When I was seventeen, about halfway through my junior year of high school, I started going to the only adult arcade/bookstore/theater in town. The feminists had been trying to close it down for years and I remember driving past the place and seeing small groups of women protesting every now and again. Sometimes they might have a minister or some guy running for city council with them, but mostly it was three or four women walking around with signs and trying to shame the customers.

So far as I know the place is still open, but I haven’t been back home in a few years now. It doesn’t really matter except I feel a little nostalgic and wish that the world didn’t have to change as much as it always does. I think we’re better off with a few places like that, but then again, I am a little biased.

From the time I was sixteen and started having sex, I’d started becoming more and more obsessed with the subject. I’d learned to enjoy being used by my girlfriend’s father, Mr. Walters, although I can’t explain why. I wonder sometimes if I didn’t suffer some form of Stockholm Syndrome and I wasn’t really enjoying it, but only coping with a reality too painful to accept. Either way, it all boils down to the same thing, I was turning into a male slut.

When people hear that word, slut, it’s always a girl they think of, but it can apply equally to almost anyone. Of course, it’s much easier to be a slut for cock than it is for pussy. I’ve never dated more than one girl at a time and never cheated on my girlfriends, at least, not with another girl. My logic is probably quite flawed, but the fact is that if I was with another guy behind my girlfriend’s back, I’ve never considered it cheating. To be fair, if my wife or girlfriend ever slept with another woman, I probably wouldn’t consider that cheating either.

Maybe it’s just a holdover from my innocence, from the hetero Christian values that had defined my self-image up until the day Mr. Walters had first abused me. I mean, I love women. I’ve loved every girlfriend I ever had to some degree, but the same can’t be said about men. I’ve felt friendship for some of the guys I’ve had sex with. I’ve even felt affection for a couple of them, but I never felt a desire to introduce a guy to my family and say, “This is my boyfriend.” I just want him to fuck me.

Anyway, the first time I snuck into the adult bookstore, I was nervous like you wouldn’t believe. I’d been dating Renee throughout the previous school year, but we’d broken up late the following summer. She’d met some guy at Band Camp, of all places, and now she was with him. It hurt, I won’t lie, but I had to admit that I felt a bit relieved. Her dad was fucking me two or three times a week by then and we were going to get caught. It was a miracle we hadn’t been found out already and I really do think that Mrs. Walters had to suspect something. She was neither stupid nor blind, but one shouldn’t underestimate the power of denial either. There had been some close calls, regardless, and because we’d been getting away with it for so long, we were getting careless. So breaking up with Renee meant that I could break up with her father, too.

But it sucked.

For the next three months all I could do was jerk off. There were some girls I liked, but they were either dating someone else or just not interested in me. Or more likely, I just didn’t try very hard to get them interested. I’d always been a fairly good looking boy, so looks weren’t my problem, but I wasn’t athletic and not part of the cool crowd. I didn’t have a lot of friends, just a couple guys that I would hang around with at school. I blame that on Mr. Walters, just because I’d felt so guilty and ashamed of myself for letting him have sex with me, that I didn’t really trust anyone enough to become friends. Renee was the only real exception and without her...

I was very lonely for a little while and I spent a lot of time on the internet, looking at porn and feeling guilty about that. Jerking off and feeling ashamed of myself. But I kept doing it just because I had this huge hole in my life and I thought that it could only be filled with sex. Not love, not after Renee had told me she liked this other guy better and didn’t want me anymore. Like I said, I didn’t really work at getting a new girlfriend because that might hurt, but I missed sucking off Mr. Walters every few days. I missed getting my ass fucked by his big dick on Saturday mornings when his wife and daughter went to their painting class at the church.

They had mother-daughter time and we had father-faggot time, as Mr. Walters liked to call it. His wife thought he was spending time with their two sons, but they were Playstation zombies. Having a couple hours to stare at the television without their parents bitching about it was perfect for them. Renee’s father called me a couple times after she and I broke up, begging me to come over for sex, but eventually he stopped. Good thing too, because it had been getting harder and harder to tell him no. I needed the attention and by the time I walked into the bookstore, I’d gotten almost desperate.

Desperate enough to risk getting embarrassed and kicked out by the guy behind the counter, but he just stared at me as I walked around the brightly lit store. There were long magazine racks and the walls had shelves filled with plugs, dildos, and toys of every possible description. There were a lot of DVDs and novelties like sexy playing cards, and a glass case had nothing but drug paraphernalia in it. It was all very exciting for me and a thousand times better than anything I’d seen on the internet. This was real. I could touch it and the place smelled of pine oil and something else, a slightly sour musk that seemed somehow familiar.

I felt excited deep down in my belly and warm all over. My face became flushed and I kept my head down and my hands in my pockets as I walked around. We were the only ones in there at this odd hour, the clerk and me. I’d made my decision at school, while sitting in my classes and flipping an imaginary coin. Should I or shouldn’t I? What if I see someone I know? What if I get busted? A hundred questions, a hundred doubts, but in the end I had no choice. I’d gone straight from school to the bookstore. It was barely four o’clock in the afternoon, and the place was empty except for me and the guy behind the counter.

There was an open doorway with Christmas lights blinking around it and a hand lettered sign that said “Arcade – Tokens Required” taped to the nearby wall. It looked dark in there and that dank smell was stronger in that direction. I wanted to go in, but I was afraid to ask the guy for tokens. Shoot, I was probably afraid to leave, if I’m being honest. I just kept walking around, staring at cellophane wrapped magazines as if they were priceless works of art. I felt trapped, actually. I felt ashamed, and I was really getting tired of that particular emotion.