Book Store Browsing
by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by masturbators like you
I just came back from running errands. Trader Joe’s, gas tank, post office, and then—feigning an organic detour—ducked into the adult book store that’s loomed at the edge of my commutes for years. The place is sandwiched between a “Massage Spa” (windowless, suspiciously open at 11 am) and a defunct pet groomer with a faded “DOGS BARKING? WE’LL HELP” sign that’s now barked at no one for months. I’d always been a little curious about the book store, but the kind of curiosity that feels radioactive. Passing by in daylight, it radiated anonymity, like a nuclear fallout shelter for the oversexed and the underloved. The couple of times I’d driven by at night, its neon sign (“ADULT VIDEO & BOOKS”) buzzed pink and blue like a roadside motel, promising more than it could possibly deliver.
Admittedly, I felt the tingle of trespassing just swinging open the glass door. Inside, cheap air freshener tried and failed to mask a bouquet of plastic, rubber, and cardboard. The place was empty except for me and the unimpressed woman at the counter, who ignored my entrance with the kind of professional disinterest you only get from years of seeing every flavor of kink. For reasons unknown, I immediately worried she might judge me for not being “kinky enough.” Like, what if I only bought vanilla porn? Or worse, bought nothing and wasted her time? A pointless anxiety, but also, perversely, part of the fun.
I started at the magazine racks—dozens of glossy, explicit covers, all promising the culmination of someone’s fantasy. Then to the toy aisle: dildos, vibrators, cock rings, and even more elaborate devices whose function I could only guess at. My first thought was, I wonder who shops here? Then, in the mirror of the security dome overhead, I saw the answer: me.
I spent an embarrassing amount of time perusing the shelves. Not because I was indecisive, but because being in that place was itself an event. Every decision—what to linger over, what to touch, what to ignore—felt like it would be reviewed under a microscope by the attendant. I half expected a hidden camera to be recording my every micro-expression, like a field study of the American pervert.
Eventually, I made my way to the DVD wall. The cases were arranged by theme—Barely Legal, MILF, Interracial, Anal, Fetish, and so on. I tried to act like I had a clear idea of what I was after, but the smorgasbord of options was both thrilling and overwhelming. It’s a small thrill to be in such a place because it’s something a “good” person isn’t supposed to do. Something about the transgression made my heart jump; it was a violation of the rules I’d grown up with, or maybe just the rules I’d invented for myself. I kept waiting for a voice in my head to say, “Okay, that’s enough. Time to go home.” But instead, I let myself marinate in the weird blend of shame, excitement, and curiosity.
I circled back to the toys, picked up a bottle of lube that claimed to be “edible,” put it back, picked it up again. I caught the attendant looking at me, which made me feel simultaneously exposed and weirdly validated, like she had clocked my nervous energy and was grading me on my performance. I found myself wondering what it must be like to work in such a place. Did she get off on it? Did it desensitize her? Or was it just a gig, like folding sweaters at the Gap, only the sweaters were ten-inch silicone dongs?
Still, there was commerce to be conducted. I picked a DVD—one with a woman on the cover who looked just enough like my last ex to make me squirm—and brought it to the counter. The attendant glanced at the case, then at me, then at the lube I’d impulse-grabbed at the last second.
“Have you tried this before?” she asked, holding up the bottle with a gloved hand.
I shook my head. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss is about.”
She cracked a smile. “Most people don’t come back for this one. Too sweet.” Like my mother, if my mother had a tattoo of a crescent moon on her neck and was completely immune to embarrassment.
“Good to know,” I said, voice half a whisper, as if I needed to keep my own secrets from the only other person in the building.
She rang me up and bagged the DVD and lube in a nondescript brown paper sack, like she was packaging up illicit contraband. As she handed it over, I asked, “Do you have a ‘buy two, get one free’ on these, like the other DVDs?” My heart rate kicked up again, just as it had every time I crossed one of my own imaginary boundaries. I wondered what she thought of me: Was I the weirdo who tried to bargain-hunt his way through smut? Was this my clumsy attempt at flirtation? Either way, I relished the momentary charge it gave me.
She said, “That’s only on the older stuff. But I can give you a discount if you want to grab another.”
The invitation hung there, daring me. I took the bait, returned to the wall, and scanned for something outrageous, something that would mark me, at least to myself, as the kind of person who bought adult videos in threes. I picked a title at random—something involving latex and power dynamics—and brought it to the front. She added it to the bag with a wink, as if we were in on a joke the rest of the world wasn’t cool enough to get.
I left the store feeling like a criminal and a conqueror. I walked back to my car, clutching the bag like it was radioactive, and slid into the seat. For a second, I just sat there, not ready to drive away yet. It made me feel dirty, spending money on porn when there’s so much for free on the internet. But feeling dirty is fun, too.
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