I Went Into a Porn Booth Alone and It All Went Wrong
Sorry, I’ve been tied up these past few days and I owed you the end of the story. The other day I was telling you they’d left me stranded on the platform. Alone, pissed off, and, to make things worse, hornier than a cat in March.
To sum up the earlier bit, for those of you who didn’t read it: on the train, squeezed between bodies, a stranger had pressed up against me more than was decent. And I, instead of moving away, let him keep at it. Rubbings going back and forth, a hand lingering where it shouldn’t, hot breath on the back of my neck. Just when things were starting to get interesting, the train reached my stop, he got off without looking back, and I was left on the platform with my heart hammering and my cunt burning, soaked, throbbing between my legs like a second pulse. And then they say women in our fifties have nothing to tell.
While I was trying to keep my balance on the escalators, handbag dangling from my shoulder and in a foul mood, I was working out what to do. The first thing that came to mind was to head to the department stores in the center and fix myself up a bit in the ladies’ room. Straighten my knickers, freshen my face, wipe my thigh where I still felt that sticky wetness, a mix of my own juices and the trail that filthy stranger had left when he’d rubbed the hard bulge of his cock against my ass for half a dozen stops.
But the idea struck me as depressing. Like some dowdy old lady, one of those who stare at themselves in the mirror and sigh. What am I doing there, rearranging my underwear like I’m eighty years old? No, that wasn’t it. My crazy little head got to work in no time flat.
Right, let’s sort this out. What do you actually want? An orgasm. A good one, the kind that leaves you limp and in a good mood for the rest of the day. So think, woman, think how to give yourself that quick bit of pleasure without making a drama out of it.
It was three forty. We’d just had lunch and it wasn’t time to call anybody. I also didn’t feel like looking for a nearby bar, ordering a drink and waiting for some stranger to notice me. Too slow, too complicated. What I needed was something urgent: get two fingers deep into my cunt and come like a bitch, as fast as possible.
And then the lightbulb went on.
Let’s see, if I remembered right, going down Calle del Marqués you crossed Avenida del Robledo, came out onto Ronda del Carmen and, following it to the old road, there was a sex shop there. I’d been a few times when I was young, almost thirty years ago now. It had a side entrance through a passageway, so you didn’t have to go through the main door — which was a dead giveaway — and it led straight to the booth area.
The plan took shape all by itself in my head. I go in, lock myself in, feed a few euros into the machine, put on some filthy porn tape that makes you want to scream, sink into the armchair, hike my skirt up to my waist, spread my legs wide open and shove my whole hand inside until my cunt is dripping down my thighs. Then, in the half-light, I pull myself together and walk out as relaxed as a bowl of oil.
Sounded marvelous. I picked up the pace.
***
When I got there, everything was just as it had been three decades earlier. Cleaner, maybe, but identical. The same industrial air freshener smell of a brothel mixed with a sour, sweet, unmistakable background scent of dried semen and other women’s cunts. The same dim booths, the same little light system over the doors: green LED, free booth; red LED, occupied booth. Lots of them were green. Even better.
I chose, would you believe it, one tucked away halfway down a corner of the corridor. I remembered it fondly, because it was right in that miserable little nook that I’d had the time of my life when I was a girl. Nostalgia gets you hot too, don’t kid yourself.
It brought to mind an afternoon in my early twenties, in that very booth, with a boyfriend whose name I can’t even remember now, but whose hands I remember perfectly, and the thick, crooked cock he shoved into me that afternoon until I saw stars while I bit the back of the armchair so I wouldn’t scream. I sucked his cock kneeling on that filthy floor, with my mouth full of his hot load, and then he took me astride him, gripping my tits under my T-shirt while I ground myself down onto his shaft with a fury I hadn’t felt in years. Back then I didn’t care at all, not about the place, not about the cameras, not about the smell. You’re young and you swallow it all whole. I thought coming back now, with a tired body and wrinkles where they belonged, had something of a tribute to that brazen girl I used to be. And instead of making me sad, that only turned me on more.
I sat down in the vinyl armchair. As soon as I settled, I felt my thighs stick to the fabric. Instead of disgusting me, that put me even more in the mood. The seat was warm. Hot to the touch, rather. I guessed someone had only been sitting there a few minutes earlier, jerking off in the very same position I was about to take.
I looked around for clues, and found them right away. Down the side of the screen ran a milky-white drop of semen, leaving a shiny, fleeting trail like a snail’s. In the trash can, a crumpled ball of toilet paper, soaked and still shining with fresh cum. While I tried to work out whether the load belonged to the skinny kid or the old guy I’d crossed at the entrance to the passageway, a filthy smile slipped out of me and I felt my knickers soak through to the point where the fabric could take no more. The mere idea of sitting there masturbating in the very spot where some other man had just come had my clit throbbing like an swollen button.
I stood up slowly, listening to that dull sound the vinyl makes when it peels away from skin. Feeling my way around, standing in that dark little cubicle, I pulled down my panties — dripping, soaked through — stuffed them into my bag and sat back down. This time, hiking my skirt up to my waist so I could plant my naked ass directly on the seat and spread my legs wide open, shamelessly, to see the reflection of my open, shiny cunt in the screen, which was still off because I hadn’t put in any coins yet. I ran two fingers up my slit, from bottom to top, and brought them to my mouth. I was soaked. Salty, thick, with that taste of hot female sex that gets me wet even on my own.
I took out my purse and started rummaging. Shit. One two-euro coin, three one-euro coins, and one fifty-cent coin. I’d have to pick the film fast, because I didn’t have money for many minutes.
***
Cursor up, cursor down. For anyone who doesn’t know how this works — which I doubt, in this forum — the armchairs have two buttons on the left that let you change channels. Obviously designed for right-handers, because you have to stretch out and lose half your erection trying, or in my case interrupt the rhythm of the finger that had already slipped between the lips of my cunt and was working in small circles over the clit.
As I was saying: cursor up, cursor down. A bland couple fucking missionary. Change. Two blondes who looked bored, eating each other out with the face of people peeling potatoes. Change. A close-up of a huge cock going in and out of an ass so brutally it was more frightening than sexy. Change. By the time I found a scene that I thought might get me going enough — a mature woman on her knees, with two big cocks spraying cum all over her face while she stuck out her tongue to lick and pinched her nipples — I only had two minutes and fifteen seconds left on the machine.
The image made me close my eyes and shove two fingers in up to the knuckles. I pulled them out dripping, shoved them back in, and with my other hand I pinched my nipple through my shirt while biting my lip so I wouldn’t moan. I was going to come. I could feel it rising from my thighs, that electric tingle gathering in my groin before the explosion. Five more thrusts from my own fingers, I twisted my wrist to hit that spot inside, squeezed my clit with my thumb and…
The screen went black. Time was up. The mature woman and the two cocks vanished just when my orgasm was peeking out between my legs.
—For fuck’s sake… —I muttered through clenched teeth, fingers still buried deep and my cunt pounding, halfway to coming, hanging on to that frustration that’s almost worse than never having started.
The outburst must have carried farther than I’d wanted, because five seconds later a polite, slightly high-pitched voice sounded on the other side of the door.
—Ma’am? Ma’am, are you all right?
Jesus, what a mortifying moment. And she called me ma’am. So then she knew a woman was in there. And if she knew that, it was because she’d probably seen me come in on some camera, and therefore…
What a day I’m having. Groped on the train, abandoned on a platform, and now caught with two fingers in my cunt and no knickers in a sex shop booth.
—Coins! —was the only thing I could think to whisper through the door, yanking my fingers out in a hurry and wiping them on my skirt, as if asking for change justified everything else.
Through a crack in the half-open door we did the exchange: a twenty-euro note for its equivalent in coins. And mind you, the bloke stuck his hand in so far it almost brushed my bare thigh, and I’m sure he took a long look at my rumpled skirt and the open legs showing in the half-light. Meanwhile, the guy — a sallow man in his forties, with long, untidy nails — was trying, I suppose, to calm me down.
—Don’t be upset, ma’am. This is the most normal thing in the world — he said, in a tone that was meant to be understanding and only managed to make me feel even dirtier.
“Normal,” I laughed to myself. I wondered how normal it was for a woman in her fifties, locked in a sex shop booth with no knickers, her fingers still sticky with her own juices and a very clear intention of coming nicely, and even with the blessing of the man in question — because really, what else would I be there for? — to be the most natural thing on the planet.
Normal, he said. God knows what conversations that bastard had with his wife when he got home from work, and God knows how many times he’d jerked off spying on cameras at women like me, with their trousers down and their cocks in their hand behind his counter.
***
What more can I tell you. The crash I got from that killed the pussy dead, literally. Like a tap turned off. I did feed the machine a couple more coins, just to pretend and buy time, and I even ran my hand between my legs a couple of times trying to pick up the thread again, acting in the half-light like the whole thing was still going on. But my clit had shrunk, the walls of my cunt no longer pulsed, and no matter how much I poked at myself I couldn’t get a thing. A corpse down there. Half an hour earlier I’d had everything ready to blow and now, nothing. The nerves and the embarrassment had switched me off the way a candle goes out with one puff.
I gave in. I took my knickers out of my bag and put them back on, now damp and cold with my own cooled-down juices, sliding into my cunt crack and my ass crack with every step I took, a sticky reminder of everything I hadn’t managed. A very dignified feeling, as you can imagine.
I got out of there at a run through the passageway, head down so the cameras wouldn’t catch my face and I could preserve at least a shred of dignity, while that man, no doubt, stayed behind with his cock out stroking himself in my honor, replaying the video of my fingers inside my cunt and saving my little show for his winter wanks.
Once I was out on the street, with the late-afternoon sun hitting me in the face, I started laughing to myself like a lunatic. A lady passing by with her shopping looked at me sideways, as if to say, “that one isn’t right in the head.” And maybe she was right. But think about it: I’d left home that morning a respectable woman, with my errands and my routine, and I came back without dry knickers, groped by a stranger, caught with two fingers in my pussy by a sex shop manager, and without having managed to get the blessed orgasm that was the source of the whole mess. A picture perfect disaster.
I got home in the middle of the afternoon. I got in the shower, let the hot water wash the whole day down the drain, soaped my cunt slowly, ran the shower head between my legs and, finally, with the stream hammering my clit and my fingers spreading my lips, I came like a bitch standing up, biting my forearm so I wouldn’t wake the neighbors, my knees shaking and the water carrying off the last scraps of the afternoon. A long, dirty orgasm, with spasms climbing all the way up to my navel and leaving me sitting on the shower tray breathing like I’d just run a marathon. Then I went to bed. When Ramón got home, I pretended to be asleep. I didn’t feel like talking, or explaining, or making anything up.
Tomorrow will be another day. And I swear I’m going to do it better.