He's holding on to the slippery remote with his left hand, awkwardly trying to press the fast forward button while jacking off with his right hand. He's trying to get to the next scene where the Brazilian transsexual takes control, turns over the guy and fucks him in the ass. But the remote is covered in silicone lube (slicker than the regular water soluble stuff). The squishing noises are loud. The security guard hears it, bangs on the door and says, "Man, you better not leave a f-u-c-k-i-n-g DROP." "O, esorry man, no, no," he says, trying to control his breathing as he's talking so that it doesn't sound like he's jacking off inside the booth — although everyone knows that he's jacking off inside the booth in a sex shop's movie arcade.
The number 120 appears at the top left on the screen indicating that he's got 2 minutes left in the previewing booth before his time runs out. He's simultaneously aware of this and that the scene that follows the transsexual's vengeful assfucking there will be the money-shot — where the tranny gets on her knees into the submissive role again, feeling more comfortable there, and takes the guy's thick white load in the mouth and swallows, gulping only once.
30 seconds.
20 seconds.
20 seconds.
20 seconds, and the 20 starts flashing in red on the screen. His time is running out. Only seconds are left. He gently places the remote on the ground, not wanting to make a sound as he jacks off faster, the squishing noises getting louder, almost out of time, feeling it ready to burst out and cupping his left hand under his dick. 10 seconds. He watches the guy letting it explode on the tranny's face. He imagines himself to be the guy cumming and at the same time imagining being the tall, dark and beautiful tranny taking the thick hot cum on the face. He catches it as it first squirts out but he keeps cumming and the spasms are violent and he misses his left hand and it lands on the floor. He panics. They were out of paper towels in the bathroom and he was too embarrassed to ask the security guard for some.
Why you need some, the guard would ask.
O, I hab a cold, I sick, he would say.
Man, just use toilet paper, he would suggest but it falls apart too easily and it gets too sticky.
But, of course, he wouldn't tell the guard that.
The security guard's patrolling the arcade. He notices the "In Use" light above booth #4 is off but the door's locked. He bangs on the door and says, "Your time's up, man."
"O, jes jes, es sorry," he says.
"You gotta put in money or get out."
"I looking my wallet reigh now," he says, trying to figure out what to do.
He used up his last 3 dollars to watch the movie. An idea comes to him. He takes off his shoes, watching his step, pulls down his pants and then takes off his underwear. He crouches down and mops it up. The booth is dark but he manages to get all of it. The guard bangs on the door louder this time. "That's it man," he say. The guard puts in the booth key to open up the door and the man in the booth rushes to his feet, pulling up his pants, buckling his belt, putting on his shoes, squishing his wet underwear into his front left pant pocket. The guard swings the door open, grabs him by the arm and pulls him out.
"Take et easy, man!" he says.
"You can't be in there without no money; tu sabes eso!" the guard says, having picked up a good amount of Spanish from working there for 2 years.
The guard goes inside to make sure the booth's clean. It is. He isn't surprised. Most regular preview customers are considerate.
The guy goes into the front bathroom and washes his hands. The guard goes up front and starts up a conversation with the clerk behind the counter who's watching the TV monitor that shows what all the preview customers are watching. The tranny stuff is on. It always is; it's the most popular.
The guy comes out the bathroom, looks around the store for a clock, knowing exactly where it is but still looking around. He asks the clerk what time it is.
"12:10 PM. You know where the clocks is; don't play dumb," the clerk says, pointing directly above the guy's head to the clock on the wall.
"O, yes, ha, I forgot. Gracias, eh, thank you!" he says looking up.
"Es late. Work tomorrow morning. 5 AM."
"OK," the clerk says, knowing it to be bullshit, remembering seeing the customer in the store as early as 6 AM Monday through Friday and in the evening till sometime as late as 2 AM.
"Mucho trabajo, lotsa work. Construcion. Fucking wife y los keds takes my money. Y the boss, man. No pays bien."
"Yea, it's tough," he says.
"Bery, man. Bery tough. Es ok though, es work. Horale pues, good neigh."
"Buenas noches, hasta luego," the clerk says, having picked up some Spanish too. Working in a San Fernando Valley sex shop is the best way to learn Spanish, that or a liquor store.
He leaves the store. The night's warm with a soft wind that's drying the water on his hands. The palm trees sway lightly with the breeze, their branches making scratching noises as they rub up against each other. He walks up to Delano St, makes a right and puts his hands in his pockets. He feels the soft, squishing of his wet underwear in his front left pocket. He immediately pulls out his hands as if he had just touched a piping hot plate. He pulls it out and throws it in a bush.
On the corner of Cedros Ave and Delano St right next to the fire hydrant is where the local prostitutes hang out. The older one is there tonight, a lady in her late 40's/early 50's. She makes a masturbation motion with her right hand as she looks at him walking toward her. She gets most of her business from the esquineros, the Latino construction workers and painters that hang out on the corners waiting to get picked up by contractors, licensed and unlicensed — whoever happens to be looking for the cheapest labor that day.
He smiles but keeps walking. No money tonight.
Two neighborhood cholos are standing in front of an apartment complex sharing a joint of cheap, shit weed. They nod at the guy. The one holding the joint puffs it and offers some to him. He takes it, pinches it and puts it to his lips. He thinks about the porn. About the tranny in the movie sucking off the guy's big, thick dick. He closes his eyes and sucks hard. The other cholo snatches the joint out of his hand. "You're taking too long with it, paisa." He snaps out of it, says "buenas" and keeps walking.
His apartment complex gate is wide open. He steps over a few empty bud light cans and the cardboard remnants of a 12 pack. He opens the door to his apartment slowly. His oldest kid is asleep on the couch. The kitchen light is on. There's a pot of cold boiled chicken on the table that his wife had prepared, leaving it out so that he can heat some up in the morning for breakfast before he goes to work. He walks to the bedroom. His wife is fast asleep on her side of the bed, her face facing away from the bed. The covers are pulled down on his side. She knows how hard it is for him to work a day job and a night job so she makes sure he has cooked meals and a bed waiting for him. He sits down on the bed, takes off his shoes, his pants, his shirt. His wife stirs in bed on the verge of waking up. He lies down to sleep as close to his edge of the bed as possible, not wanting to touch any part of his wife's body. She rolls over and hugs him, rubbing her hand on his thick almost-muscular arm, up and down, kissing the back of his neck, nestling her nose against the back of his head, smelling the familiar smell of sweat and cigarettes. Her hand goes over his chest, down toward his stomach, passing his bellybutton and then she stops. No underwear. She becomes more awake now and smiles. He wants to, she thinks. He wants to. She moves her hand onto his limp cock. The tip is dripping and wet. He must've just gotten out of the bathroom, she thinks. She fumbles with his balls. He stirs and tries to roll over on his stomach but there's no room. "Let's do it," she whispers in Spanish in his ear. "No, it's late. The kids. I gotta go to work in 5 hours." She gets upset and retracts her hand. She rolls over to her side of the bed, feeling rejected and ugly. An angry tear rolls down her face and wets the pillow. She thinks of divorce, of an affair, of buying a vibrator. Maybe the sex shop up the street. Those places are nasty though. Men go in there to have sex with other men. In the ass. It has to hurt. I don't care what they say, it has to hurt. Hope they speak Spanish.
He feels better now, smiling, the shitty weed's euphoria swimming in his head, thinking of tomorrow morning, of going back to the shop and jacking off all day (this time he will bring paper towels from home), feeling peaceful, feeling the gentle tug of sleep on his eyelids.
Luis Rivas lives in the San Fernando Valley, California. He was a telemarketer, construction worker, assistant drug dealer, flower delivery driver, fast food cashier, sales clerk, package handler/zip code sorter. His work has appeared in the following publications, some of which he contributes to regularly: Zygote in My Coffee, The Hold, My Favorite Bullet, Cherry Bleeds, and Sex and Guts Magazine (R.I.P.).
He dropped out of Los Angeles Valley College where he was studying journalism to work full-time at a porn shop, where he still is.
He is currently working on growing a beard.