My introduction to the world of adult bookstores

a confession by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by a chronic masturbator

I should probably start with a confession: my introduction to the world of adult bookstores was a slow burn, an obsession that started with harmless curiosity and bloomed, quickly and hungrily, into a compulsion. The first time was nothing heroic, just a walk past an unassuming, windowless building on an ugly access road, a flickering neon sign promising “LIVE GIRLS! XXX VIDEO! ARCADE!” in a blushing, post-Midnight glow. I’d just turned twenty-one, full of my own inexperience and the dumb, invincible horniness of someone who’d grown up jacking off to scrambled cable channels and dogeared lingerie ads. My hands were shaking so much that when I reached for the door it took two tries to grip the handle.

Inside, the place was fluorescent-lit and so quiet it ached. Every surface was lined with plastic-wrapped desperation: porn DVDs, off-brand lube, a few sad rubber dongs in blister packs. The guy behind the counter—a gaunt figure in a faded Tennessee Volunteers hoodie—gave me a single glance and then went back to his phone, his thumb moving with Olympic precision. The only sound was the hum of a cheap overhead fan and, from somewhere beyond the beads at the back, a deep, relentless thumping—the unmistakable soundtrack of people in the act.

I told myself I was just browsing, like you do at a regular bookstore, but my hands kept gravitating toward the nastiest titles, the ones with the stickiest covers, the ones that made me blush in spite of myself. When I finally picked a video and took it to the counter, the guy didn’t even look up; just rang it up, slid a handful of worn plastic tokens across the glass, and gestured with his chin toward the arcade. I’d heard about the booths, sure, but I’d expected something seedier, more dangerous. What I got was a long hallway, dimly lit, with six or seven individual booths lining the walls—each with a little curtain for privacy and a slot for tokens. It should have been anonymous, clinical, but everything about it was raw and immediate. The smell hit me first: bleach and deodorizer mixed with the sharp, animal tang of a thousand guys’ worth of secret shame. Not gross, exactly, but alive.

I ducked into a booth at the end of the hall and closed the curtain behind me, my pulse thudding in my temples. The seat was cracked vinyl, the floor sticky, the air thick with the reek of cum and sweat and that strange, briny note of old skin. The machine itself was idiot-proof: insert token, select video, press play. There was a pair of cheap headphones on a cord, but the moans and grunts leaked out into the corridor anyway. I fumbled with my sweats, which I’d started wearing on every visit for their effortless access—no buttons, no zippers, just a quick, practiced slide to the ankles. I’d stopped wearing underwear months ago, partly for the thrill and partly because it just made everything easier. Professional masturbators, I’d learned, favor speed and efficiency over shame.

The first time I jerked off in a booth, I lasted maybe thirty seconds. I was so wound up I barely had to touch myself; just the idea of being in public, of some stranger on the other side of the wall pumping his own dick in time with mine, was almost too much to take. I finished with an obscene, involuntary grunt and then sat there, sweating, for a solid two minutes, staring at the porn loop and wondering if anyone had heard me. (Someone always did.) When I finally staggered out, I was hit with a wave of euphoria so overwhelming that I had to sit in my car and catch my breath before driving home.

That first trip should have satisfied me, but instead it set off a kind of chain reaction. I started planning my life around detours to the store—sneaking out on lunch breaks, hitting it up after work or in the dead middle of the night, whenever the urge got so strong I couldn’t shake it. I became obsessed with the little rituals: the exchange of tokens, the selection of booth, the parade of other losers like me, each of us shuffling through with the same furtive posture, the same eyes-down focus. Over time, I got bolder. I’d let the curtain hang open a couple inches, daring someone to catch a glimpse of my cock as it glistened in the glow of the screen. Hotter still was catching a glimpse of someone else’s: a hand moving in the shadows, a silhouette backlit by a lurid video loop, the unmistakable hiss and gasp of orgasm leaking past the thin partition.

It wasn’t just about getting off anymore. It was about being seen, even for a split second, being recognized as a kindred pervert. I started watching the regulars, mapping out their habits, inventing elaborate stories about their lives. There was the construction worker who always came in at five, still in his muddy boots; the college kid with the desperate eyes and the trembling hands; the old guy with a ponytail and thick glasses, who always brought a newspaper and left it behind, the pages stiff with evidence.

The best booths were the ones with plexiglass dividers, so you could actually see the guy next to you if you wanted to. At first I was too shy to look, but every time I caught a reflection in the corner of my eye I’d linger a little longer, until one day I just let myself watch. The guy in the next booth was younger than me, pale and skinny, with a patchy beard and a tattoo of a spider on his wrist. He was stroking himself slow, eyes fixed on the screen, but when he noticed me watching he didn’t look away; he just grinned, licked his lips, and started jerking harder. I matched his rhythm, feeling my cock twitch and pulse in my fist, the heat building into something electric and wild. When he came, he pressed his forehead to the glass and shuddered; I shot my load a second later, spattering the plexiglass with a sticky stripe that slid down in slow, viscous defeat. I wiped it off with the sleeve of my hoodie, feeling both ashamed and triumphant, and when I left the booth the guy was waiting in the hallway, grinning wider, his fly still open. Neither of us said a word. We just nodded and went our separate ways.

Over the months, the scenes got weirder and more intense. Sometimes there were three or four guys in the booths at once, the air so thick with sex you could almost taste it. Once, I saw two guys meet in the hallway and disappear into a booth together, the curtain pulled tight; I could hear the slap of skin on skin, the urgent, guttural words exchanged in a language I barely understood. I never joined in—never quite got over the final hump of fear—but I watched, and I memorized, and I used it all later, in my own booth, with my own hand. I became an expert in the choreography of anonymous pleasure: the angle of the seat, the soundtrack of moans and gasps, the precise moment when the urge to finish became a demand.

Sometimes I fantasized about going further. There were holes cut into some of the booth walls—glory holes, I guess, though I’d never seen anyone use one—and I’d catch myself staring at them, wondering what it would feel like to stick my cock through, to submit to whatever stranger was on the other side. I came close, once or twice, but always chickened out at the last second. The fantasy was enough. In my mind, I imagined the hands that would wrap around me: rough or gentle, practiced or trembling, hungry for release or just in it for the show. I liked picturing the faces, the stories, the secret lives unfolding in the shadows of that ugly little hallway.

Eventually, the whole thing became less about the porn and more about the place itself—the rituals, the community, the sense of belonging to a tribe of anonymous, unrepentant masturbators. We never talked, but we all understood the rules: don’t make eye contact unless you mean it; keep your mess to yourself; tip the guy at the counter if you’re feeling generous. Some nights I’d stay for hours, cycling through videos and booths, prowling the hall in search of the next thrill. Other times I’d barely make it five minutes before the urgency overwhelmed me and I had to bolt, red-faced and panting, to the safety of my car.

I know it sounds pathetic—maybe it is—but there was something beautiful about the whole fucked-up experience. It was sex stripped down to its rawest, most honest form: no pretense, no romance, just pure, animal need. I think that’s what kept me coming back, even when I knew better, even when I promised myself I’d stop. It was like being part of a secret club, and every orgasm was a password, a point of entry, a confession.

I learned a lot in those booths, especially when I went it one with plexiglass so we could watch each other.  I was tempted to stick my cock through a glory hole but never was brave enough.  There were always guys lurking in the shadows  but I never engaged with them .  I probably would now but there are no more booths in the city of Nashville where I live.  Love to hear others stories!