I know what's up...if you know what I mean and I think you do.
I know porn. I'm no Puritan. But...Jesus!
Frank watched porn all the time. He would sit in front of the TV and just stare at it, amazed by what was happening on the screen, not quite understanding it. Sometimes he would narrate the story, trying to understand why there were so many holes in it. "How did the repair man get in? He just walked in without a key and knew exactly where the washing machine was. That doesn't happen in real life! And how many times do you think the woman really takes off all her clothes to wash them and then sit on the machine waiting for the clothes to be clean? And if she's doing a washing and the machine is working, why does she need a repair man for it?"
I thought that, by living with queers, I would get away from this kind of thing or, if they started watching the other kind of thing, I could at least run and hide (as this apartment is way bigger than Frank's and they don't insist on me sitting on their laps like he did). The thing is, there is a shortage of free homo porn on the new TV stations, so Mook A watches the straight stuff and seems to be doing it from anthropological interest more than anything. This interest gave way to one of the most hair-raising conversations I've ever heard, the other night.
It began with A explaining to B why he found this stuff fascinating. "I try to guess if the woman is really getting off, for one thing," he said, "and for another, I am constantly amazed by how far a woman is willing to mutilate herself for a job in that industry. You wouldn't believe the boob jobs gone wrong on some of these creatures!" B was not vaguely interested and this seemed to miff A. "Look, don't act so pious. I know what you're up to on the internet." B looked up and his face gave everything away. (I suspected as much, but now I know.)
A laughed his ass off, but B got serious. "I hope to hell you haven't been nosing about on my computer," he said—sounding more guilty by the second. A said, "Look, there is no chance of that. Not a chance." B was reluctant to believe this so A went on: "Do you think I want to know what goes on in your head...I mean deep, deep down? The best way to destroy any good feelings we have for each other would be to explore the caves...know what I mean?"
Things then took a decidedly lighter turn—for them, not for me. This is where it gets scary. "What would you do," B said, "if you looked in my browser cache and found all sorts of porn with little boys?" They both exploded with laughter but it only struck me, at that moment, that though they might not be into this someone out there is and a shiver went up my spine.
But it went on!
"No, how about scat?" A said and they both roared with laughter and my head exploded with the idea. I mean: Boom!
"I gotta tell you this story," A said. "When I was in my late teens-early 20s, New York city was an amazingly sleazy place. Even Times Square was mind-boggling. They had these drug addicts and whores and pimps and peep shows and all the tourists went there because it was porn like no one had ever seen. But here's the thing: all the gays still in the closet went there too because the peep shows were done in such a way that when you went in, no one knew what you would be watching."
B didn't get it (nor did I), so A explained. "In the back of the sex shop, they'd have these little booths with curtains on them...only curtains. And outside the booth they'd have a list of the five-minute movie clips you could see inside; in each booth you had your choice of pieces of five or six different movies. Sometimes the lists of films inside the booth had pictures of the film, sometimes it was just titles and you took your chances when you went in the booth. So then you'd go in the booth, pull the curtain shut, stick in a quarter and press on one of the five or six buttons you had in front of you and you'd see bits of a movie. Of course you'd try all the buttons because sometimes you'd get a bit of the movie that was just talk-talk-talk and sometimes you'd get the action...know what I mean?"
B nodded, but I couldn't help hearing Frank's voice in my head and one of his old-timey expressions: "Never buy a pig in a poke" which meant something like "Caveat emptor" or "Buyer beware."
"Anyway, one time," A went on, "I went in because one of the choices of film was called, Farm Fun or Love on the Farm or some such and I thought there was a chance it might be about male ranch hands during a hot day, starting with shirts off—"
"—yeah, yeah, yeah, I get the picture," B said, demonstrating that mildly prudish side that A finds adorable.
A went on, laughing (though the rest, I feel, is decidedly unfunny and still makes me faintly nauseous when I think about it). (By the way, that's a warning to delicate readers.) "So I'm clicking the buttons, getting a lot of yadda-yadda-yadda porn and no hunky ranch hands with their shirts off when I run into a scene like none I'd ever witnessed in my life." He paused for dramatic effect before going on.
"Male pig, guy behind, woman beneath—"
"—STOP!" B screamed (bless him!) but then they both hooted with merriment.
The story has lessons:
1) Humans are sick fucks.
2) Never poke a pig that is bi.
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