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Rant #39
(published May 10, 2001)
Clitoris: The Anatomical Gerund
by Presley Waits

The first time I saw a porno, I couldn't finish. It was relatively late in a young man's porno viewing period: sixteen, but I was like twelve with it all. And the first wasn't even all that disgusting, more a double X than a triple. This guy with nothing on but a holster and a six-gun, and hair in places one shouldn't be allowed to grow it, pounded the saloon waitress with a white feather in her beehive hairdo and a velvet garter around her thigh on a green, felt poker table. It could have been a lost outtake from Gunsmoke. You know, scenes they never aired. And I watched it for more educational reasons than anything, not unlike doing extra practice on prepositions to improve my English grades. But I still felt dirty after the not-made-for-TV western. The other guys watching too whooped and hollered and yelled stupid stuff like, "Ride that train! Ride that train! Choo-choo!" But I think a lot of it was cover. I'll bet they showered after and didn't look any of their family in the face directly for a few days.

I could have stopped at just the one flick, but two weeks later my girlfriend Kaytee told me to hit her clit and I was lost on that too so I just wandered around over the whole promised land down there thinking surely I'd travel over it at some point. I mean, was it low or high and how should I hit it? And for you girls reading this part here and that's instructed someone to do that to yours, you should give some pretty explicit directions about the clit's location and all, I mean, come on. Anyway, a later girlfriend said that too so I knew I must've run on to some sort of Rosetta Stone here.

I'd heard there was a place downtown on Union Avenue near the Peabody that had women in the back you could talk to so I drove over with bunches of questions in my head and the worst fake ID you've ever encountered. The guy at the door looked dumb as a stump, and it's just possible that phrase is too cliché but had you been there you might have backed up on it a bit and said, "Sure, it's overused, but there stands its origin," 'cause he would've probably let any ten-year-old in that wanted.

In the front was a sort of nasty Blockbuster and Barnes and Noble. The guy on the stool behind the register and glass case—containing merchandise I didn't have a clue what did and was too nervous to ask how—had a UT Medical School polo shirt on and held an enormous book up close to his glasses that had Cellular Biology on its spine except the "gy" was missing from where it had suffered a tear.

Past the Pink Bits and Barely Legals was the entrance to the store's rear. I think "Relax" from Frankie Goes to Hollywood was playing too loudly through the small Kraco speakers, and an overworked Radio Shack strobe light caused everything to dance. As I pushed aside the curtain made of alternating red, white, and blue plastic beads— the white ones were dingy, with dirt in their cracks along both sides like you get under your fingernails after you've changed your oil— a large Asian man met me on the other side. Too odd to be Asian really, he demanded, "Ten dollar!," and I didn't care if he worked there or not, I paid him. He handed over several tokens that I really didn't want to touch but was happy to if it meant this overgrown Mr. Miagi would leave.

The short hallways went left, right, and center, lit by dim red light bulb light. Small cramped booths with linoleum floors you didn't want to look down at lined the walls and played nine different channels of non-stop pornos to suit regular and not-regular-at-all tastes. I'd used the bottom of my parka to enter one— and here, it wasn't a cold day, not even a cool one really but I'd put on a long coat to cover and conceal all of me I could. Shit, I might've worn a helmet if I'd had one. Anyway, I spent a few tokens surfing the stations. I even allowed myself to get aroused a little, blocking out where I was, and halfway had myself out when a


came on the door of an occupied stall a few feet away. Here I had to swallow my heart back down, and my shaking hand and body did my swelled sack no goddam good as I got one hung in the zipper coming up quick.

You know how shit races through your head in times like these? I could see Grandma Nora tailing me down here and following me to the rear and was now going through all the stalls till she found me in mine, and me with my wanger all hanging in sight and blood probably pouring out below. "Thomas Jefferson Christian Knight!" she'd yell so there'd be no doubt in the whole establishment of who I was and that I was in serious trouble 'cause she used the four.

"Git te fuk out!," my Ten Dollar Asian shouted, "Told you, one to booth, one to booth, no two, git te fuk out!" More yelling and whamming until, after it grew louder, passing my door, it was gone through a side exit.

Thinking, What te fuk am I doing here?, I headed back down the left hall toward the beads and my common sense. The "Live Girls!!" and arrows sign reminded me that I still didn't have the anatomy lesson I came in to learn and I'd have to face those hit-the-clit girls again by just traipsing around. "One question and a peek, that's it," I kidded myself. I turned to look down that center lane where the arrows were directing me, and at its far end, which wasn't as far as it took my feet but I'm sure would have echoed back my holler, I thought I saw a beautiful Indian princess and it looked like she was smiling a full friendly smile and pulling me toward her with that come on index finger. She disappeared behind a solid door of metal with no outside handle. I knew she'd be on the safe side of the glass in one of these rooms and would answer each and every question I could dream up without making me feel like a sixth-grader that took something and should know better.

I chose one and again, used my jacket to get in. These were a little larger—"extra breathing room" the princess might say—and this one had the luxury of a padded three-legged stool. Two tokens got you three minutes but I'm sure I was cheated my first ninety seconds or so. The mechanized partition raised to the top of the glass then began slowly lowering.

At first there was no one inside and I was almost glad of it. The floor of her cage was covered with shag carpet a hideous shade of green with spots of discoloration. In one corner stood two vibrators, one pink, one black, identical except for the coloring. The corner across held some generic rough tissue and the most humongous dildo you've ever seen, I mean maybe you've seen some humongous dildos in your day so I won't say that, but it was the most humongous I'd ever seen even if I'd seen several, and I hadn't, but even if I'd been you know, like a dildo dealer or something, it would've still been one humongous one, something like what that Asian out front was packin' probably.

There was a small slit in the glass on its right, my right, her left, unless of course she was facing away, then her right too. I wondered if we'd be doing some kind of a small handshake through it with a couple of fingers, making some kind of formal introduction. "Hello, I'm Christian Knight and I'm here to inquire about the hitting of the clit." The glass looked pretty thick, I guess to keep out the more rambunctious clientele, and I hated to think about how bad it needed a good going over with Windex— that's what my mom would say if she saw it, "Boy, that needs a good going over with Windex," shit, my mom in here, that's some funny shit— but anyway, that's what came to me when I saw the messes and reckoned their location.

There was a telephone of sorts on the wall near the glass slits I was just mentioning. She had a phone too, above that gigantic pecker. Mine was black, hers blue. The cords on both were that old silver coiled wire and it just went into the wall through a hole a little bigger than it was, both ways. I wondered if it just connected mine to hers and how all that worked.

The dark metal divider was now creeping down, blocking some view, coming close to the big prick and I heard her calling through the glass slit I told you about, "Hold on. Hold on. Be right there, baby. Don't go nowhere, hon. Just fresh'nin' up for you." I got to see her naked feet, ankles, shins, and one knee before the partition knocked it all out.

"Pick up the phone," I heard faintly, so I did.

"Sorry, I was runnin' behind but I'm here now baby. I'm all yours. I promise to make up for them tokens if you'll put a few more in."

Like the idiot I am, which I probably didn't have to say 'cause you know that I'm here in this den of iniquity—as Grandma Nora would say—and it's likely I'll get that elephantine peter shoved up my exit-only hole by the large Asian and I'm here because I don't know how to hit the clit anyway, but I started talking sexy back to her, replying her babys and hons and all with some of my own and I couldn't keep my voice from trying to go deeper when I said 'em, like the big Asian saying, "Git te fuk out," and, "One to booth, no two!," and so I drop in two more tokens and the next three minutes are mine.

I was hoping the disappointment that took over my face when I saw she wasn't my Indian princess, my Pocahontas and all my mind made her out to be, I hope that was covered to her by the realization I talked deeper than my age, and maybe she was disappointed too. See, here I'm stupid again because I should have known that the voice giving out the sweet babys and hons were not Indian princess babys and hons. I should have fuckin' known that. But here I am and while I guess I'm breaking a bunch of the commandments and all I still don't want to be rude about it, but I was let down by not having my Indian princess. What's worse, she was completely naked when the cold steel goes up to where I can see. Maybe that thing should go from the top down first, for all you guys building these things out there that's reading this part here, you know, so you get to look at the hair and eyes and mouth and face a little bit, sort of prepare you for the trip down. I mean, for me, for it to just come up like that, feet and knees and


it's like when you get married and it's honeymoon night and your wife gets in the bed all romantic like and you're in the hotel bathroom flossing and splashing some CK One around on you and then you just jump out of the doorway with the sink lights still on and you're completely naked and you probably yell something at the same time like Booty-pooty! or some shit like that you sick naked married men yell,—I know, I've heard—I mean, don't do that. That's got to scare some brand new wife to death with her Vera Wang and dreams of happily ever after and rose petals. But not only was she not my Indian princess she was more like a pregnant squaw. There was something in her plump tummy and I just figured it must've been a baby. They could fire her for being fat, but I'm pretty sure she'd have legal recourse if they let her go over going to have a baby. And what about when they get the period, is that sick leave or workman's comp? Well, she was round anyway, and had those dimple marks like you see on older overweight women down at the hotel pool in too tight trunks after you've had that scary honeymoon night and start wondering how much longer till she gets those.

I felt sorry for her and was afraid my face was going to tell on me more than it already let slip out so I asked her through the coiled wire phone if she would please mind rolling over on her knees and let me look from behind. "Sure thing," she said, faking lust. "Naughty Norman." Naughty Norman? What in the hell? I was glad her face was around about as quickly as she said it. I don't know that I was glad the rest of her followed the face. It was a mistake really. A good sized patch of pimples or zits or "heat bumps" as we called 'em when we got one— Knights didn't get zits!— but too many to count, well, maybe there weren't too many to count but you know, still, like ten or twelve are really too many to count, anyway they were around her ass and upper inner thighs like they were little kids scattered at a playground. And there was this other thing that was more gross. To me, anyway. You could still make out the round red imprint on her cheeks that some porcelain toilet seat had left, I suspect when she was hollering, "Hold on baby," earlier. She was fresh'nin' up, I couldn't help thinking. I bet if I'd looked hard enough I could've made out like Acme or something on there but, god, who in their right mind would strain for that. I'm afraid if you'd have been in there with me— you wouldn't, the big Asian wouldn't allow it— but if you would have slipped in someway you'd have probably got me to laughing and it would've been one of them that won't let go for like twenty minutes and then for even like an hour or so later when our eyes met we'd still bust out again.

Other than that it was pretty nice. I knocked off the deep accent which fooled no one and she knocked off the babys and hons like an Indian princess and I asked her about hitting the clit and apparently that was a question a lot of guys don't know the answer to, which made me feel even better and she showed me all about it with my remaining tokens, kind of like your high school English teacher explaining prepositions or, more like, gerunds, because the clit is a bit tougher to master.

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