In a bookstore (of the non-Borders, Barnes & Noble and B.Dalton respectable variety) a crumpled dollar bill is a terribly inopportune and frustrating thing indeed. For those envisioning neatly ordered rows of bestsellers, self-help books and coffee table free-weights ("Why - YES - I do find Ecudorian Animal Mating Habits fascinating, but a 75lb Copenhagen oak table isn't meant to hold up a 200lb coffee-table book") organized helpfully (yet not thoughtfully) for Stepford-esque Housewives who rampage through suburbia aided by Prozac and a disbelief of 25MPH restrictions on their shiny, leased SUV's, the piped in Muzak meant to resemble Enya (or more likely, modern day Enya meant to resemble piped in Muzak) and icy cappuchino's - slick with condensation prepared by disgruntled, disinterested, verbally disembowled teenage boys with multi-colored hair ("shaved here, yet oh, not there, thank you") waiting to be discovered and praised for their artistic genius; "Is that merely froth accenting my Latte or a mindnumbing work of Degas ?"

If you are envisioning this, don't, I'm not speaking of those places.

Instead, close your eyes, loosen your belts and picture something dirtier, seedier and honestly - undeniably, more arousing to most. Parking lots full at the witching hour (130AM bar closing time in most states - "I don't care where you go, but your not staying here" still ringing in my ears), hallways darkened enough to hide but with subtle, unflattering splashes of light - invariably red, sometimes blue -disclosing faces, bodies, the scurrying of the shamed or the bravado of those too drunk to care. Men linger, more shadow then real and less real then the air they breathe: stuffy, used, stale and spent. Here they are not searching for Grisham, Updike, Irving or Sedaris, but "Stealth-mode" cruisers seeking companionship and solace in the hands of a ten-minute friend with the aide of a few, crisp dollar bills. In the place of the music of Enya, is a symphony of sounds of the red light district, an orchestra of moans with an accompaniment of zippers (down, then up - for some: REPEAT) and of course the whirring of dollars finding their new home. Nightly the twenty-year-old stained, trampled-on and matted-down carpet surrenders and becomes an ashtray, a repository for things unsaid, undone, under foot - condom wrappers mingle with cigarette butt's, forsaken phone numbers linger - crumpled up used to dispense of chewed gum, and splatters of jizz, cum, spunk - dropped, shot and freed, play havoc - impersonating tell-tale land mines carried away on the perpertrators shoe. The hallways appear to bow under the weight of it's visitors. Each carrying the burden of fear, apprehension, lust, want, need, hope and desire as if they were each a stick - tied neatly in bundles and slung over each man's shoulder.

The adult bookstore is a perverse playground of funhouse mirrors - devilishly entertaining, offering distorted glimpses of who we could be at certain moments.

"Whadd'Ya into Slugger??", hoarsley whispers one-passerby, a garage mechanic maybe - grit still beneath his nails, perhaps a high school football coach - still wearing recent victory on his brow, but more likely an accountant at Bored, Boring and Tiresome, Inc. - trying to forget the wife and kids at home.

I wish the younger one leaning against the wall, curious, embarassed (making him all the cuter) and strong (making him all the more desirable prey) would follow, yet it's the others - out from the red-laced shadows who wish to play "Tag" to your "It". Oh to be a young, Drew Barrymore in "Firestarter" and just implode these trolls in flames. With a deliberate stare Zap-Poof-Sizzle! Hah! Your a burnt marshmellow in the shape of a troll.

I select a booth, head swimming, crotch throbbing and fall prey to the wait...anxiously ironing out crumpled dollar bills with the heat of my hand.

A small, forest green plaque adhered with super glue to the entry of the video booth warns:
"No sexual conduct of any kind is permitted. One person per booth. Violaters will be asked to leave the premises - The Management".

The Bush and Clinton administration combined issued edicts more grounded in the truth and more certain to be followed through on than this banal threat. Since the plaque is eye-level and is afixed to not one, but to the entry way to every booth - my fellow vagabonds of the night are also aware of the rules. So it is with mob-mentality that we deliberately disregard these posted rules of acceptable behavior. For in a bookstore there are unspoken "rules of conduct" as in all sports, all board games and all horror movie trilogies:

1. Do not speak, unless first spoken to. This is less courtesy then helpful to the mystique, some hot, rough trade guys - only look that way, open there mouth and your hanging with the gay version of "Screech" from 'Saved by the Bell'.
2. Ask him if he's a cop, if he looks like one and says no ask him to just play along for fantasy sake. Woof!
3. No chewing gum - what horrific blow job catastrophe could come from an over-eager, Doublemint-chewer turned sword-swallower in the dark.
4. Never give your real name - sure your not Dirk Diggler, but hey this is your dollar bill, your booth - you're calling the shots.
5. Never show the goods first. If his package looks like it was deliberately lost by Fed-ex then you'll be able to make a quicker exit.
6. Keep your eye on the goal... and on your wallet.

A pale bluish glow off the video screen affords the only light one finds in the booth (WARNING: This lighting often makes it possible to mistake a Tom Arnold for a Tom Cruise, it is safer to make decisions on conquests once your eyes have adjusted to the light). Images - sexual, erotic, disturbing and sometimes seemingly impossible, flicker from the screen - a pornographic strobe light giving way to your movements.

"Forest Hump" ( Go Forest, Go!) plays on one screen, a soundtrack that would make the producers of 'Kojak' tap their shoes and well dialogue that leaves you reaching for the volume control - only to regret that it's already been touched (INSERT HERE: "Rule of Conduct" # 7 - Always carry a hankerchief or a roll of Bounty). A second screen offers previews of the other 1,185 channels of 'adult entertainment'. I feel vindicated with this buffet sampling of pornography as if I have hit double-coupons at the Piggly-Wiggly or stumbled upon a 2-4-1 at my favorite bar.

The floors never fail to make you shudder, elliciting a sound like masking tape pulled off of shag carpet, with every step you take on the floor. A veteran knows to never, NEVER, retreive any item dropped to the floor. A dollar dropped becomes the priceless diamond around Rose's neck in the 'Titanic'; it, the neckless and some guy named Jack, are all forsaken once they disappear into the mysterious, murky darkness of the floor.

I settle into the seat, a bright orange, plastic scoop creaking with distress under me. As I fumble with my belt and pull down my zipper I curse the choice of confining briefs. Urges build, among them a terrible simple yearning for release. My mind vascillates between shame and want.

I grasp to remember the rosary - Hey! I've heard them recite it in those 'Exorcist' movies. I fall to my knees - OOOOOH SHIT, BAD MOVE! - in prayer. Caught like a fly in a S&M flytrap, I struggle both physically and mentally to escape my sin.

"Our Father who aren't in Heaven, who sure as hell wouldn't be caught dead here. Please forgive my trespasses and forgive those who trespass upon me - unless it's that really, really hot frat boy in the hall in the snug grey tshirt with the faded Abercrombie & Fitch logo and cargo pants - he can trespass ALL OVER my sweet little ass...uh, never mind - just please forgive me and unstick me from this floor and I promise I will never, NEVER come here again...is this being tape recorded?"

A confused passer-by mistakes my position to be an invitation and finds me unwelcome, unfriendly, embarrassed and my knees quite filthy.

Verbally ushering out my courtier with my Greta Garbo-ish cries of "I want to be ALONE!", he exits. His 5'11", anemic-looking frame decorated with a balding crown of white hair and a protruding potbelly distending many inches over his gray, Sansabelt slacks. Normally this person's appearance would elicit a coo of "When are you due??? What trimester??. Fleeing from the room he cries out in pain as he smacks his liver spotted hand against the fastening hook attached to the entry way, his cheap, tarnished wedding ring making a solid "THWACK!" against the solid metal of the hook.

Trapped in my grotesque position - part prayer/part Kama Sutra - I realized I had never secured the "privacy rope". For the uninitiated (but I mean really, which one among you would read me and be that innocent to said subject...baffling) at an adult bookstore, video booths are often given some method of insuring their occupants' privacy - if they so require. Some have doors (decidedly meant only for those who really, actually want privacy and if so, they should invest in a VCR, they're really cheap these days), some ropes, some nothing (this really sucks because you feel like your playing bouncer at the hottest club in town - "Sorry buddy, no more standing room inside...move along, now, move along"). The "privacy rope" is a 3 foot long rope encased in burgundy leather, heavy to the touch, with a dingy, silver hook on each end. Imagine the ropes used to hold off the swarms of press that line the premieres of Hollywood blockbusters and the "in" nightclubs of New York and Los Angeles; this is not that rope, this rope is it's short, weathered cousin, twice removed - through a nasty custody battle - now living in a trailer park in Yuma, Arizona with a malevolent, broken-down Lazy-Boy chair. The hook is meant to be inserted into a fastener attached to the wall - it is all very high tech. The rope is intended to be pulled across the entryway between the two fasteners, thus blocking the entryway. This simple ropes use is encouraged by The Management for your security and protection. Imagine the designer of the privacy rope first attempting to sell these beauties door-to-door under the name "Rope-Ryder 5000" - the ultimate in personal home security".

Necessity was not the mother of invention, she was a drunken sister-in-law who like to call after 1AM.

As I struggle to pull myself free from the flytrap "incident", I realize that the "Rope-Ryder 5000 Privacy Monitor" is only effective if used properly - I had left mine unfastened. Having left mine in the so-called "off" position I breathed a sign of relief that matters had not been worse.

Freed from my predicament I began the unpleasant task of brushing off my knees.

Hey what luck my lost dollar bill is stuck to my pants!.

I quickly fall back on my agnostic beliefs and renounce my so-called promises to better humanity and vacate the booth (yes - I acknowledge that I am by all probability going to hell - my much loved Irish-Catholic boyfriend, mumbles as much on numerous occasions). I wrestle (well, in as much as they really wrestle in the WWF) with my desire to continue my adventure and retain my opportunity to behave indecently. With several pints of Guiness ebbing through my blood stream, I feel my inhibitions still appropriately flattened to continue my quest. I justify staying. I mean really, what a total sense of loss it would be if I walked away in the middle of the riveting plot developments in 'Forest Hump':

Forest has gone to war (Vietnam) where without the oppression of female companionship, the moral weight of societies ethics and norms regarding tolerance of sexuality and minorities, Forest has developed deepened bonds of masculinity and brotherhood during the perils and ravages of war, allowing him to conquer his inner demons and free himself to love.

As is with life, is the universe of the adult bookstore: Feast or Famine. This night is feast, but as with most buffets, the more selection we are offered the pickier we become:

"Oh, um - Nah, I'll skip the Blond Surfer, had that for lunch. Do you have any Gym-Bunnies or Discipling Daddy types?"

A parade of "himbo's", some sheep, some wolves come through the entryway of my booth. I am giving a moment to prepare, adjusting the package, checking the stance and perfecting the "rough-trade" stare; each time forewarned by the knocking sound of the unfastened privacy rope. In some ways I run my small time version of the Hollywood premiere, but instead of Superstars and Supporting Actors, I'm given Gaffers and Audio Technicians (I would kill for a Best Grip - I don't even know what he does, but I really think I like the sound of it).

As the screen begins to flash, my last crisp dollar buying me only 60 seconds more; a new entrant comes upon the scene. Perhaps he would be a character actor - one without top billing - but notable after the movie. He wouldn't have many lines, but the ones he does are pivotal. He is "Movie-of-the-Week" handsome, Sunday Night, not Friday Night. Think Gregory Harrison: handsome, a little over 40, well built. Somehow like a pair of Kenneth Cole, black, square-toe, dress shoes that you have had for a couple of years - they still look good, but admit it - they've lost their luster. (Yes - I also know, if it is possible - I am going to hell for comparing men to shoes.)

In a bookstore, a bar at closing time or any place in Wisconsin, there is a phrase often used in describing your prospective choice to friends: "Good for Here". I don't waste time with a self-inflicted, psychological interrogation of the morals of right and wrong (22 year olds rarely do), instead I run through a well-rehearsed mental checklist:

• Am I Single? - check
• Am I Drunk? - check
• Am I Horny? - Sheep should be afraid
• Is he "Good for here"? - Oh Yeah!

There are the smaller moments in life that we categorize as "unforgettable", and then in turn subcategorize as "unrevokable"; a unexpected smattering of seconds, or an unplanned gathering of minutes, that once purposefully set forth into action - charge furiously forward like a naive, doomed Custer preparing for his "last stand".
If you are unsure dear reader - myself aided by the benefit of retrospective vision, I am not - this would be one of those forementioned moments.

I think Custard got off easier.

Watching - entranced - as my video stall companion's hand reached it's resting place, at the bottom of the undone zipper and unbuckled pants. As he slowly drew his shirt upward and over his head - the collar catching there around his face for a brief moment making him look like a turned on monk - I felt flushed, my heart speeding around the Indy 500 at 150MPH. He took my hand and granted it governorship of all that was in it's grasp. Enjoying this sovereignty over his well porportioned, muscular body, grasp I did, as well as fondle, grope, kiss, caress, rub, knead and jerk. Each action precipitating a return action delivered with his hands, mouth and tongue.

In a matter of minutes we were in a purely sexual - if caught, highly embarrassing, state of disarray. I have forsaken virtue, common sense, pride and chastity (Ok, let's face it that was forsaken a long time before) and in their place I overfilled with a feeling of empowerment brought blindly on by lust. He playfully pushed me down into the rigid, uncomfortable, plastic chair. Standing before me he brandished his impressive weapon in a display of anything - performance art, showmanship, idol worship - but humility. On one foot he turned, boastfully encouraging me to admire his hard-earned, well-built, taunt, smooth ass...a gay man's playground, if ever there was one.

"You gotta FUCK ME, you gotta PLOW THIS ASS", he pleaded. Continuing in a tone of voice that could only be considered a stage whisper, "Please buddy, please...fill me up with that dick of yours".

I was dizzy - had I bitten off more then I could chew? I surveyed the cracker-jack box that was the video booth, realizing it's numerous limitations to enjoyable positions. Seated, I fumbled in the blue glow of the flickering screen, for my jeans pockets. I found them gathered like constricting denim bondage around my knees. I struggled, attempting my search for protection, while attempting to not interrupt the flurry of pleasing physical activity. My playmate had long ago made the carnal disrobing mistake of allowing his previously tan Gap khaki's to hit the ground. Firmly I pressed my face into the crevice of his ass - lapping, licking and loving the sweet, yet acrid taste of his sweat and flesh. Simultaneously my hands struggled, tearing at the packaging of the Trojan Ultra-Thin Lubricated Condom, my mind raced - could I suffocate this way, death by rimming. Once unwrapped, I pulled the condom - unfortunately, inside-out - down the shaft of my dick. Frustrated, I pondered the need for lubrication and quickly pulled the condom off and repeated the procedure - correct side out. I felt juvenile, but relieved.

I pulled my face back - wiping my mouth - I tried my butchest Ken Ryker voice and commanded:
"Take a seat on this buddy"

My hands guided his backside towards my lap. He lowered himself on me far less gingerly then expected, forcing me to let an "Ommmpfffhh" as he rapidly slid down on the intended target - Bullseye!. After a moment of hesitation, than adjustment, he proceeded to ride - slow, fast, then slow.
"Fuck yeah, oh fuck yeah" he moaned.

His apparent delight, arousing, but a bit embarrassing as his moans grew louder and louder. I imagined passer-bys gathering outside the boundary of the privacy rope - terrified, yet intrigued by the noise. Then he took charge, demanding, "SLAM IT in ME!"
I tried in vain to readjust in the seat, to gain some sort of leverage, but like Richard Simmons under a fat woman, I was going nowhere. He quickly accommodated by slapping his ass up and down on my dick.

It is at this moment that it all went terribly wrong.

For a brief second, I was in heaven as the most delicious moment of sexual intensity occurred. The lubrication and friction seemed more fluid, faster, slicker, but it was the latter half of that second that things changed. I no longer felt like I had the starring role in "Forrest Hump", but now more like Sissy Spacek in the 70's horror-classic "Carrie"...the odor that took the room hostage, the hot substance that flooded over my naked thighs was not blood, but excrement.

My hot, sexual tryst had become a Shit-a-thon.

It's difficult to say what happened next, not really because "it's hard to say", but more that I can't quite remember. My "Gregory Harrison"-handsome actor seemed slightly less appealing as his near-perfect nose shriveled up and eyes teared - it wasn't shame, not yet - it was the smell. Something terrible, an odor better left in the city morgues of Los Angeles or Phoenix roadside taco stands had permeated all that it enveloped. As unpleasant as the odor was, what I heard was worse; the revolting sound his body made peeling off of mine, in a sound reserved for velcro seperating - he leapt up, and off my soiled lap. Without thought or hesitation he pulled his pants all the way up to his waist - immediately rendering them stained - and hastened to fasten his buckle.

Words falling clumsily from his mouth:
"I'm...uh, I'm soooooo, so, sooooo sorry".
Then he was gone, his shirt still tangled somewhere above his head - a soiled sheik running into the night.

So there I sat listening to the unfastened "privacy rope" smacking against the wall as it swung back, then forth, then back again. I was too horrified to move - I mean what did 'Carrie' do at that horrific moment in front of her high school classmates - mocking her, laughing at her - as she stood dripping, looking like a used Kotex. She got to lay waste to all her enemies, any that dared stare and mock her - she set fires and inspired pandamonium with her telekinetic powers..I didn't have telekinetic powers - for Christ Sakes ! I didn't even have a Handi-Wipe!

I moved slowly, purposefully raising just enough off the seat to allow me to pull my shirt and undershirt all the way off. Pinning the outer shirt between my bare, left shoulder and the cold, plastic chair in which I sat. I proceeded to use my size - small, Calvin Klein, undershirt as a 'clean-up' rag. Embarassed and disgusted I attempted to look away as I wiped off my now deflated - humiliated - erection, my stomach and my thighs. I tossed the dirtied shirt in the corner, but this effort had no affect on diminishing the smell.

Horrified and perplexed, I realized that the second I stepped out of the booth, the other patrons - those who just minutes before had being listening to the aggressive volley of sexual sounds - would be circling outside. The trick was probably long gone - they would think that this was my mess, my shit, my doing. "Not fair, NOT FAIR!" was pounding in my head, I get shit on AND he gets away with it. The are gonna think I was the perpertrator of the crime, the perp, the thug, the shit-criminal! I mean in some small way I could appreciate that I was an accomplice to the crime - I guess I was the plunger to the sink clog - but would it hold up in court? Could I be convicted for my part in public defecation? What about the circumstancial evidence ? No - I couldn't do it - I couldn't take the soiled t-shirt with me. What of the witnesses? What of the people who would see me leaving the scene of the crime - I envisioned them meeting with a sketch artist trying to describe me, my lap covered in shit. Would the paparazzi grab hold of this? Oh God the news had being really slow lately. "This is not fair, I want to go home, I want to go home", I mumbled attempting to click my sneakers together.

I surveyed the situation. Excluding the horrendous, tell-tale odor, the majority of visible clues had been eliminated. I pulled my outer shirt back on. As I went to pull my jeans back up, I realized in my haste that I had somehow neglected to ever remove the condom - so sad looking, so misused - I threw it on top of the t-shirt. I envisioned the horror of the next occupant of the booth - a Jamie Lee Curtis scream torpedoing from their throat upon the gruesome discovery - that was if anyone was ever able to occupy this booth again.

In a feverish blur, I stood - shaken - and ran out of the bookstore, the stench chasing, crying out to me to return.

"I am never, ever coming back here again", I screamed.