I grew up in a country so straight-laced that in the 90s a store owner was charged for selling—I kid you not—a pubic comb, a “male enhancer”, and a pair of men’s underwear imprinted with I Ate the Whole Thing.
In my family, we never had a VCR, cable hadn’t made it to our shores yet, and the Internet was 20 years into the future. In other words, my teenage exposure to porn was distressingly limited to clandestine gawping at 5-minute clips at friends’ houses. I was college-age the first time I saw an entire porn reel from start to finish. I was the only girl there, uncomfortably wedged in on the couch among four or five teenage boys at a friend’s house in Jamaica, when the ‘rents were out. I don’t remember much of the film, but I remember the experience as a landmark.
At 21, post-degree, I gaped around myself in Soho, London, at the neon XXXs flashing in dusty shop windows, with aging bleached-blondes in tatty bustiers standing outside doorways, puffing on fags and catcalling passing men, daring them to enter. In Brussels I worked up the courage to walk into a crack-in-the-wall porn theatre, stupidly stopping at the concessions stand to buy a tuna sandwich and a drink. Too dumb to know that one did not eat in porn theatres.
I lasted five minutes, maybe ten, before I raced outside, never mind the francs I’d wasted, to finish my tuna sandwich in the street. Because a sharply dressed young businessman in a neat grey suit had sat himself a few seats down from me and begun to do what most people do in porn theatres.
In Geneva, my sister, her boyfriend and I ventured unto one of those noble establishments where they sold handcuffs, ball gags, floppy pink dildos and lurid video cassettes out front. To the back, you could rent a private booth for five or ten minutes and “view” the cassette of your choice. There was nothing behind each curtain but a wooden bench, a box of tissues, and a half-full wastebasket. After soaking up the atmosphere and the naughtiness of it all, we left, laughing.
Yeah, so that was my brief introduction to the seamy underside of the porn world. Lame, I know.
Anyhoo, on to True Porn Clerk Stories, a memoir written and narrated by Ali Davis. In short bursts of maybe five minutes each, Ali reminisces about her adventures, paying her way through college by manning the desk in a video store (remember those?) whose downstairs adults-only room was quite popular with the punters.
She relates her stories in a dry, jaded, I’ve-seen-everything voice, and they’ll make you reach for the hand sanitiser. Punters so desperate for their porn fix that they waited outside in the cold for her to come unlock early in the morning. Customers who don’t rewind their tapes are bad enough, but those who return them wet and sticky? Ugh. Racist covers with black men depicted as farm animals. Entire series of videos depicting acts that are still illegal in many territories. Men who try to pick her up, or worse, don’t seem aware that the downstairs room is equipped with CC cameras, and decide to “enjoy the product” on the spot.
Ick, ick, and ick. But so, so funny. You’ll cringe, you’ll empathise, and you’ll certainly laugh.
Pairing
For the punters, I’m gonna pair True Porn Clerk Stories with a classic men’s mackintosh from Adam Baker, because no pervert should venture into a porn store without them.
For you, the listener, I recommend this Earworks ear wash kit, to cleanse and irrigate. Because when you’re done listening, you’re gonna feel like you need it.
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