True Porn Clerk Stories

by Ali Davis

  So anyway, I started out with the Discreet Method: I went down with a handful of tags and put away the ones right around where he was, hoping to drive him out with a quick dose of Virgin/Nun/Mom/Mother-Goddess. No dice. He just kept turning his back to me -- an increasingly hard prospect as I corralled him into the corner.

  He actually tried the hand creep once until he glanced over and realized I was a) an employee and b) female. He decided to wait me out, pulling his pants up and his coat down a bit. I had clearly cramped his masturbating style.

  He stayed hunched in the corner and wouldn't go away on his own, so I finally broke down and asked him if he had ID and an account with us. We have a sign saying you need to set up an account to even browse down there. We don't really enforce it unless we're ousting a dirtbag, but then it comes in fairly handy. As it did in this case -- just addressing him directly did the trick and he dropped his box and fled as casually as possible.

  My manager high-fived me when I came up. I had kept our store clean and safe for our non-masturbating porn freaks and done my little bit to keep the virgin/whore dichotomy firmly in place.

  Mom would be so proud.

  Freak Magnet

  Saturdays I open the store and work close to a nine-hour shift. I start out OK, but it's hard to stay cheery the whole time, even when I'm blasting Danish techno music.

  I used to hate opening on weekends because the early morning customers scared the hell out of me. The store opens at 9 a.m. I usually do about 20 minutes of set-up and hit the front door at 9:00 on the dot by the store clock. There is always someone waiting to get to the porn. Once or twice I have had a problem -- a register came up short or a circuit breaker was blown -- and I've opened the door at, say, 9:01 and 52 seconds. In both cases, a guy was actually pounding at the door when I got to it. Not the same guy. I'm not sure whether that's scarier or not. Both guys almost flipped out when I took the time to slide the sign from "closed" to "open" before turning the lock.

  It gets pretty full at 9 a.m. on Saturdays and Sundays. I don't know if people are just getting up or if they stayed up or what. I just know they've been waiting for porn until they almost can't stand it.

  As I said, they used to scare me until I got to know my regulars. If you don't count the porn addiction that some of them have, they're not such bad guys. And once I thought about it, they'd be my best chance if someone tried to rob the store. They'd never let me get shot -- who would give them their porn?

  The not-so-regulars are still sort of scary. For some reason, I tend to draw the weirdest ones. My friends and relatives call whatever it is that seems to attract them the Crazy Magnet, but at the store they've gone with Freak Magnet.

  The Freak Magnet was definitely on today -- the phone started ringing before I was even open. Mr. Dreadlocks called early on, asking to reserve two movies. "OK, what are the titles?" "I can't recall." I invited Mr. Dreadlocks to call back if and when he figured it out, but he never did, and he didn't come in. He likes me, but I'm disappointing because he's hoping to get a male clerk. I'm guessing the evening shift will get that particular treat.

  The most disturbing customer of the day called right at 9:00 to ask when we opened. I told him we were, and he asked if the DVD of L.A. Sex Party was in. (A lot of our movies have "sex party" in the title. It was only a few months ago that I realized that this is because a lot of porn renters may not know what "orgy" means.)

  It was in, but today we didn't have another clerk on yet, and I can't leave the register unattended to go downstairs and all the way to the back to pull a gay adult DVD tag.

  So I told him we expected one in and I could put him on the reserve list. He called back less than an hour later to see if it was in yet. He knew, as a member, that rentals aren't due back until closing the night they're due. He was clearly going to call back at half-hour intervals until I said the tape was in, which sounded like a long shift to me, so I told him the truth. I explained that I could go down and pull his tag as soon as the new clerk came in, which would be very soon. It wasn't a new release and wasn't in much demand. I told him that it was a safe bet that it would be in when he got there -- especially since he said he would come right over. "Well, if someone tries to rent it, could you take it away from them?" Well, no. I explained for about the thirtieth time that another clerk would be on soon, and that it was unlikely that his DVD would rent before then. And then as politely and gently as possible I refused to rip the DVD from another renter's hands.

  He got to the store before the second clerk did.

  He went racing right downstairs, which wasn't that unusual -- Saturday morning porn renters all but throw themselves down the stairs.

  He got back up behind two other renters, who made the mistake of breaking their pace to get their tags together before hitting the register. He ran around the side and cut in front of them. The three of us not-freaks exchanged looks for a second. I almost made him wait, but then realized we all just wanted him out of there. No time for thought (or, indeed, basic courtesy) though.

  "It was here!" he crowed, "I'm the one who called!" His precious DVD was in, as were two others. I took a look at him as I pulled up his account and checked his ID. He looked like he was either a hotel desk manager or a flight attendant. He had just missed pilot. He was wearing a navy blue suit with a white stripe at the wrists. He had what looked like airline wings on his chest, as well as what may have been a small brass nametag and some sort of Masonic or fraternal pin.

  He caught me trying to figure it out as I checked him out. "No, I don't fly for the airlines," he said proudly. (Because I am a good clerk, I refrained from saying "Of course not. You're dressed like a flight attendant,") "I just have a thing for uniforms," he went on, loud enough for the whole line to hear, "I'm trying to pick someone up this morning!"

  And with that, he and his homemade uniform were gone.

  There's a New Porn Freak in Town

  We have a new visitor to the porn section. He's been in twice now. Actually, he's been in at least three times, as he is a registered member, but he's only stood out twice.

  He comes in, goes down to the straight porn section, and whips out a hand mirror. Then he applies makeup for about an hour.

  Seriously.

  No browsing, no chatting people up, no whacking. In, mirror, makeup and out. And again, he's in the straight section.

  No one's sure what to do yet.

  The last time he was in, two clerks went down to ask him a) what was up and b) to leave. He pointed out that he was a registered member, and that he wasn't stealing, whacking off, or bothering anyone. Since he wasn't hurting anyone, why did he have to leave?

  Nobody's thought of an answer yet, and we're not really sure we want to toss him for loitering. He is, after all, just putting on makeup.

  But why in our porn section? It has such harsh fluorescent lighting.

  I'm sure we'll find out eventually. I can't wait.

  Guttermouth

  I'm having another existential video store crisis. I have them every now and then, but this one is biggish -- this Friday will be my one-year anniversary at the store. It isn't the worst job in the world. It's helped me plow through some difficult financial times, they're terrific about letting me take off for an audition, and they have twice let me take a full month off to go do a show. The pay sucks, but there's no dress code and you can't beat the flexibility.

  But still, holy fuck. I know it is exactly a year this Friday because I started the job (a year ago -- have I mentioned this was a year ago?) precisely one week before my thirtieth birthday. Talk about your existential crises. That one was enormous, and it came on in a single moment: I was putting away porn tags, when suddenly I looked up and came face-to-face with the box for Fuck Pigs 5. I can still see the box. There was, of course, a woman on it, offering up her orifices for the pleasure of anyone who wanted a look. She seemed friendly, almost shy. And she was being called a fuck pig.

  "Good Lord," I thought, "What happened to me? I'm
about to turn 30 and I'm on my knees in a basement restocking incredibly degrading porn."

  This time around I will be about to turn 31 and I will be on my knees in a basement stocking incredibly degrading porn. At least I can laugh about it. Sometimes I have to pull my lips into a rictus grin, peel my tongue off the roof of my mouth, and punch myself in the solar plexus, but a laugh is a laugh.

  I've gotten numb to a lot of it over the past year -- and some of it I do find genuinely hilarious -- but I am still, sometimes, conflicted about the really degrading porn. The Fuck Pig stuff.

  It took a long time for me to even admit to myself that porn can be degrading. I'm a sex-positive, first amendment feminist. I've been through the progressive arguments about porn: lesbians enjoy it too, so porn is not inherently degrading to women; the woman giving the blow job can be very much in control of the sex act; and besides, what if in censoring other porn they decide to come for your porn first? I got them, I believed them, and I was willing to defend to my death (or at least to my jailing) the right to produce porn, assuming all the actors truly consent.

  As is so often the case, I had those lofty ideals before I really had any experience with porn other than as an abstract concept. Working with porn on a regular basis, while it has expanded my whatever-floats-your-boat tolerance, has led me to conclude that yes, sometimes porn is degrading. Indeed, sometimes it's meant to be degrading. Sometimes that's the whole point.

  Take, for example, the Guttermouth series, the latest example of which arrived last week and triggered my current case of porn clerk malaise. In a way, it was satisfyingly cyclical moment -- Guttermouth also refers to its stars, still young enough to look happy and proud on the box, as "fuck pigs". They look about 19. They look sweet. They're posing in bikinis and looking right at the camera, hoping you will like them. Fuck pigs. The box copy is what's really revolting. It's over the top, but I don't think it's meant to be funny. There are short fake cast bios of all the girls, in the same happy tone of theater bios before the actors grow up and get hip and cynical. One of them is called a dumb slut, another a worthless cunt. I'm fairly certain there was more on the other two, but it was just too depressing to keep reading.

  This is the one porn impulse that I honestly don't get. (Oh, all right. I don't really get peeing on each other or hurting each other, but I think I understand intellectually how one might get there.) I don't understand the need to degrade someone. But that need is definitely, sadly out there. One of our best-renting titles of long standing is called Grudge Fuck.3 It always rents right back out as soon as we can replace the tag. Every time.

  Much as I hate to say it, it seems to be a straight guy thing.

  There's definitely a Captain Kirk--style exploration up and down the imaginary social ladder in both the straight and gay sections. In addition to the dozens of variations on (oddly -- or sadly) still taboo interracial pairings, we have More Dirty Debutantes4 and White Trash Whore on the straight side, Straight off the Street and The Other Side of Aspen on the gay side. You can fuck rich or fuck poor on either side of the invisible barrier between the straight and gay sections. But you can only fuck lesser in straight.

  I think it's because there's not enough otherness in gay porn. There's still bondage and S&M stuff, plenty of dominance and submission, but even the most submissive sub is still a man just like the dom, just like the viewer. How much separation can there be?

  On the straight side, it's different. One of the Extreme Penetrations boxes shows a woman, legs spread and sticking straight up, with some sort of funnel or bowl shoved into her vagina. It actually has pretzels in it. Rocco's Animal Trainer series, I'm told, traditionally ends with Rocco fucking a woman up the ass while he shoves her head into a toilet and flushes.

  Some straight porn does seem to be made in sort of a happy, fun spirit: women are beautiful and fun to look at, sex is fun and good to have. Whee!

  And then there's Guttermouth.

  Is it fear? Is it anger? Is it such an unfamiliarity in dealing with women that they don't even seem like real people? Or is it, as I'm prone to suspect on difficult days, that some people are just complete shitheads? I don't know.

  What I learned in Women's Studies is that porn is not necessarily degrading. What I've learned at the video store is that sometimes it is.

  My position on porn hasn't really changed. I would still defend to my death the right to produce it. I just sometimes wish they wouldn't.

  3 Actually, the title is Grudge F*ck. ThereÕs a picture of a guy reaming a woman right on the box. Why did they get squeamish about the F-word?

  4 I have since learned that More Dirty Debutantes was really about actresses who were making their debuts in adult films, not about women from the yacht club circuit getting down.

  Our Heroine Has More Inner Fortitude Than She Thought.

  This is -- almost -- a story of triumph.

  I've always been worried about what I'd do if I actually caught a jerker in the porn section. I mean, of course, while I'm physically in the porn section. Catching someone on the security camera didn't bother me: Call the police and collect a bonus for busting a creep. Big deal. My only concern on that count was who's responsible for cleanup.

  But actually catching someone while down there has always been a concern. I'm 5'3" -- not a terribly imposing presence. While, as I've said before, most of the people who attempt to masturbate in the store are cowards, there are no guarantees. I've read more than one study that indicates that rapists start off with indecent exposure before graduating to scarier, more violent stuff. It wasn't like it was a constant fear for me, but it certainly popped into the back of my mind more than once.

  And it had been in my mind recently because Jonathan caught a jerker a couple of weeks ago. By the way, it turns out the managers are willing to take care of the mopping.

  The porn section is not completely isolated from the upstairs counter, but it's a hike. You could get around (or over) the counter and downstairs in maybe ten seconds. The whole section is covered by the cameras, but we usually have the sound off unless we're watching someone in particular. On the other hand, you can hear someone making loudish noises like knocking over shelves in the straight section. Essentially, one could get help from upstairs, but not without a few seconds' delay.

  OK, so I have thought about it some. But I've honestly never known how I'd react. Scream? Run? Quietly go upstairs and then get help? What?

  I found out this weekend. I was bored out of my skull about halfway through my usual nine-hour Saturday Shift of Doom, and I was downstairs putting tags back out. There was only one other person down there -- a young guy, not a regular. I'd been keeping one eye on him anyway because he was wearing way more coat than he needed, which is the I'm-gonna-steal-a-box uniform.

  We were on opposite sides of the room with our backs to each other. Gradually, I became aware of movement behind me. I turned around. His pants were drooping a few inches below the waistband of his boxers. He had snaked his right arm up underneath his coat and it was moving rhythmically.

  For a second, I just stared.

  Then, before I knew it, I heard a new voice coming out of my mouth. It was a furious principal's voice, a drill sergeant's voice, Sigourney Weaver's voice just as she's about to wax an alien. It came up from the diaphragm, resonating through my chest, deep, powerful and furious.

  "PUT IT AWAY AND GET OUT!"

  He dropped the box he'd been holding and whipped around, eyes huge with astonishment.

  He had been scratching his stomach.

  Interesting Porn Phenomena

  1. Beth's First Law of Tag Replenishment:

  Of any ten tags you need to put away, nine of them will be in front of the big creepy guy who won't move.

  Ali's Corollary:

  Of these nine, at least five will require you to bend or crouch in such a way that your head is right in front of his groin.

  2. Porn Trance

  This is the odd, timeless zone that people g
o into when studying the boxes. Lone porn renters go into it immediately and resent being pulled out.

  Group renters never intend to go into Porn Trance. They start out laughing together, pointing at the boxes and reading particularly ludicrous copy out loud. They are far too hip to really be interesÉ and then they see an orifice that really strikes them and one by one they get sucked in and the porn section is quiet again.

  Couples do not go into Porn Trance. There has already been a great deal of negotiating in getting both parties down there together. If either partner gets even a tiny fraction more interested in a porn star body than the other, the delicate balance -- and quite possibly the relationship -- is destroyed.

  We have two rooms of floor-to-ceiling boxes. People in Porn Trance methodically look at every single one in their section. They don't realize they've just rented new releases because they don't realize they've moved around the entire circumference of the room. They don't hear announcements over the Voice of God mic until you get drastic. ("Sir? YOU! In the red jacket! With the baseball cap! YOU! We're closing! BRING UP YOUR MOVIES RIGHT NOW OR YOU DON'T GET TO RENT ANYTHING AT ALL!") People literally spend hours in Porn Trance. I see people look at box after box for two hours at a stretch all the time, and three hours is not uncommon. These are the same people who tell you they're in a hurry when they hit the register.