I’m in the checkout line at Target. I’m holding a $22 raincoat. I don’t love wearing synthetic
fabrics, but I suppose it’s preferable to wearing semen. Back at home I have a pair of black cargo pants that are bleach stained beyond repair, so I’ll wear those too, over shorts.
Maxwell gets out of his standup class around 10PM, so I have another hour to construct my
second skin. Along with the raincoat I’m buying a bottle of body wash. Salicylic acid. Scentless. When I get home tonight I will scrub off the most exterior layer of my dermis. Nothing will stick to me.
I return to my apartment and get dressed. Underwear, plain t-shirt, workout shorts, then overtop: bleach stained cargos, black hoodie, raincoat, ball cap. Looking at my apartment, you’d probably be surprised to hear me describe myself as a germaphobe. However, messy does not mean dirty. Sure, I might have random bullshit strewn about, but my random bullshit is dusted and sterile. Maxwell texts me. He’s ready. I drive to his.
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Maxwell lives with the sluttiest man on the planet, a Silverlake hinge addict who is currently on sabbatical to try the “relationship thing” with a “nice girl.” Even so, evidence of his old tricks remain. The apartment was constructed with persuasion in mind. When I’m there for too long I sometimes imagine the apartment itself is trying to fuck me.
Maxwell and I take tequila shots for courage. We go to 7/11 and get cash from the ATM. No paper trail.
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We circle the Tiki theater for a few minutes looking for parking. We eventually find a spot on the
street a quarter mile away. This feels like an ideal distance. The Tiki theatre has a vicious red exterior. Last year it was one of two operational porn theaters in Los Angeles. Now it’s the only one. Its marque is simple. Tiki Adult Theatre. 24 hours. Parking in rear.
CINE XXX PARA ADULTOS.
Next door is a juice bar. Next to that is a Zumba supply store. Maxwell and I approach. The booth that guards the entrance is notably empty, though it’s hard to tell through the bulletproof glass. There’s a doorbell affixed to the glass, which we ring a few
times anxiously. “Fred Willard was arrested at this theater,” Maxwell says under his breath. “... I think.”
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Maybe it’s closed? Maybe they’re remodeling? Or sterilizing the chairs between shows? My
breath hitches. “Maybe we should-”
A man approaches from the street, out of breath. “Hello, hello, hi-” He says under his breath. He undoes a tiny padlock about a foot off the ground and climbs into the booth on his hands and knees through an opening the size of a dog door. Once inside we hear his muffed voice again. “$20? Or $25?”
It’s $20 for four hours, $25 for eight hours. We pay $25 because, hey ya never know.
The man removes the metal rod that obstructs access to a turnstile. We push through. Then
we’re inside.
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My first thought is that “theater” is a generous word to describe what I’m looking at. There are
eight rows of seven peeling leather chairs. Fifty-six available seats. Nine of which are filled. The walls are made of black plaster. The room is uncomfortably narrow, yet quite deep. It feels like a passage. From what to what, I do not want to know.
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Maxwell and I take two chairs in the second to last row. Against the far wall a projector screen
plays tonight's selection. Now, I am ashamed to admit that when I envisioned coming here I
expected the porn to be a little more... vintage. Bush. Poolboys. Film grain. Not so. The porn is alarmingly current. I’ve missed the opening credits so I’m not entirely sure what’s going on but the film appears to depict a forty-year-old cheerleader.
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In the far right corner of the room next to the projector there’s an additional wall-mounted
television that plays a different porno. As a gen-z man I very much appreciate this. Second
screen viewing soothes my anxiety.
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I’m grateful that the chairs are leather and not upholstered, that means they’re easier to clean.
Although if this place truly does operate 24/7 then I can’t imagine when that would happen.
I try to subtly assess who our compatriots are this evening. Two rows up there’s a bald man with glasses. I imagine that he’s a fifty-year-old father of four. Behind me there’s a man in a black ski mask, which is usually cause for alarm in a crowded room but here it makes sense. Most confoundingly at the very front of the theatre next to the projector there’s a man wearing over-ear headphones and watching something on his phone. He’s drinking out of a 32 ounce hydroflask. The kind women who work in marketing have. Why is he here? Does he know the very device he’s holding has access to infinite (and much higher quality) porn? Oh god... Is this sicko WFH right now? Is he camera-off in an all-hands meeting? I have to admit at $25 for eight hours this place is a lot cheaper than my WeWork. Maybe they’d let me bring my laptop in.
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There is some commotion up front. A man is stripping completely nude. He’s about 6 '5 and has a beard that hangs down to his sternum. He’s built like a Danish Strongman. His stomach looks like an overinflated beach ball, and is lined with rigid abdominal muscles. He is clutching a can of beer with one hand and sliding on a pink tu-tu with the other. He lurches through the aisle until he’s right next to us.
Maxwell’s head sinks into his shoulder. This is an ancient defense reflex, extremely common in
humans. Maxwell doesn’t know it but he’s trying to protect his neck.
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On screen the forty-year-old cheerleader removes her top revealing a pair of breasts that can only be described as obvious. This is not Garth Fisher’s work.
Maxwell and I make darting glances towards the giant ballerina to our right. He takes large
gulps of what I assume is warm beer. He is fittingly leaning next to a sign that says “no alcohol.”
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After a guttural murmur he wedges himself into the back row. He’s right behind us now. We are gripped by evolutionary terror. Then we hear his knees hit the ground. Then we hear him going
to work.
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Maxwell and I move one row forward. As we do I slyly assess the back row. The giant is
servicing a man in the aisle seat. Two men sit in the seats adjacent, presumably waiting their
turn. On screen the forty-year-old cheerleader begins to perform oral on her scene partner. The man in the back row is far louder than the speakers of the tiki theatre could ever hope to be. He sounds like a garbage disposal. The sounds of the man’s throating play in harmony with the images on screen. It’s a Regal 4D experience. I am petrified.
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Now listen, I’m no prude. And I’m no stranger to sitting politely while strangers engage in public sex acts. I am a member of an Equinox gym after all. More often than not there are two men going to town on each other in the steam room. This doesn’t bother me, except when they’re overly loud about it. I could always stop using the steam room but it’s really good for your pores and circulation.
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What makes this experience feel so eerie, so different from what I witness at the gym, is that I
don’t get the impression that these men are gay, despite the fact that one of them is blowing the others in an assembly line. There is a choking heterosexual desperation to this place. There is no desire here. There is need. It’s different. Worse.
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Eventually the giant stands, chugs the rest of his beer, and throws it into the garbage. He
belches, unselfconsciously . This is an apex creature. Afraid of nothing.
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On screen the cheerleader is screaming performatively. I turn my eyes to the television in the corner. More screaming. Eyes turned so far upward they look completely white.
The giant produces another beer from god knows where. CRACK. He slurps. His eyes settle on us now. We do not meet his gaze. I don’t remember telling Maxwell we should leave. I just remember pushing through the metal door into the night air.
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In comparison the air of East Hollywood feels pure and crisp. We cross the street. I tell Maxwell to hold tight for a second. I remove a garbage bag from my coat pocket. I strip off my raincoat and cargo pants and throw them away in a public trash can. I will not be leaving here with trauma and scabies. Maxwell and I are too shellshocked to gab at our usual tempo. “Do you want to see how bad this night can get?” Maxwell asks me.
I tell him “sure.”
So we go to the Tesla Diner.
When the Tesla diner opened there was a big PR to do about how the restaurant was going to
be entirely operated by robots. In theory, this should delight a germaphobe. I find it ghoulish, the implication that progress is achieved anytime we need less from each other. Either way, there are no robots, aside from the lobotomized one in a clear display case by the
bathroom. The restaurant is run by frantic looking employees with dark circles under their eyes.
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Maxwell orders a hamburger and a cinnamon roll. I order a hot dog and a milkshake because I am desperate to feel younger.
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We press our flesh into a corner booth. The floors are sticky. Stickier somehow than the Tiki
theater. “I can't say where I’d be more embarrassed to be seen.” I say after a while.
Maxwell laughs at that. Then he covers his face and weeps. My milkshake never comes. I chalk it up to human error. Maxwell and I go to a bar, get a whiskey, and then I drop him off.
When I get home I scrub myself down in the shower. I can spare a layer of skin. I can spare two.
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As I do, I think about the forty-year-old cheerleader. Where is she now? Probably still
cheerleading. After that I shampoo, rinse, repeat, and shave with a straight razor. I put on pajamas. I think about the man in the tu-tu. What was the point of the tu-tu? I think about the man in the headphones. Fruit Ninja?
I drift off into unconsciousness. In my dream I return to the Tiki Theater. The man in the booth is gone. He’s been replaced by a touch screen and a tap-to-pay reader. I put my phone number in.
They’re going to text me when it’s my turn to orgasm. I drift through the aisles, divorced from my body. Maybe I’m an entity, or a steady cam. The prostitutes and masturbators are gone. They’ve been replaced by robots. I hear the whirr of a motor. I turn my head.
The back row. One robot pleasures another. His head jerks up and down in an uncoordinated, mechanical motion. Cold pantomime.
Maybe this is progress. Maybe our problems are solved. I can’t tell if the robot receiving the blowjob enjoys it. He doesn’t even have genitals. He doesn’t even have a face.