Ultimately it was his pride that was his motivation for visiting the porn shop to use the glory hole. Pride controlled by his shriveled manhood yes, but it was his pride nevertheless. For Herbert Genson was a deeply selfish individual and the thought of paying for sex with some common whore was repulsive and degrading – why should he, Herbert Genson, a war veteran be reduced to forking over what pitiful amount of his pension the government tossed his way as another would fling a mangy dog scraps from the rubbish. Needless to say Herbert was a bitter, twisted weed of a man would be the understatement of the century, the man practically pissed vinegar.
It all commenced with the unexpected passing of his wife Betsy Genson, devoted to thirty-five years of marriage the old crone abruptly keeled over one morn of a massive stroke, rather than being devastated with grief at the tragic loss of his wife, old Herbert was filled with rage at what he perceived was a serious affront against him. He felt cheated, robbed of dying first, although it was coming to terms with the forced celibacy that made his blood boil the most.
Not that Betsy was a minx between the sheets, she never had been for that matter, preferring to lie in a semi-fetal position motionless and mute as Herbert slaved away on top, pumping away with all the strength his frail frame could muster. Often the climax was brought about only by him fantasizing over other faceless women. A harem of women envisioned from dirty books his fellow soldiers had an abundance of in the war. He was too proper to belittle himself with actually owning these girlie mags. Still his eyes were free to roam the stained, creased pages for later use.
So with Betsy’s passing he found himself in a serious rut, he longed for sexual gratification, his loins tiny and shrunken like a snake carcass left in the harsh desert sun, still hungered for the orifices of a young woman, preferably virgin and white. As the days after Betsy’s death blended into months and as Hebert’s longing grew his standards were reduced. It intensified to when he would settle from any female contact, to any contact whatsoever, meaning he would accept another man’s orifice if such a one was offered, although he would scarcely admit that even to himself.
Nevertheless the seeds of corruption were planted in the desperate and horny Herbert. Firstly, he shied away from such thoughts, sickening himself with how vivid they were and how hard they made him. They always crept back, like cockroaches when the kitchen lights were extinguished, he could no longer sit idly by. He needed to act on them, consequences and eternal sin be damned he was a dog with a bone and needed to deposit it someplace.
Prostitutes were still unwaveringly out of the question, there was no way he would hand over his hard-earned cash to some lipstick-smeared working girl to receive the same treatment his useless dead wife Betsy used to favor him with, so he was committed to finding a suitable alternative. Now that he had abandoned his reservations any sordid encountered was a possibility, ripe for the plucking.
With that in mind Herbert started to pay close attention to the adult shops that had been popping up around the city, years ago he sauntered past these establishments with his nose pointed skyward, but that was before he was infected with the lethal virus of horniness, it riddled his body, clouding his mind, it was all consuming and he was its helpless puppet.
So he now paused at one of these places, one of the cleaner ones he could find, it was single door-way on a bustling street, concealed behind a curtain of grimy plastic flaps that flicked upward tantalizing in the wind, as if fingers beckoning him in for some anonymous carnal delight. On this first instance Herbert made his way as far as past the plastic curtain before he succumbed to cowardice and made a hasty retreat, vowing to conquer his apprehension and return.
Which he promptly did the very next day; this time he swallowed down the bile of doubt lining his throat and endeavored forward, He passed the curtain and blundered down a narrow corridor, his feet scrabbling up a din on the tattered carpet, his eyes glued to the X-rated pictures plastered across the entirety of the walls. Women and men alike, naked as the day they were born, performed the most depraved acts that would shame Ancient Rome orgies stared out at him smiling. Herbert was a kid in a candy store; his wide orbs lingered over these scenes of sick, seeing stuff that he never knew existed. Onward his feet took him on auto-pilot he barely registered how far he had descended the corridor, before his feet collided with a staircase and he nearly went toppling. Somehow he managed to shoot out a hand and steady himself on the dirt-encrusted banister. He cursed himself for his clumsiness.
“Nearly cracked your skull,” He spat, in his gravelly voice, “You old fool,”
“May I help you,” inquired a lispy voice from somewhere in the depths below.
Nearly jumping with fright, Herbert composed himself and craned his neck over the banister; there a pair of eyes attached to the head of a young, smiling man peered back at him, his very expression the perfect embodiment of friendly.
“Sir,” He went on, “Are you OK? You need to watch out for those stairs; there mighty step and you wouldn’t want to take a spill down them. Sir,”
Herbert was frozen to the spot with the shock of being addressed in such a godforsaken joint. When the young man did not melt into nothingness like a dream, Herbert worked out a response, “I am lost, I did not mean to come in here,”
A wry, knowing smile played across the young man’s delicate features, “That’s fine sir, I’m sure you know the way back to the exit, have a good day now,”
But he was calling that out to thin air; Herbert was long gone, departing as fast as his ancient chicken legs could. When the adrenaline subsided as he inched back out into the tide of foot traffic on the street, it was replaced with a seething anger at the cheek that young whippersnapper had dished out. The lads face was etched into his mind’s eye, tattooed with the ink of venom, every detail was perfectly rendered, right down to the ridiculous pencil-thin mustache the jerk was sporting. He was obviously a homosexual but that was not what bothered Herbert, rather it was the knowing look the other man had fixed him with – it conveyed a million messages, paramount of which was I am comfortable with my sexuality and everything I do, I am not ashamed by my desire or my willingness to pursue it.
Herbert dearly wanted to lash out and reduce that pretty self-righteous face to smithereens, that would teach him to be smart Herbert resolved, but his longing for sex or at the very least to be on the receiving end of a sex act surpassed this want to inflict violence. He decided on returning to that cesspool of an adult shop, that very night no less.
Doing so on any empty stomach was unacceptable, Herbert had made up his mind on returning fortified by alcohol. Yes, surely that magical elixir would make him succeed where he had failed so miserably before. It was the antidote to ease his ailment of doubt and he would apply himself to the act of its consumption as vigorously as whatever went on in the sanctuary of a locked stall with a glory hole.
Rushing through his front door Herbert set about getting as a drunk as he felt comfortable with. Unfortunately his stock of alcohol was meager at beast, boasting only a few lone beers and a couple of fingers of whiskey in a dusty old bottle that lay sentient in the kitchen cabinet. He assassinated them as if they were mere tap water; wiping the sting away from his mouth Herbert pondered his next plan of action. Then a stroke of genius hit him and he raced off to the living room, a room he seldom strayed into as for all intents and purposes it had been Betsy’s sanctuary and it always reminded her off him. With its fragrant stench of her cheap perfume and useless feminine trinkets that were strategically positioned around the perimeter of the room, all China dolls and kitty cats. The trinkets had always annoyed him to no end; in fact right now he was on the verge of submitting to frenzy and smashing all these offensive items to a million pieces, serves the stupid wench right for dying before me he thought morosely.
He kept himself under control, there were more pressing matters at hand, his object of desire, was displayed prominently on the mantelpiece. It was a perfectly aged bottle of champagne that Herbert had purchased in France a couple of weeks before Betsy and his wedding, Betsy had wanted to open the bottle on their wedding day, the selfish bitch, Herbert had dismissed her suggestion with a single frown, suggesting they would save it for a special occasion. There the bottle had slumbered and now it would be awoken – the special occasion was upon him.
He grabbed the bottle, colliding with the coffee table he sent one of Betsy’s most cherished China dolls flying, it landed on the tiled floor and came off second best, the head, still intact, turned to face him accusingly. He met its gaze with an equally unfriendly one of his own as he busied himself tearing the seal and popping the cork, it was hard work with such finicky fingers but he persevered, thirsty for his reward, in a matter of seconds the cork shot out and ricocheted off a sculpture of a cluster of cats on the China cabinet. This too was no match for such brute force and went sailing to the floor joining its fellow fallen friends in a similar broken condition, Herbert laughed merrily at the destruction he was responsible for, it was so satisfying destroying Betsy’s favorite possessions.
He chugged at the bottle like the disgusting slob he was, belching the bubbles loudly as they brewed in his esophagus. When the bottle was empty and it was in a spell, he pitched it, cricket-player style into the China cabinet, savoring the ruckus it made.
Then the realization dawned on him that the house was bone-dry and he would have to leave immediately if he had any hope of riding the wave of drunken oblivion he was currently at the crest of. With that he fled like a junkie robber. In his absent-minded state he left the door wide open as he spied a cab, he hailed with a clumsy sweep of his hand. The journey was punctuated with bouts of incoherent rabble from Herbert, mostly on the subject of Betsy who had been such a scourge on his life and how much he loathed her for it. The conversation was strictly one-sided, the cab drivers English was limited and he thought his passenger utterly mad and was glad to rid of him in the city, mutely taking the man’s abuse about the cost of the fare and skidding off with a rubbery tire screech when this nonsense had concluded.
Herbert did not pause and linger at the doorway as he had previously, filled with Dutch courage he passed through the door with a spring in his step that reverberated from his gnarled feet to his nobly knees and settled in the base of his groin. Ignoring the posters of decadence lining the corridor walls and mounted the rickety staircase like a pro, normally his elderly body would sing songs of protest at accomplishing such a feat but not today, today his dick was all that mattered. Arriving at the ground floor, Herbert allowed himself a brief moment to drink in surroundings.
The place was a shoebox, carefully-lit there was shelves on every flat surface housing contraptions and paraphernalia dedicated to the art of hard-core sex – lovemaking of the kind depicted in Mills and Boon novels had no place within these four semen-stained walls. Occupying the far left wall was a glass topped counter, sprawled across it like a wounded animal was the young man from before who shifted when Herbert’s eyes passed across him.
“Lost again?” said the young man, that insipid smile spread under that fluff that aspired to be a mustache.
“No,” barked Herbert, marching to the counter to the beat of his own drum – the withered heart caged in his bony chest, “I’m looking for something,”
“What might that be, a bus timetable or perhaps a coupon to an all you can eat diner,”
“Don’t be smart with me boy,” Herbert spat back, his temper wearing thin, “I served this country; I could have been killed so you could stand here and disrespect your elders,”
“I beg your pardon,” quipped the upstart on the opposite side of the counter, he even furthered the insult with a mock salute.
Herbert narrowly avoided yielding to his rage but a higher power made him ignore the jest, I need him Herbert thought bitterly and the bastard knows this. So Herbert endured, tactfully continuing,
“I’m looking for some relief,”
“Relief, what sort, if it’s back relief I would recommend a Chiropractor or even acupuncture, I hear that works wonders,”
“No, relief of the,” He glanced furtively behind his shoulder as if Jesus Christ was looming over his shoulder before adding, “sexual frustration,”
“You need some sexual healing,” clarified the porn shop clerk in a mix of disbelief and naked revulsion.
“Yes,” admitted Herbert guilty as another man may voice at a trial for murder.
“Are you a cop?”
“Do you have a serious medical condition? Such as a heart condition,”
“I must confess I’m intrigued,” said the young man, savoring the discomfort with a twiddle of his absurd moustache, “I never realized you were gay,”
It took every fiber of Herbert’s being to resist the temptation to reach across and beat the man to a senseless pulp, swallowing hard he pressed on,
“I am not gay,”
“But sir that’s what awaits you behind that curtain,” He tipped a thumb in the direction of a small black curtain off to the side that Herbert had not noticed until now, “The chances of you encountering a beautiful woman or any woman for that matter are slim to none it pains me to say,”
The man’s expression of pain seemed to be one of amusement in Herbert’s opinion but he continued sensing their discussion was at an end,
“You do understand that don’t you sir?”
“Great, its fifteen dollars, you can stay as long as you like obeying the general etiquette of no means no and safe sex,”
Herbert was outraged at having to pay for such a venture but forked over the cash regardless he had come this far and the notion of returning home defeated with blue balls as big as genetically modified grapefruits plain scared him. When the sale was finalized the troublesome clerk presented him with a token which Herbert stuffed into his pocket without so much as reading it. His field of vision had narrowed to a tunnel like a drug user in the midst of a hallucination, he only saw his target – the tattered curtain that when parted would lead him to what he had longed for since the day that accursed Betsy betrayed him by dying.
The curtain swept aside like thinning smoke and he glided into its dark interior. The short corridor he found himself in was so dimly lit Herbert nearly broke his neck going in, gradually his eyes adjusted to these harsh conditions. Rows of stalls were on either side, Herbert could hear the rustling of shed clothes and the slapping of flesh on flesh and the symphony of gasps and groans at whatever debauchery was occurring behind the doors that divided them.
Some were slightly ajar and Herbert glimpsed shadows melded together, hunched over one another in the throes of shameless passion.
Partly because he did not want to intrude on these scenes and partly because Herbert wanted to be in complete control over whatever transpired – especially the initiation portion Herbert rushed into a stall he found to be empty and locked the door behind. Trembling with anticipation he shed his clothes and sized up his body. His member, pathetic in size and shape stood to attention fully erect, no small feat in itself, given his advanced age and declining health.
Still there it was – ready to be wielded by its owner and Herbert could wait no longer. He spotted the glory hole punctured at groin height on the wall and closed in on it, without a moment’s hesitation he slid his genitals into it and silently beckoned an anonymous fellow pervert to make themselves useful and get him off. Anticipating a long delay Herbert was pleasantly surprised when he sensed movement in the adjacent stall seconds after he had jammed himself through the wall.
Truly his prayers had been answered by the God that had tormented him so for all these years, the bastard feels guilty Herbert noted.
The person in the other stall hesitated, nothing but nothing occurred for what seemed eons, impatient with lust Hebert lightly rapped his knuckles on the wall in the hope this may jolt the stranger out of their trance. Success, he could hear their short, measured footsteps as they crept across to his throbbing member.
A foul smell assaulted Herbert’s nostrils as their proximity neared, it took Herbert a moment to register and place it, so much time had passed since this stench last invaded his noise – it was death, fresh death with the blood of the deceased still cooling in the veins. Hebert could not shake the belief he was now in the company of a walking corpse as ridiculous as it sounded.
Before he could submit to such childish fears and make a hasty retreat the figure in the other stall lunged forward and seized his penis.
“Let go,” shrieked Herbert in a falsetto voice that passed for a school girl in distress, “You’re hurting me,”
“How many times did I say those exact same words to you over the years and you told me to shut up and be quiet,” said a familiar voice, though familiar it was distorted as if filled with gravel or maybe soil, a souvenir from the disturbed grave it had escaped from.
“Who are you?” pleaded Herbert, struggling with the pain of the vice-like grip crushing his manhood to the point of bursting as children would jumping on a plump leech, “Please tell me,”
“After all these years you honestly don’t recognize me?”
“No, should I?”
“Should you recognize your wife’s voice after more than thirty years marriage together, yes, I think so,”
“Betsy?” he asked, voice thick with disbelief.
“No, the Grim Reaper,” She hissed back, tightening her grip mercilessly, “Of course it’s me you pathetic old fool,”
“But that’s impossible, you’re dead,”
“Who are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
“I found your body, I buried you,”
“You did,” Betsy confirmed, “But I decided to come back to bring you with me, you do not deserve to live,”
“Why are you being so mean,” Herbert whined, “All I ever did was love you, I did everything for you,”
“You stand there, drunk on the Champagne, you never allowed me to drink, with the insults about me still fresh on your lips and you have the gall to say that, you pathetic creature,”
“I see the error of my ways, I can change,”
“I can be of benefit to society; if you will let me go I will create a charity in your honor,”
“You’re never done anything for anyone except yourself,”
“Please,” He implored, reduced to tears that stung like a jelly-fish, “I can be a whole new person,”
“I didn’t make a deal with the Devil so I could come back only to listen to your miserable lies and fake promises. I would ask you to take it like a man but I know better than anyone that you are not one, so let’s remove the filthy little organ that’s caused me so much hurt,”
With that the reanimated corpse of Betsy, gave a tremendous yank with all of her supernatural strength, severing the filthy little genitals that belonged to the filthy little man she had the misfortune of spending her life with. The organ was severed as if made of wet paper in one gruesome gesture, testicles and all. Herbert roared, a roar that only an incinerated live pig could muster, it practically broke the sound barrier, shredding his voice box to a pulpy mass of distended cords.
He was on the verge of succumbing to the blackness that splashed across his field of vision like an oil spill, there was a deafening roar splitting his eardrums and in his mortally wounded state he failed to understand his destroyed voice-box was the cause of the chilling cacophony. Despite this wall of sound Herbert was fully aware of another sound – laughter. Emitted from two individual sources, one unmistakably belonged to Betsy the other belonged to an entity not of this world. It sounded like a million flies united as they buzzed down the barrel of a megaphone, imitating a human’s voice and failing miserably, only Lucifer himself could make such a sound.
As Herbert expired from his wounds, slumped upright against the wall, no longer a man even anatomically, he was suddenly immersed in a fierce red glow and with it came an intense heat, of a degree he has never before experienced. In his delirious state he was convinced that he was trapped in a furnace, the kind he chucked stray cats into during his childhood. Although the pain exploding from his groin was the greatest he could feel. He could feel his flesh burning, sizzling like the bacon he gorged himself on of a morning.
A sea of hands sprouted like weeds around his feet, hands of all shapes and sizes varying from that of a newborn baby to a fully grown man, all a uniform color of polished onyx, with nails like rusted nails. They latched onto his helpless frame, dragging him downward, tearing his flesh like a pack of ravenous piranhas. Without warning the surroundings tore open like a canvas, exposing a land of fire, stoked into such a heat it would melt a mortal in an instant. Looming in the foreground the figure was a giant. Their figure constantly shifting shape, despite the brightness of the surrounding flames they were shrouded in shadows, a darkness as black as midnight in a mineshaft. Resting atop was a massive head, its only feature a freakishly sized mouth, its blistered lips the size of two anacondas were spread in a wide smile exposing the maw of its mouth. Lining it was rows of needle teeth, writhing like maggots as if alive, at the center of its mouth was two giant orb-like eyes that resembled a serpents, the color of a deep amber and right now they were affixed on Herbert as he was dragged inexorably toward it.
Then it spoke in that inhuman voice that instilled abject dread, “Herbert dear boy, welcome, we have been expecting you,”
And with that the Devil lunged forward to chomp his very soul like a tasty morsel. Herbert screamed his last breath as he was devoured like the victim in a children’s fairy-tale. At that exact moment the torn canvas dividing the two worlds – that of the mortal and that of the immortal, abruptly sealed shut, the invisible zipper pulled close into nothingness leaving but not a single trace.
Altered to the frenzy by the shrieks of bloody murder, the young clerk proceeded toward the curtain barrier, on legs made of water which was funny considering the dryness in his throat. He was reluctant to enter but his sense of duty prevailed when a dozen or so semi or fully naked men ran out, narrowly avoiding barreling the intrepid clerk in their haste to escape the insanity. Nervously playing with his thin mustache, he neared the curtain and after summoning some bravery called out,
“If you’re hiding in there, I feel obliged to let you know the police are already on their way,”
No response whatsoever saw the young man hesitate at drawing back the curtain and continuing his investigation, he strained his ears to pick up the slightest noise that would betray the presence of a would be attacker, but nothing reported back to him, either there was no one alive in there or they were an expert at holding their breath. He had no desire to stumble in on a crime scene or become a fixture in a crime scene photo album buried away in a moth-balled archive somewhere.
Still, part of him needed to know so he surged forward on borrowed bravado, plunging into the darkened hallway with bated breath ready to turn tail and flee at any sign of trouble. He zeroed in on the stall where the murder must have happened, it was easy to pinpoint for it was clearly the source of the abundant supply of acrid smoke that wafted out to greet him like a flash-hotels welcoming committee. Then a smell hit his nostrils so foul he almost wished it had been a murderer’s blunt instrument instead. It brought him back years ago in a rural town, during a bad spate of bush fires a whole family had been burnt alive, he had been one of the first on the scene and would never forget the smell of roasted human.
Here it was now, in this palace of porn which only usually reeked of salty sweat and semen, not nice smells by any means but infinitely better than the mix of burnt hair, scorched skin and boiled blood that comprised the smell of a cooked person. The young man wretched but kept down his dinner, breathing through his mouth with a sleeve cupped across it, he ventured on.
The door of the stall stood ajar, blown off its hinges as if a small explosion had detonated within. The young man peered into it, expecting to see the confines converted into a butcher shop and some raving killer hunched over a kill, stuffing their victims intestines into his gnawing jaws. He was mildly disappointed when this was not the case. There was a small fire suffocating on the remnants of the carpet.
The stall had been painted in a befitting black before, now in the flash of heat, much of the paint had peeled away only to be replaced with a coat of smoky blackness. When the young man took a closer examination he noticed scratching in the blackness, as if some poor soul had clawed for dear life, when he averted his gaze downward the young man took note of the smouldering pile of clothes. If someone was in here they would’ve run away with the others or vanished altogether he thought to himself.
“Internal combustion?” He reasoned to himself, doubt as thick as the smoke that enveloped him.
That was what the Cops thought as well, there was an investigation into it, technically the case is still open although it now lives in a comatose state in a drawer in an archive in a row or archives, Herbert had amounted to the fear the young man had had when he discovered his final resting place. To be fair the authorities had little to go on, there was not a trace of human tissue recovered and the clothes had burnt so badly Herbert’s wallet melted with them and with it his chances of being identified. Thus ended the legacy of Herbert Genson and the commencement of his eternity of suffering, he was neither missed nor mourned.
It is said amongst certain circles that the porn shop is now haunted by the spirit of Herbert Genson, that every once in a while the Devil releases Herbert from his Hell playground and allows him a brief respite by haunting this porn shop. It is also said that Herbert Genson rips off any man’s genitals he comes across in a futile gesture to replace his own, and that he takes the souls of his victims back to Hell to share the burden of suffering.
But surely that is just mindless gossip from mindless people, such things cannot happen, the Devil is not real nor is this Herbert Genson whose story we have heard – well then I challenge you to go down to your nearest, seediest adult store, pay the fee and go into the stall and literally put yourself in that position. But be warned if you hear the voice of a billion flies, or smell the smell of cooked human or worse still feel the grip of a dead man’s hands around your soon to be dismembered member, then you will know that this story was true – right before your dick gets ripped off and your soul takes an unscheduled prolonged stay in Hell’s eternal sea of fire.
By Samuel Elliott