eyes with the
back of my hand, I used the semen-stained screen as a mirror.  I
straightened my tie and popped a breath mint into my mouth.

I turned to the booth's entrance and noticed that the yellow
shower curtain was half-open.  Momentarily terrified, I stuck my
head out of the booth and scanned the pens.

No one.

I breathed a sigh of relief and stepped into the cramped hallway.
 I  managed to turn around the first corner in the maze before I
remembered the money, the $90.  Part of me wanted to keep
walking, to let the money just sit there until some lucky
so-and-so stumbled upon it.  I even took another two steps before
I stopped and turned back around.

I was only going to look at it, stare at it, study it, let it
serve as a grim warning, like one of those gory documentaries the
State Highway Patrol shows drunk drivers.  I slid back the yellow
shower curtain of Booth 18 and rested my eyes on the stack of
three bills still lying atop the bench.

A $50 and two $20s, almost one-half of my week's pay at the
X-Zone.  I could buy Danny his $50 comic book and a couple jazz
CDs or some new hardcover books for myself.  What was the harm
now anyway?  The time for a crisis of conscience was before the
commission of the crime, not afterward.  As ill-gotten as this
reward might be, it was still by all rights mine.

I reached into the booth and tried to scoop up the bills without
letting them touch my hands.  I stuffed them into my pocket like
a wad of Kleenex.  A minute later, I strolled back onto the sales
floor.

Murray was slumped over the counter reading a gay porno mag that
featured extreme fetish pictures and a nationwide section of
personal and classified ads.  "I'm thinking of getting my tongue
pierced again," he commented with his usual wry apathy.  "Do you
think guys can really feel the difference when you're rimming
them with a pierced tongue?  I mean for me, when my ass is
getting eaten, I'm always just like , `Wow, he's got his tongue
up there!'  I'm not even thinking about how it really feels."

"Why don't you straighten up the marital aid displays ..?" I
pointed to the disarray of dildos and ben-wa balls in the center
retail island.

"Aren't we being all managerial tonight ..?" he rolled his eyes,
closed the magazine and walked around the counter.

I went back to sorting the tapes and spending the $90 in mymind.



<1st attachment end>


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