If you can't join 'em, beat it!
Sex -- including with one's self -- always seemed more fun with a tinge of dirty, raunchy, sticky, grungy, filthy overlay, A kind of sinful seasoning sprinkled over the basic meat of meat-beating, if you will.
Hence the grind houses. Seedy rundown movie theaters, located in downtown areas of major American cities. Once proud palaces of cinema opulence in the 1920s, fallen on hard times. Reduced to showing four movies per day, movies of the kind you couldn't find or wouldn't think of looking at in normal theaters or on TV: spaghetti westerns, kung-fu epics, poorly dubbed horror flicks from odd places, science fiction films with rubber space monsters and no science whatsoever -- eight solid hours of IQ reducing entertainment. All served up in a dank smelly cavern where your feet stuck to the floor and mutated trolls lurked in the restrooms.
My kind of place.
Four kinds of regulars haunted these grind-houses: alcoholics looking for a shady place to hang out and get their drunk on; drug users of all persuasions, shooters, sniffers, burners, poppers, spikers, the whole gamut; actual movie buffs, who would endure any amount of toxic surroundings to bask in a big screen Bruce Lee or Lee Van Fleet epic: and sexual deviants -- like myself -- who needed a dark public place in which to masturbate.
Oh the happy dirty hours I spent playing with my dick in the Strand, the Regal, the Empire, teasing out a juicy load into the paper bag that had carried my tallboy cans of Ranier Ale -- A beer-!like beverage guaranteed to destroy a dozen brain cells with every swig...made no difference what was playing on the cracked and tape amended screen. I could get a first class orgasm during almost everything and anything, the cruder the better...what the hell, some people get a nut in church, some on an airplane, whatever; give me a rundown funky old movie palace, full of assorted degenerates and googly eyed freaks and I'm a happy old chappie... The classic grind-houses are largely gone now, of course -- they Disneyfied Times Square, and lower Market Street in San Francisco is a disease ward pure and simple... But somewhere out in the great American Heartland there's a sleazy haven for raincoat flashers and slobbering peter beaters, wild eyed weenie whackers, disgusting tally-whackers... And you just might find me among their sticky fingered ranks.
Peace Out!!
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