I need air, need to get fuck outa’ this effin’ store before I get my ass hauled outa’ here by security. I move quickly past the racks and the counters, up the escalator, through the main floor. I push through the revolving door, leaving Filene's behind me, and step back into the furnace of downtown Boston. The sun's high overhead now, turning the concrete into a goddamn griddle. The heat rising from the pavement matches the heat in my face, and the lingering arousal in my body.

I take a sec, lettin’ my eyes adjust, feeling sweat immediately bead on my forehead. My shorts are completely dry now, the stain a stiff reminder against my thigh, but I don't care anymore. I've got other things on my mind—namely, the streets that wait for me a few blocks away, where sin is sold in broad daylight and nobody gives a shit about what you've done or who you are.

The noise and heat get to my head. I stand for a moment, disoriented by the transition from fantasy to reality, from cool darkness to blinding sun. Then I set my feet in the direction of Tremont Street, toward Boston Common and, beyond that, the Combat Zone. The day is still young, and my hunger is far from satisfied.

I cut across Downtown Crossing, weavin’ through the lunchtime crowd—secretaries in sleeveless blouses fanning themselves with menus from fast food joints, businessmen with suit jackets slung over shoulders, ties loosened. The air smells of hot asphalt, car exhaust, and the greasy sweetness of street vendor hot dogs and fried dough. A guy selling newspapers from a stand shouts headlines about Reagan and the Soviets, but nobody's listenin’. It's too hot for politics.

Boston Common spreads out before me, a patchy expanse of green in the heart of the city. I follow the path past the fountain where kids are splashing despite the NO SWIMMING sign. Their mothers sit on nearby benches, legs crossed, paperbacks open but unread as they keep one eye on their children and another on the clock. A group of college boys throws a frisbee, their shirts discarded, torsos gleaming with sweat in the midday sun. One catches my eye, holds it for a beat too long. I look away fast. Not what I'm after today.

The Common's always been a boundary of sorts—on this side, tourist Boston with its Freedom Trail and colonial landmarks; on the other, edging toward the Combat Zone, a different kind of history being made in peep shows and dirty allies. Movin’ toward Tremont Street, I feel the shift in energy, the slight loosening of social constraints with each step.

Tremont's busy with the usual mix of shoppers laden with bags, office workers rushing back from late lunches, and tourists. But as I continue walking, the crowd thins out. The storefronts change from upscale boutiques to discount electronics shops with metal grates over the windows, even during business hours. The well-dressed pedestrians give way to more colorful characters—a man in a threadbare suit talking animatedly to himself, a group of punks with spiked hair and safety pins through their ears, an old woman pushing a shoppin’ cart full of aluminum cans.

Before long, I’m crossing Boylston and then a block later, turning left onto Lagrange. Just like that, I've left civilization behind and entered the Combat Zone, the CZ. Boston's open secret, its very own little Sodom and Gomorrah. In the daylight, it doesn't look like much—just a few blocks of run-down buildings with neon signs that aren't yet lit, their promises of GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS and LIVE NUDE SHOWS temporarily dormant. But there's an ungodly charge in the air, an electric current of carnal possibility that slowly seeps into my veins like heroin from a needle.

The street's quiet—too early for us sinners. A few guys loiter outside the Two O'Clock Club, smokin’ cigarettes and eyeing passersby with contempt. An old cleaning woman mops the entrance to one of the peep show parlors, her face set in stone, eyes focused on a middle distance where none of this exists. A taxi drops off a businessman who straightens his tie before slipping into an unmarked door, his wedding ring catching the sunlight as he reaches for the handle.

And then there are the workin’ girls. Even in the daylight, even in this heat, you’ll find a few out here hustlin’. Most are clustered further down near the corner of Washington Street, but a few have staked out spots along Lagrange. One leans against a street lamp, her pose so perfectly designed to showcase her assets that it could be a still from a noir film. Her hair is a platinum blonde shag, stiff with hairspray that somehow hasn't melted in the heat. She wears a tight, little red dress that hugs every curve, high enough to show the lace tops of her stockings. Her face is a mask of makeup—heavy black eyeliner, false lashes thick as spiders, lips painted a glossy crimson that matches her dress.

As I approach, her eyes—sharp and assessing despite the relaxed pose—lock onto me. She straightens slightly, adjusts the neckline of her dress to show a bit more cleavage, and smiles. Not a real smile—a professional one, the kind that promises everything and means nothin’.

"Hey, handsome," she calls out, her voice raspier than I expected, cigarettes and late nights embedded in every syllable. "You lookin' for a little fun in these parts?"

I feel a flush creep up my neck that has nothing to do with the heat. Despite my adventures, despite what I did on the train just hours ago, there's something about being directly addressed by a workin’ professional that makes me feel like the Catholic schoolboy I once was. But there's a thrill too, a forbidden excitement that makes my heart race.

"M-maybe I am, babe," I stammer, my Boston accent thickening as it always does when I'm nervous. "I might just need a tour guide tonight."

She laughs, a genuine sound that transforms her face, makes her look younger, almost innocent. "Tonight? Honey, it's barely past noon. You got somthin' against seeing the sights in the daylight?"

I take a step closer, gaining confidence. "The best things happen in the dark, but I'm not p-particular about timing." I run a hand through my hair, still damp with sweat. "What's your name?"

"Whatever you want it to be, for the right price." She pushes off from the street lamp and saunters toward me, hips swaying like a metronome. Up close, I can see the fine lines around her eyes that makeup can't quite disguise, the slight sag of her jaw that suggests she's older than she first appeared. But there's something magnetic about her—a hard-earned wisdom in her gaze, a survivor's pride in the set of her shoulders.

"How much?" I ask, not because I'm actually going to pay for it—my few dollars wouldn't cover more than a quick hand job in an alley—but because it's part of the dance, the ritual of these encounters.

"Fifty for a straight fuck, seventy-five if you want to get creative." She reaches out and runs a red-painted nail down my chest, leaving a trail of goosebumps despite the heat. "You look like a creative type to me."

Before I can respond, another voice calls out from across the street. "Don't waste your time with Maggie, sugar. She'll rob you blind and leave you hanging!"

I turn to see another woman strutting toward us, this one younger. Black, with legs that go on for days below cutoff jean shorts. Her halter top is lime green, tied so loosely that one deep breath might liberate her completely. Her hair is a crown of tight curls, her skin gleaming with sweat and glitter in the sun.

"Fuck off, Tanya," the first hooker—Maggie, apparently—spits. "I saw him first."

Tanya ignores her, focusing her attention on me. She stops a few feet away, sizing me up with a professional's eye. "You don't want to be paying no fifty dollars, baby. Not for what she's offering." She winks at me. "I can show you a better time for thirty-five, and I guarantee you'll be coming back for more."

I look between them, trying not to grin like fuckin’ an idiot. There's something intoxicating about being fought over, even if it's just for the contents of my wallet. "Ladies, ladies," I say, spreading my hands. "No need to fight. Maybe I'm j-just out for a walk. Enjoying the, uh, scenery."

A third voice joins in, this one from behind me. "Scenery, huh? That what they calling it these days, boy?"

I turn to find myself face to face with yet another working girl, this one older than the other two, with a world-weary face and eyes that have seen it all. Her bleached blonde hair is cropped short, her makeup subtle compared to the others. She wears tight jeans and a tube top, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.

"You got a lot of friggin' scenery to choose from around here," I say, feeling more at ease now, settling into the back-and-forth.

She inhales a lungful of her smoke stick, puffing out the fumes above my noggin. "You ain't cut from the same cloth as our usual riff-raff, kiddo. Too green, too easy on the eyes." She squints at me, "And too friggin' skint."

I chuckle at that 'cause she's hit the nail on the head. "Just gawking today. I was hoping there might be some free samples up for grabs."

"Window peeping, boy?" Tanya teases, closing in on me with her scent—some bargain bin perfume—flooding my nostrils. She leans in and grabs a handful of my package, quipping, "You know what they say about looky-loos. They always end up shelling out eventually." Her breath reeks of weed and booze.

"Not if they've got their wits about 'em," Maggie interjects. "This one seems sharp to me. College boy, am I right?"

"Used to be," I confess. "Taking a bit of a breather now."

"Taking a break or looking for trouble?" the older woman asks, flicking ash from her cigarette. "Because this street's got plenty of the latter to offer."

"Maybe a little of both," I say with a shrug. "What's life without a bit of t-trouble now and then?"

All three laugh at that, a chorus of different tones—Maggie's raspy chuckle, Tanya's musical giggle, the older woman's dry cackle. For a moment, they're not hookers and I'm not a potential john. We're just normal people sharin’ a joke on a hot day.

"I like you, kid," the older woman says, a genuine smile softening her features. "But take some free advice—don't spend your money on what we're selling. Save it for something that'll last longer than fifteen minutes in a back room at the Liberty."

"Speak for yourself, Doreen," Tanya scoffs. "My clients get their money's worth."

"Thirty seconds or thirty minutes, it all costs the same," Doreen shrugs, taking another drag. "That's economics 101, baby. Am I right, college boy?"

I'm about to reply when a black Cadillac with tinted windows rolls slowly down the street. All three women straighten up, their postures changing, their faces sliding back into professional masks. The car stops a few yards away.

"That's our cue, college boy," Maggie says, already moving toward the car. "Business hours."

"Maybe I'll see you around," I call after her, suddenly reluctant to end our conversation. I was enjoying the attention.

She throws a glance over her shoulder, that professional smile back in place. "Maybe. Just bring more cash next time."

As the women head for the car, I continue down Lagrange, a strange mix of emotions churning in my gut. There's the obvious arousal—three attractive women paying attention to me, flirting, even if it was just for potential business. But there's something else too, a kind of respect for their frankness, their hustle, the way they navigate this world with a combination of toughness and humor.

I've always been drawn to the Combat Zone. Not just for the obvious reasons—the porn theaters, the strip clubs, the glimpses of flesh and promises of pleasure—but for this feeling of being somewhere real. These streets don't pretend. They don't sugarcoat their carnal cravings with polite bullshit like the rest of Boston's stuck-up prudes. Here, want is want, business is business, and everyone's just trying to get through another day.

As I reach the end of Lagrange, I pause, looking back at the three women buzzin’ around the Caddy, negotiating through the driver's window. In another life, we might have been friends. In this one, we're just ships passing, each makin’ our way in these hazardous winds of desire and need.

I turn the corner, heading deeper into the Zone, toward my real destination for the day: a private booth with its promises of air conditioning and anonymous release. The conversation with the hookers has left me energized, confident, ready for whatever comes next. In these streets, I'm not shy Gabby from Dorchester with the Catholic guilt and the uncertain future. I'm just another body seeking pleasure, no better or worse than anyone else here.

Ya’ see, there's a freedom in that anonymity, a weight lifted that makes me stand straighter, walk with more purpose toward the porn shops at the end of the block. In an odd way, I feel more relaxed here with the strippers, hookers, pimps, johns, and drug dealers than I do back in the hood.

That feeling of freedom is short-lived. I reach the corner of Lagrange and Washington, anxiety hits me, and my heart starts thumping against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Standing here on the corner, exposed in broad daylight, I suddenly felt like I was wearing a sign saying "PERVERT" in letters bigger and brighter than anything on the theater marquee across the street.

Across the street stood the Pilgrim Theater, its marquee advertising "CONTINUOUS ADULT SHOWS" in blocky letters that have faded under years of sun and neglect. A few bulbs are missing, giving the sign a gap-toothed grin.

Nomaly, I would have headed for one of the shops and a private booth. It’s cheaper. Like I said earlier, fifthy cents, and I’m done. But today, for some reason, I was feeling different. Today, I was feeling bolder. Maybe it was that fucked up scene on the train or at Filene’s. Today, I decided, it was time to go for it and check out the Pilgrim.

My eyes dart around nervously. This is the most dangerous part—the moment of commitment, the crossing from curious passerby to confirmed deviant. What if someone sees me? What if one of Dad's friends from the bar is driving by? What if a former teacher from Saint Anthony's spots me? Dorchester isn't that far away, and Boston can be a small city when it comes to Catholic connections.

I shuffle my feet, pretending to wait for the light even though there's barely any traffic. The heat ripples off the asphalt, creating a wavering mirage that makes the theater seem to float, an oasis of forbidden pleasure. Sweat trickles down my spine, pooling at the small of my back, my tee’s stickin’ to my skin. I can feel the dried cum on my shorts rubbing against my thigh, smell it on me, a reminder of my earlier deviances.

The Pilgrim’s not much to look at. A rundown three-story brick building with dirty windows, the first floor painted a faded red that's peeling in large flakes, revealing layers of previous colors beneath, like geological strata of desperation. A poster in the window advertises "Swedish Sorority," the image showing a blonde woman with impossibly large breasts spilling out of a torn sweater. Next to it, another poster promises "Leather Discipline" with a dark-haired woman wielding a whip over a man in a dog collar. The glass of the entrance door is painted over and smudged with countless handprints, as if the ghosts of all previous patrons are still trying to push their way in.

I'm so focused on the theater that I almost don't notice the two elderly Chinese grandmas who've stopped a few feet away from me. They're tiny, barely reaching my shoulder, with identical perms of steel-gray hair and floral blouses buttoned to the neck despite the heat. Shopping bags from Chinatown markets hang from their wrists as they converse rapidly. Then one of them notices where I'm looking.

She nudges her companion, a sharp elbow to the ribs that stops their conversation mid-sentence. Both sets of eyes turn to me, then follow my gaze to the Pilgrim. The disgust that washes over their faces is so synchronized it might be comical if it weren't directed at me. Their mouths pucker as if they've simultaneously bitten into something rotten, their eyebrows arching toward their hairlines.

"Aiyah!" one of them exclaims, loud enough for me to hear clearly. She says something else in Chinese, but her tone needs no translation. It's the same tone Sister Mary Francis used when she caught Tommy Flaherty drawing dicks in his math notebook.

The other grandmother shakes her head slowly, her eyes never leaving my face. She makes the sign of the cross—unexpected from a Chinese woman, but Boston's full of Catholic immigrants of all backgrounds. The gesture hits me like a physical blow. Even here, in the Combat Zone, judgment finds me. I can't escape the church, can't escape the weight of disappointing expectations.

I look away, my face burning hotter than the summer air warrants. My hands are suddenly too large, too visible. I shove them into my pockets, which only serves to draw attention to the front of my shorts. I pull them out again quickly, crossing my arms over my chest instead, then dropping them to my sides when that feels too defensive.

The grandmas are still staring, still judging. I want to tell them I'm a good person, that I go to Mass sometimes, that I help my mother with the groceries and mow old Mrs. Pelletier's lawn for free. But the words stick in my throat, because none of that changes what I'm about to do, what I want to do.

A car honks as it passes, a beat-up Chevy with the windows rolled down. The driver, a middle-aged man with a Red Sox cap and sunburned forearms hanging out the window, slows down enough to shout, "Fucking faggot!" before speeding off through a yellow light.

The words hit me like a slap in the face. It's not the first time I've heard that word, not by a long shot. But it lands differently today, maybe because of the grandmothers witnessing it, maybe because part of me fears it's true—not the hateful way he meant it, but the fact that I do sometimes want men as much as women. That I contain multitudes of desire that would make both the driver and the grandmothers cross to the other side of the street if they knew.

The light changes, but I don't move. My legs feel leaden, my courage evaporating in the heat. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe I should just go home, take a cold shower, apply for jobs like I promised Ma I would. Be the good son they think I am, or at least try to be.

But then I think about what waits for me at home—the quiet desperation, the suffocating sameness, the crucifix watching me from above my bed. I think about how alive I felt on the train this morning, how real and present in my own skin. I think about the hookers on Lagrange Street who saw me clearly and didn't turn away in disgust.

The grandmas have moved on, shuffling down Washington Street toward Chinatown, their shopping bags swinging in counterpoint to their steps. The driver is long gone, his slur hanging in the air like exhaust. It's just me and the Pilgrim now, facing each other across a street that feels wider than it should.

I take a deep breath, feeling sweat trickle down my temples. Then I step off the curb, my decision made. Let them judge. Let them stare. Let them think whatever they want about the blonde kid in cutoffs crossing to the theater. They don't know me. They don't know the fire that burns inside me, the need that drives me, the complexity of who I am beyond this one moment, this one choice.

The few steps across Washington Street feel monumental, as if I'm crossing a boundary more significant than asphalt and painted lines. With each step, I shed a little more of the Gabby my parents know, the former altar boy, the directionless college dropout. By the time I reach the opposite curb, standing in the shadow of the Pilgrim's awning, I've become someone else—someone braver, more honest, more real.

I pause for one last moment of hesitation, my hand on the door handle. Through the scratches in the painted glass, I can make out a dimly lit lobby, a ticket counter, the promise of cool darkness beyond. My reflection stares back at me, distorted by the dirty glass—blonde hair wild from the heat, face flushed, eyes bright with anticipation and fear.

I push the door open, stepping across the final threshold into the air-conditioned darkness of the Pilgrim. The door swings shut behind me with a soft whoosh, sealing me off from the judging eyes of the world outside. For better or worse, I'm here now. And I'm ready for whatever comes next.

The lobby of the Pilgrim hits me with the smell of industrial disinfectant, and a dank, musky smell I can't quite identify. The air conditioning is barely working, still, it raises goosebumps on my arms after the furnace of Washington Street. I stand for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting that feels like a mercy after the harsh sunlight. The carpet beneath my feet is clean but worn in patches, its pattern long ago obliterated by spills and foot traffic, now just a matted expanse of muddy red.

Off the street, I can relax. I try acting cool, slow things down, and look around.

Large posters line the walls, protected by frames whose glass is smudged with fingerprints. Taboo American Style, Behind the Green Door, Debbie Does Dallas—some of porn's best classics. The women on the posters stare out with expressions meant to be seductive but that mostly look bored or slightly pained, their hairstyles and makeup placing them firmly in the past. Some of the posters are even signed by the porn stars. Some are peeling at the corners, curling away from their backings like they're trying to escape.

A concession stand sits dark and abandoned to my right, its counter dusty, the ancient popcorn machine empty and unplugged. No one comes to the Pilgrim for refreshments—at least, not the kind sold at concession stands. A rack of magazines, sealed in aged plastic bags that partially obscure the explicit covers, stands next to it. Swedish Erotica, Puritan, Lui—explicit shit you won’t find on a 7-Eleven magazine rack.

I don’t think this is the kind a place anyone loiters in, at least not for long. Before I know it, this big guy shows up outta' nowhere and’s just standdin’ there watching me, givin’ me the evil eye. My cue to move along.

The ticket counter is a small booth with a half-circle cutout for transactions. Behind it sits an elderly woman with hair dyed an unnatural shade of auburn, piled on top of her head in a style that must have been fashionable when Kennedy was president. Her face is a roadmap of wrinkles, with deep canyons around her mouth from decades of smoking. She wears a floral blouse buttoned to the neck, a small gold cross visible at her throat—an incongruous touch given her place of employment.

She looks up from a paperback novel as I approach, her eyes magnified by thick glasses with frames the color of butterscotch pudding. There's something both grandmotherly and completely unwholesome about her, like she should be baking cookies instead of selling tickets to pornography.

"Hi, sweety" she says, her voice surprisingly gentle, almost musical. She slides a bookmark between pages and sets her novel aside. I catch a glimpse of the cover—a Harlequin romance with a bare-chested man embracing a woman in a torn dress. Even the ticket lady needs her fantasies, I guess.

"Oh, Um, H-hi," I stammer, sliding a five-dollar bill through the cutout. "One, please."

She takes the money with hands spotted with age, long red nails clicking against the counter. "First time here, sweety?" she asks, peering at me over her glasses.

I feel heat rise to my face. Is it that obvious? "No, m-ma'am. I've been here b-before."

She makes a humming sound that could mean anything as she counts out my change. "You look awful jumpy for a regular. The cops haven't been around in weeks, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not jumpy," I protest, even as my fingers drum a nervous rhythm against the counter.

She slides my ticket and change across to me, her red nails lingering on the bills. "Whatever you say, sweety. Show's already started, but don't worry—there's not much of a plot to miss." She winks at me, a gesture so unexpected from a woman her age that I almost laugh.

"Thanks," I mutter, scooping up my change and ticket. As I turn away, I catch her picking up her romance novel again, resuming her own vicarious pleasure as she prepares to facilitate mine.

I'm about to head straight for the auditorium doors, but my bladder has other ideas. The combination of nervous energy and the tall glass of iced coffee I had with breakfast is making itself known. Plus, I could use a moment to collect myself, to transition from the bright, judgmental world outside to the dark anonymity waiting beyond those doors.

A dimly lit sign indicates restrooms down a short hallway to the right. I follow it, passing a pay phone with a stack of escort service cards fanned out beside it, most featuring the same half-dozen women in different poses and promising "Full Service" and "No Rush." An assortment of vending machines line the wall; soda, snacks, cigarettes, and a machine with shit like napkins, condoms, lube, and cigarette lighters. I pause a beat to look shit over, then move on.

There’s a big 'Out of Service' sign on the door to the men's restroom. I push it open, greeted by the sharp smell of urinal cakes and something ranker underneath. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes and flickers, threatening to plunge the room into darkness at any moment. The walls are covered with graffiti. There is only one metal sink with a metal mirror above it, and three empty spots where sinks are missing. All the urinals are gone.

Past the missing urinals, four stalls, all without doors, line the wall. I head for the farthest one, needing the privacy more than the facilities at this point. The toilet seat has cigarette burns along the edge, and someone has carved "REAGAN SUCKS COCK" into the tank lid in blocky capital letters.

I'm unzipppin’ my shorts, about to enter, when I notice it—a small foil packet on the floor, torn open, a clear viscous substance leaked onto the tile. Lube. Recently used, by the looks of it. I should be disgusted, should find another stall. Shit, any normal guy would. But instead, I feel a strange thrill run through me. Evidence of someone else's pleasure in this grimy, sleazy place excites me. I step over it and piss.

My other hand falls to my thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. I came in here to piss, but now that I'm done, my cock has other ideas. It's been semi-hard since I entered the theater, the anticipation of what waits in the darkened auditorium keeping me in a state of constant arousal. Now, in this dirty stall with evidence of another man's activities at my feet, I'm fully hard again, my hard cock standing out straight, needing my attention.

I wrap my hand around it, feeling the familiar weight, the heat of it against my palm. I shoulda’ just pissed and gone—the show's already started, and anyone could walk in. But there's something irresistible about the forbidden nature of this—jerking off in a public bathroom, surrounded by the remnants of other people's secret pleasures.

I begin to stroke slowly, my eyes fixed on the lube packet. I imagine the man who used it—was he alone, preparing himself for something or someone? Was there a couple in here earlier, unable to wait until they got somewhere more private? The possibilities multiply, each more explicit than the last.

My hand moves faster, my breathing growing shallow. The insecurity adds to the excitement—at any moment, someone could walk in, could see me here with my cock in my hand and my shorts at my knees.

Pre-cum beads at the tip of my cock, slicking my fingers as I spread it down the shaft. I spit down to lube my cock even more. My balls tighten, drawing up close to my body as the pleasure builds. I close my eyes, let my filthy imagination take over.

Images flash behind my closed lids—the girls on the train, the shy chick in Filene's Basement, the hookers on Lagrange Street. I imagine them all together, a tangle of limbs and mouths and hands, all focused on me, all wanting me.

My eyes look down at the packet of lube, and I imagine the slick, cool feeling of it slithering down my crack, like I'm bein’ made ready for some slippery action. Then, in goes a single finger, slow and steady, giving me a gentle stretch. It's a gradual build-up, this in-and-out motion, getting me all worked up. And then, BAM! Another finger jumps in, going deeper, making me catch my breath in a soft little gasp. I groan, "Fuckin’ A, man, that's it."

He yanks his fingers out, then BAM, a heavier pressure follows, the familiar fullness of a big cock sliding into me. No polite “may I?“ or nothin’. The damn thing fills me completely, a stretching warmth that makes me arch my back. He moves within me, a slow, steady, fuckin’ in-n-out that sends shivers down my spine. His arms wrap around me, pulling me close, his strength a comforting weight. His breath, hot and damp against my ear, whispers some dirty-ass promises I can't quite make out.

I spin around, and there she was—the cute little fuck doll from Filene's. Eyes bright and eager, body bare and inviting. She presses her soft, wet lips to mine. We kiss light, soft and wet at first, then bam, we were full-on making out. Tongues going at it, a crazy dance of desire, and her hand? Yeah, it was already down there, stroking my wet, hard dick like she knew exactly what she was doing. Then, just like that, she dropped to her knees, eyes glued to mine, and started licking me. Teasing me, you know? Before she took me all the way in. Her mouth was hot, wet, and man, it felt so effin’ good. She pulled back, her eyes dark, and started working on the head, lips and tongue doing their thing. Pure magic, I tell you.

The feelin' is so intense, man. He's ramming my ass like he's trying to dig for oil, while she's got my dick buried deep in her throat, like a goddamn pro, taking me deeper and deeper.  It's this crazy-ass mix, like, stretched out and full back there, and then this insane sucking, pulling thing happening up front. My head's spinning, man. He's pounding away, hard and fast, and she's just... working miracles with her mouth. I can feel him moving, hard and fast, while she works her magic, pulling and sucking. All that wetness, her slick mouth, and the hard press of his cock? It's driving me fuckin’ nuts, like I'm about to explode.

I'm close now, my hand a blur, the wet, slick sounds of my stroking echoing in the empty bathroom. My thighs tense, my toes curl in my sneakers. Just a little more—

BAM! The bathroom door bangs open. FUCK! I freeze, my hand still wrapped around my cock, my breath caught in my throat. Footsteps approach, stop, followed by the sound of a zipper and then liquid hitting water.

I stand still, not daring to move, my heart pounding so loudly I'm sure the other occupant can hear it. My erection begins to subside slightly, the interruption softening my hard dick. The guy flushes, runs the water briefly at the sink—not long enough for any actual hand washing—and then leaves.

I exhale slowly, realizing I've been holding my breath. The interruption has broken the spell. My hard-on has softened to a semi, and the need to piss has returned. I relieve myself, feeling oddly disappointed and relieved at the same time.

After flushing, I pull my shorts back up, fastening them over my still-sensitive cock. I exit the stall, avoiding my reflection in the scratched mirror as I wash my hands. My face would show too much—the frustration, the lingering arousal, the slight shame that always accompanies these moments.

I dry my hands on my shorts, leaving damp handprints on the faded denim. It's time to enter the theater proper, to take my seat in the darkness and lose myself in the explicit images on screen. To finish what I started here, surrounded by strangers seeking the same anonymous release.

As I exit the bathroom, I pass a middle-aged guy in a business suit heading in. Our eyes meet briefly, then slide away, the unspoken covenant of this place—I won't acknowledge you if you don't acknowledge me.

I pause in the hallway, taking a deep breath. My cock has finally settled down enough that I can walk without discomfort. I'm ready now, centered in a way I wasn't before. The nervousness has dissipated, replaced by a focused anticipation. Whatever's playing in that theater, whatever strangers share the darkness with me, I'm ready to embrace it all.

I check the fly on my cutoffs again, even though I've already fastened them inside. It's a nervous gesture, a double-check that I'm decent before facing the world again—even if that world is just the decadent lobby of the Pilgrim. My skin feels electric, charged with interrupted desire. The air conditioning raises goosebumps along my arms, but I'm burning up inside, a furnace of want that not even the cold air can touch. I smooth down my t-shirt, run a hand through my hair, and try to look like someone who wasn't just wankin' in a bathroom stall.

The hallway stretches before me, dark carpet absorbing the feeble light from fixtures that haven't been dusted since the Nixon administration. The walls are lined with more movie posters, these ones older, from the days when porn had to pretend to be art to avoid censorship. In front of me, at the other end of the lobby, I see the set of double doors that I’m guessing lead to the auditorium, a red exit sign casting a bloody glow over the threshold.

I head for it, my sneakers silent on the carpet. Through the walls, I can hear the muffled sounds of the movie—exaggerated moans, the occasional grunt, dialogue so wooden it could give you splinters. A rhythmic bass line throbs beneath it all, the kind of cheesy saxophone music that's become a punchline everywhere except places like this, where it serves its purpose with sort of comic sincerity.