This report speaks for itself. And it's all sorts of wonderful and thought provoking.
Take it away, Johnny Paradise.
***
Doc,
Four days spiraling, criss-crossing, and rocketing across the map had taken me dizzily down and up and around the states of the midwest and it was the simplest sudden immediate urge that brought me back round, finally back home to the home that isn't home, to that medium sized metropolis for which I have a special affection and to, tonight, my heart's desire - a Hungarian hot dog.
Not too far from where I ate was the Theatre, that majestic movie house of so many glorious misspent hours, and as I ate I thought and wondered about it and with the quiet disappointment of Bay City still recent in my memory it seemed right to drop in and see if anything was happening, and even if it was nothingsville, a shot of nostalgia would be an adequate dessert to my wonderfully delicious wonderfully cheap dinner.
There was a vibration, a sixth sense, some form of intuitive awareness that informed me as soon as I entered the parking lot that something was going to happen tonight. It was still early in the evening, probably a quarter to six, and almost every car in the lot had someone sitting inside, waiting, looking at cell phones, waiting, it seemed, for the word to be given; the word that sets the machine in motion. Also, I realized, there was a woman, sitting in a vehicle with a man, talking to another man who leaned on the driver's side. I caught a glimpse but I never stare. I saw a flash of red hair and then - park - exit - open the door and
There had been some changes since I last walked these unhallowed halls, mostly small cosmetic ones, though some more substantial. The new boutique is beautiful, but it leaves the main area very stark and bare. The proprietors, however, clearly demonstrate what in business circles is called a "growth mindset", so I guessed that the empty space would not remain empty for long. The arcade seemed unchanged. I walked around looking, attempting not to loiter. A man dressed as a woman seemed interested in my activities, watching me from an open booth, it seemed, waiting for some kind of response. I quietly left and made my way into the
total darkness, then a lurid grainier than usual image of digitally projected sex and as my eyes recovered I counted about seven men, two of whom were enjoying each other's company, and two who waited against the back wall, pensive, nervous or anxious - waiting. Definitely waiting. I was sure now that something would be going down here, and soon. Maybe the woman I had seen in the parking lot? One of the two men keeping vigil against the back wall in the baleful light wore a dress shirt and tie and sported thick rimmed glasses, a businessman of some sort, and looked in the darkness almost exactly like a young John Goodman, a quite large fellow. In fact, size was a theme of the night. The crowd that eventually assembled was beefier than usual. This thing of ours attracts men of all shapes and sizes but tonight the XXL guys were out in force and at times I felt a little intimidated. I wished I had treated myself to a second hot dog.
I noticed the couple's area had changed. New couches and other furniture. For a moment I tried to get into the plot of the movie - no chance. Sigh. I miss the Golden Age. Then the sound of the door, two guys came in, then a few seconds later a third, then suddenly guys are entering in small droves, and I knew whatever was going to happen was going to happen and suddenly there were twenty-to twenty-five guys and
A woman. The one from the parking lot. Tall and lean in jeans and a long somewhat oversized blue Detroit Tigers shirt. I placed in somewhere in her late forties, but the darkness is a consuming cosmetic, and so younger or older is possible. She had long-ish red hair and rather classic features, and with a certain air of self-awareness, shyness, or haughtiness - perhaps all three. She was visually rather something like Kate Mulgrew. Her companion was a large-ish gentleman with gray hair, mid to late fifties. She walked quickly, with purpose, towards the couple's area and they settled in on the couch nearest the back and side railing.
The crowd of men had been anxious and now they were immediately around the couple's area. One man in a peach colored shirt sat in a seat in across the aisle from the couples section sporting a pose exactly like the statue of "The Thinker", staring holes through them. Men occupied every space along the railing and if the couple noticed they showed no sign of it. They sat, whispered to each other, cuddled, and the crowd, anxious, maintained patience and a kind of reserve - except for one character I have seen there before. His organ was in his hand before anything even started, and he tried to talk to them. If he was rebuffed, it must have been very politely.
Then the door to the theatre opened again. The thronged men looked up like a pride of lions all at once catching the scent of prey. A woman came in. Tall, bottle-red tresses chopped short, tiny black dress or a bustier-type top and black boots.
She was on a leash.
He came in a step later, holding the other end. Tall, tattooed, a little gristled, he looked like and sounded exactly like Jonathan Loughran, the trucker from "Kill Bill" and from another Tarantino film - "Grindhouse", I believe. His voice was deep, gravelly, and smarmy with a dark chuckle underneath every phrase. They moved quickly into the couples section and sat on the front couch. All eyes were now on them, and I felt bad for the first couple, but in the taxonomy of theatre sex, the woman in fetish gear somehow outclasses or outshines the woman in the long Tigers tee - at least at first.
I watched the first couple, maybe more than others were. He had his hand down her shirt, and she slid her jeans off and he was playing with her pussy, but the eyes of the horde were mostly glued to the new couple, who wasted little time. Shortly after sitting down his pants were off and she was servicing his penis with her mouth.
The zombie-like crowd, the mass of the jerking dead, drew in tighter, organs out, some of them masturbating furiously, watching her silently go to work on him. She made few sounds during oral sex; she seemed intent and very businesslike about it. "Aint' she a sweetheart?" he asked in his baritone rumble, and "you ever see a girl who could suck cock like that?", a definite point of pride for him.
Something about her shape, the contour of her face (though it was hard to catch many glimpses of it, as it was almost always buried in the couch or in someone's crotch) the short red hair, the intense oral sex - something about her suggested someone slightly Roybn-esque (the "very naughty" living legend of midwest theatre sex). Less energetic perhaps, a little less dynamic. Still, there was a Robyn-like feel to the proceedings. She gave oral sex to every man there.
Well, not every man. (Journalistic objectivity). But very close. They formed an honest-to-gosh line and she just serviced them one by one. Some customers repeated and one inexhaustible man scored what someone had to - and did - call "the hat trick". They were young, they were old, they were black, they were white, they had endowments of various size and shape, some were sprinters and some were there for the marathon - it did not matter. No one was turned away. She was workmanlike about it, using a gentler touch on some and hard full head throttling slurping on others. It did not seem terrifically artistic but then again none of the men there were expressing a concern for aesthetics. One after another just stood dutifully in line until the tell tale gasp that she had brought them to completion, and with each gasp her companion expressed an almost inaudible utterance of pride or admiration for his woman-on-a-leash.
She was silent, mostly. Until he took her from behind. Then she moaned and screamed softly into the side of the couch where she had buried her face. Anyone, apparently, who had a condom could do the same, and so after the blowing was done, man after man penetrated her, always from behind. Her companion always said "we'll check with her", but she said no to no one who had a condom, and it seemed like many men did. I saw John Goodman carefully remove his tie before his turn with her. I saw an old man who dropped everything - pants and underwear - for his turn, and he seemed dazed and very slow moving, but he may have had the largest "thing" there. You never can tell. And, in this theatre on this night in the darkness with this girl it did not matter.
I thought about these men - and the woman - everyone who participated - and I thought once again how, despite whatever erotic thrill the participants extract from these events, don't they feel any anxiety over the fact that this is, fundamentally, a game of roulette?
I wondered if it was the danger itself - more than just the kick of totally unaccountable and meaningless sex - that motivated the men here. Is there some inherent self-destructive quality to the act of anonymous theatre sex, or is that not even a factor? Do you see yourself as somehow de-personalized - just another character in the unwatched movie? Or was I the only one thinking these things. There is something vaguely humorous about engaging in a Hamlet-like interior monologue while people around you are having sex.
My reverie was punctuated by the visual highlight of the night. At her invitation, the leashed girl moved towards the older woman who opened and spread her shapely legs in magnificent fashion and the younger woman with furious finesse lashed and fingered and licked and sucked and played with the older woman's pussy. The crowd was struck silent. The older woman moaned and shook and grasped the couch very tightly and seemed at times to be surfing on the crest of that feeling that moves between pleasure and the slight discomfort that very intense pleasure can sometimes bring.
The leashed girl seemed more creative, more energetic about this activity, and at times her ministrations were decidedly wild, but she would slow down and ease up based on the vocal response of the older woman, seemingly aware that she was playing a sensitive instrument. It seemed an imperfect fit, but was the most compelling interaction of the night. At some point the tee shirt came off and surprisingly the older gal had very large breasts - easily double D, if not triple - and her husband held them up and stroked her hair as the younger man fucked his woman from behind driving her face deeper into the vagina of her fellow redhead. It was a matter of minutes but for the reverent silence in the theatre it might have been the full third act of an opera.
At the completion of this, the older woman sucked her man to a finish and the younger woman took on some more temporary sex partners, then the first couple left and the second decided to take a break to smoke. There would be, I was sure, a spectacular second Act, but it was time to go.
At the end of the night, or some time eventually, it is time to go, for everybody. I wondered about the destinations, east, west, happy, sad, guilty, satisfied, knowing, searching, sure, unthinking, uncertain, or lost in a fugue of possibilities. Everyone leaves. When the couples go home, do they talk about it? Compare notes? Make plans? Share some heightened intimacy that the experience makes possible? Or are they each alone, together?
The men - single? married? family men? loners? Everyone has something waiting for them when they leave this place, this house of quiet desire.
At some point we are all together, and in some way we are all alone, with our own destination.
For me, last night, it was just the road, and the long contemplation.
Johnny Paradise
***
Doc here again... Between you and I, I have read this report several times, and each time I pick up a subtle nuance, a thread of something different with each read. We are lucky to have contributors like Johnny Paradise. Like Brent in Portland. The list goes on...
Thanks,
Doc
