BLUE MOVIE - part 2

Faith didn’t return to the porno theatre quickly. But she thought about it constantly.

During the day, during the mundane details of existence, work, speaking on the phone, driving, shopping, watching television, it was as if her mind would suddenly leap of its own accord, and some part of the incident would burst into her consciousness. She would vividly relive some moment, sometimes the trepidation of walking into a theatre, or the uneven mixture of emotions of watching the ginormous figures copulating on screen to the silent watchers, or even that delirious, exciting impulse of being mounted by the dark form of a complete stranger.

Sometimes, in particular mundane moods, she could hardly believe it. It felt ridiculous and stupid Sitting in a Doctor’s waiting room, hoping that she could just get tested for sexually transmitted diseases without any awkward questions, it seemed unreal, and more than that, it seemed ludicrously dangerous.

She almost wanted to believe that she was raped, but her own desire and excitement was too vivid in her memory, somehow she’d entered a state of willingness that she couldn’t grasp.

The experience, every part of it, was so far outside her normal life, so novel and wild, she couldn’t help but return to it again and again, examining her emotions and impulses as she’d experienced them, dissecting her choices. It was like a missing tooth, she couldn’t help but returning to it again and again, tongue probing into the space where there had been something, but now, was something different.

At times, it was exhilarating, an adventure in the vein of going bungee jumping or some thrilling roller coaster, a wild unpredictable ride full of sensation and recklessness. Not something to be guilty about, but at the same time, common sense suggested never doing it again.

And arousing. Especially at night, safe in bed. She’d start thinking about it, and then she’d have to get the vibrator from the dresser and spend a breathless hour replaying random images and memories of the event as she teased herself

It wasn’t just at night in bed. Sometimes sitting on the bus, there’d be a flash of memory, and a wet tingle, and she’d look out the window and press her thighs together hard. Or sitting at home watching television, she’d start thinking about it, and slip her fingers beneath the waistband of her panties. Even at work, in some unguarded moment. In a washroom, she might touch herself for as long as she dared.

There were points she was desperate to talk about it. She had these overpowering urges to just blurt it out to a friend or even a stranger. To call up someone and say ‘I did this.’ But who do you talk to about something like this?

Faith didn’t want someone to think she was a nymphomaniac, or to be classified or categorized as any other kind of deviant. She didn’t want to be judged, or condemned, not admired or turned on, no moralistic lectures, or warnings about STD’s, didn’t want to be considered reckless or slutty.

As much as she wanted to talk about it to someone, she didn’t want any reaction. The ideal would be someone who would shut up and listen and would just not say anything and not have any opinion at all. She certainly didn’t want the story getting around. But she needed to share it, perhaps as part of making sense of it, or simply to have it outside herself.

But there was no one to tell.

And here was the thing she longed to tell, but that she knew no one would understand:

Faith felt powerful.

That was the puzzling thing. She couldn’t put her finger on why she felt that or where the feeling was from.

But it was there. When she drilled down, she remembered trepidation and anticipation, curiosity, excitement, even a little fear, definitely arousal, serious arousal. But deep down, beneath it all, she felt powerful.

Had she felt that in the moment? Or had that feeling come later?

Breaking down the sequence of events, despite all the uncertainty and unpredictability, the sense of things unfolding without her really thinking about it, it seemed to her that she had been the one making choices.

So yes, powerful. And adventurous.

This line of thought, this odd tenuous epiphany left her thinking about her life. She’d never felt powerful. Or perhaps, more accurately, she’d never thought of feeling powerful.

Faith had always just been, she existed, drifting along on the tide, existing on a cushion of complacency, navigating her way through life, through childhood and school and the rigors of jobs and friendships and debating. Her life had always been, about just being there, just one of the leftover people.

She’d never felt bad about it. Sometimes it might bother her in a vague way. But she’d just felt ordinary, which had always been fine.

But this. This was so odd, so intriguing.

So of course she went back.

&&&

In some ways it was more nerve wracking. The first time, Faith had kind of fallen into things, simply taking each step as it was, without any particularly understanding of what came next or where it would lead, an unconsciousness of the immediate future that had made it easier to simply be in the moment and keep going forward.

Now, she couldn’t help but be completely aware that the last time she’d been here, she’d been groped by two complete strangers, masturbated one and had sex with the other. That experience was fully in her head as she entered the theater.

Crazy thoughts flitted through her head. Perhaps the police had the theater staked out against her return. She dismissed that immediately. But maybe there were police from the vice squad here, looking for easy arrests? It made her uneasy.

What if there were men here from that night? What if they remembered her? She didn’t want to be remembered. She didn’t want to seen by the same men. She didn’t want expectations or the burden of having to say yes or no, or to negotiate. She didn’t want a relationship, or expectations or even familiarity.

Faith wanted anonymity. This was for her alone.

Oddly, once she stepped into the actual theatre, her tension eased, it was simply anticlimactic. All the second guessing and half formed concerns that had been building seemed to dissipate. There was a disarming ordinariness, a familiarity without glamour. The room was just a room, the screen just a screen, there were different people up there fucking, but she’d seen that kind of thing already. There was nothing to be intimidated by. Even the smell was familiar this time.

Undecided about what to do, or even why she was here, Faith took a seat near one of the back rows and decided to wait, contenting herself to watch the screen, acutely aware though of the others, of the men, in front of her.

Up on the screen an athletic couple were having nasty sex on a pool table. There seemed to be some antagonism, some tension between them fueling their encounter. They were in lust, but in some way, not enjoying it.

She had adapted to it, there wasn’t the disorientation of bodies blown up to gargantuan proportions filling the screen, the size of the images made them intense but no longer overwhelming.

Still it was weird coming into the theatre with a couple in the middle of fucking onscreen. Faith needed more context: Why were they in that room? On that pool table? Why they were fucking? And what drove their dynamic. Even the perfunctory hook up scenes in a porn movie, the few minutes of dialogue and conversation that established place and relationships was something she wanted.

The scene eventually ended with the same breathless intensity, and the screen shifted to two women talking about the encounter in an outdoor café. She wondered if the women would have sex. But instead, their conversation seemed merely designed to set up the next scene. The camera shifted from the athletic brunette to the statuesque blonde walking down the street, and looking over a construction worker... who looked back, and smiled.

Faith liked that: The exchange of looks, the sense of chemistry. It was simply a prelude to fucking onscreen, of course. But somehow, that small moment of interaction made the onscreen sex more real, less weirdly impersonal and disembodied.

She allowed herself to be drawn in by the seduction up on screen the mannered progression from making out, to undressing, both as perfunctory as possible. Then the exchange of oral sex, with the man going down, and then the blonde showing every evidence of delight as she placed her lips to the head of his erection.

Faith found herself aroused, her clitoris throbbing, a delicious wetness between her legs. This couple shared a tangible enthusiasm for each other, she wondered if they were lovers off screen as well, wondered about the characters, was this a spontaneous encounter or was there history? When his hand cupped her breast, was there an extra sense of possession? When she moaned, was it especially for him?

A man sat down in her row, several seats away, drawing her attention. At first, she felt butterfly flutters in her stomach, thinking it was one of the men from her previous encounter. But no, this was a taller man, visibly heavier with a belly. He had a pug nose and thinning hair. He wore a T-shirt and even in the dim light she could see hairy forearms.

Not one of the men from before, someone else, that calmed her oddly, which left her vaguely surprised. She didn’t want to see anyone familiar, especially not someone familiar from here.

The man did not even glance at her, watching the screen. No expectations. That was good.

She returned her attention to the screen. But she remained aware of the man, turning her head to catch him with peripheral vision.

The scene changed, straight to two people having sex. They were both young, the man and the woman sporting lithe catlike bodies. The woman barely had breasts. They were on a couch in the middle of what looked like a sitcom living room, the woman on hands and knees the man thrusting into her.

The scene was referred to in narration before it cut in, but she found it jarring anyway. Worse, it was unaffecting. There was no context to the scene, no sense of intimacy between the characters. The man didn’t even look at his partner.

The man in her row was more interesting. There were plenty of seats. Why had he chosen her row? Because of her? Or was it just a coincidence. Coming into the dark theatre from the bright outside, it could be hard for eyes to adjust. Maybe he hadn’t noticed her?

Watching him from her peripheral vision, stealing glances when she could, he seemed to pay no attention to her. His attention was clearly focused on the screen, almost fixated. Many of the men were like that, she noticed, almost hypnotized by the giant figures coupling up there, the luminosity, of them, their moans coming through loudspeakers. Some would scan when they came in, or take furtive glances about, but once they sat they became quiet.

She could tell by the rhythmic motion of his shoulder, that he was touching himself. It was almost fascinating, the face staring up at the screen, illuminated by it, transfixed and oblivious to the word, the body motionless except for the shoulder and arm moving steadily, almost as if the two were separate and unaware of each other.

Abruptly, on impulse, she stood up and moved down the row, sitting right next to him. She watched him register her presence, intruding on his zone of privacy. His attention shifted to her, reflecting something like amazement to realize she was a woman as she sat down.

He stared. Faith ignored the stare, looking straight ahead.

“I’m just here to watch the movie,” she said coldly. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

She hadn’t seen a ghost-pale erection peeking out from his pants as she’d approached. That was oddly disappointing, in the sense that something was better than nothing. He must, she decided, be masturbating in his pants, which struck her as oddly cowardly.

What could a man offer life, if he was so fearful he jerked off in his pants?

He wasn’t masturbating now. Her presence had unraveled him, and he kept stealing glances at her, apparently intimidated. He’d look up at the screen, and look away, apparently nervous to be watching porn in the presence of a real woman.

Faith found herself dissatisfied. She was clearly making him uncomfortable. But he’d been masturbating, practically in front of her, so clearly, she owed him no courtesy. She thought of moving away, returning to her seat. But she’d just moved here.

Casually, she let her hand fall on his thigh. He looked at her.

“Don’t,” she warned. “Don’t talk. Don’t look. Don’t do anything. Just watch the movie.”

He wore bulky workman’s trousers, not fitted, the fabric was coarse. She let her hand glide back and forth, sometimes rolling the palm, sometimes, trailing fingernails against the fabric. The flesh of the thigh beneath was thick with firm muscle tone. The man shifted in his seat, he gasped, his thighs spread wider.

She thought he was faking it, he hadn’t made nearly such a show when he was masturbating. It made her dislike him a little.

When he reached to touch her, she just said firmly, “No.”

His hand dropped.

There was a weird thrill, not just in touching him, but in setting his boundaries so firmly. She felt powerful again.

Up on at the front of the theatre, the scene shifted again, back to the couple she liked, now in progress. The scene seemed better shot and lit, the sense of chemistry between the performers was clearly there. Still, the abrupt shift, the fact that it was straight fucking, took something away.

Or perhaps it was the distraction of the man whose thigh she was stroking? She thought she’d enjoy the movie more without his presence. But at the same time, toying with him was exciting - doing something rather than simply watching. She reached further up, to his crotch, eliciting a grunt. She could feel his erection, a shape muffled by the fabric. Nothing to play with here. She returned to stroking his thigh.

After a few minutes, she ordered, “take it out.”

She refused to look, feeling him lift up in his seat, fiddling with his pants, a zipping sound, and then he settled back down. Paying no attention to him at all, she felt upwards. It reminded her of his masturbation, as of their respective arms and hands were acting on their own, the rest of them unaware of the misdeeds of this rogue body part.

She felt around until she touched warm flesh, shifted in her seat to make it easier, and then wrapped her fingers around it.

The cock turned out to be the most interesting thing about him, she decided.

At first, she gripped the shaft tightly, it was slightly damp, just short of being slimy. The skin felt loose, but it was also rigidly hard. She loosened her grip, letting her fingers explore. She felt veins and ridges, a rough spot where the skin was oddly coarse. At the base, was a remarkably thick sweaty forest of pubic hair. It wasn’t particularly huge, but it bent forwards - she was surprised by that, her experience included cocks that curved upwards, but this was the first one with a pronounced down curve. There was a prominent foreskin it completely covered the head extending out further. She explored that, working it backwards until she’d exposed a round dome-like head already wet and slick.

Had he already ejaculated? Was this foreskin sweat? She didn’t know enough about men’s penises to decide. Loose in a cage of her fingers, it definitely arced left. She’d never thought about men’s penises having a direction, she just assumed that they dangled and that was it. Another mystery to ponder.

She found it did not arouse her in the least at all.

But somehow, it was fascinating. It was such a strange member, she found she wanted to play with it, to explore its properties. She had to resist the urge to turn her head and look directly at it. There was more, she felt powerful, in control, and she kind of liked the feeling. And there was an excitement in doing something so transgressive.

He was utterly rigid, panting in her hands. He reacted to her touches, sometimes twitching, sometimes gasping. It increased this sense of power, the feeling that she could play him like an instrument. She could have made him come very quickly, but chose not to. Instead, she entertained herself with his erection, like a cat playing with a mouse she’d caught. She smiled, she liked that metaphor.

Finally, she wrapped her fingers around the exposed head, and began to move her wrist in a corkscrew motion that he’d seemed to respond to. She did it faster, applying more pressure. Then suddenly, he ejaculated. His gasps were loud enough to attract attention as he half rose out of his seat. Her hand filled with goo, and she quickly withdrew it. But he kept ejaculating, and she glimpsed gobs flying through the air, something she’d never seen in real life.

She reached into her purse for a tissue to wipe her hand while he was coming down, and then, as he panted softly, she was moved by some friendly impulse, and handed him a couple of tissues.

“Thanks,” he whispered. She wasn’t sure if that was for the tissues or the hand job.

“Don’t talk to me,” she replied. She stood up, crossed past his legs, and walked out the theatre, leaving him behind, astonished and confused.

&&&

It would not be fair to say that Faith began to haunt the porno theatre. She was not there constantly.

But she did return again and again, when the mood took her.

She told herself that boredom drove her. On the nights when she wasn’t out with friends, or taking care of personal matters, when there was nothing good on television, no conventional movies, no concerts. When it was a quiet evening and there was nothing to do really, except stay home and be bored, that’s when the impulse would take her, and she’d go.

Sometimes, she would expressly decide not to go. Faith would think about it, and then admonish herself - the place was deeply sleazy, the decor appalling, the smell of it was disgusting once you thought about it. Even without the movies, it was a run down, low class venue. And the movies themselves were garbage. The audience were deeply creepy masturbators of different varieties. Really, if you thought about it for five minutes, it was the sort of place you should stay well away from.

On a restless evening, she would entertain the thought, and then deliberately call a friend, or go out and do something, or sit at home watching a particularly boring television program. That worked, sometimes.

And sometimes she just said ‘fuck it’ and went, hating the idea, but going anyway.

On other occasions, she’d cancel dates with friends, ignore whatever was on television, and just go, drawn by compulsions she chose not to examine closely.

Often it was a whim, but sometimes, she thought about it all day, counting down the hours and minutes until she was finished work, or free of some tedious social engagement.

It was the sex of course.

Even if she wasn’t actually having it herself, the porno theatre, with its red velvet finishings, the great dark room filled with light and moans, and the smell of semen all represented sex to her, the allure and mystery of sex, its endless promises and potentials. The whole place was like some metaphysical incarnation of the idea of sex. Openly, endlessly tempting

Oddly, she didn’t find that allure in other venues. She went into peep shows a couple of times and was always repelled by the cheap claustrophobic boxes. They felt nasty and unsafe, and she couldn’t help but worry about the stains on floors or seats, the reek of disinfectants or male sweat and crotch funk, alcoholism and despair, and the conviction of someone or something disgusting and dangerous just beyond the door or in an adjoining booth.

Strip clubs, well-advertised, with bright signs, neon bent in women’s shapes, intrigued her at first. They were alluring. But the allure faded instantly when she went inside. It was invariably too busy, too raucous. Even taking a seat alone at the back, it was just too noisy and vulgar. She didn’t like the way the staff took her order, or the too loud music, or literally anything about it. The real life dancers were too much, too glossy, too perfect, their legs too long, breasts too big, bodies too toned and tanned, hair and make-up too perfect. They made her feel colorless and drab by comparison, something that their celluloid counterparts projected on a screen never did.

Strip clubs pretended at class, or if not class, then enthusiasm, but beneath the gilding and sequins, its pretensions were all cheap and tawdry, and beneath that tawdriness, they were simply dive bars. They disgusted her.

At least the porno theatre had an honesty to it, it might be cheap and tawdry, but at least it was unpretentious about its trashiness.

And she felt safe there. Or at least, safer than she did in a peep show box, or in a bar filled with drunken perverts there to cheer on the dancers and make assumptions about any other woman they saw. In the theatre, no one intruded on her without her consent, and if they did, all she had to do was raise her voice. She could come and go as she pleased.

Sex was laid bare there for her in the theatre. Up on the screen every act, every position, everything was laid out in larger than life detail.

Sometimes it was a revelation, a position, an act she’d never imagined. She’d had lovers, some of them had dutifully and inexpertly gone down on her, but up there, it was ubiquitous and greeted with enthusiasm by performer and recipient. Positions came up, some looked unappealing, others intriguing. There were locations, both prosaic and ambitious. Sometimes it felt like the blow job scenes were like an instruction manual of techniques she’d never thought of, if only she had a partner to experiment with. Sometimes sexual antics and positions looked ridiculously unappealing, even crass and anti-erotic.

Admittedly, the movies were often dull - dreary loops of thrusting and moaning going on for minutes at a time.

The male audiences were fascinated, but she’d find herself growing bored and watching the audience. But even there, sometimes, just sometimes, there was something about an actor or actress, or some spark of chemistry between them, that would fascinate or even excite her.

Normally though, what she liked most, what was most arousing, were the entrances, the appearance of characters, their build up, whether long or short to the point where they had sex. She enjoyed the idea of lust, of looks and touches, the approaches, invitations, kisses, disrobing, each step promising something more wonderful next.

And even if she found it particularly hard to explain, she liked the men there in the theatre with her.

Or perhaps it wasn’t hard to explain after all: They left her alone.

Often, they weren’t even aware of her, fixated to the images on screen, masturbating if they dared. She could watch them with anonymity, a silent presence, witness to their fascination, their perversion. There was something thrilling to that. It was like knowing a secret.

The ones that were aware of her were generally respectful.

Some were exhibitionist, gleefully masturbating, getting off on the idea of her watching, but harmless for all of that.

There was one disgusting old man in a raincoat who would stand up to masturbate, looking directly at her. She was shocked initially, then bemused - why stare at her, when on a twenty foot screen behind him, giants were fucking in full color with stereo sound? But he never came closer than a dozen or so seats, and so although he made her uncomfortable, he seldom appeared, and never for very long.

Other ‘performers’ were more circumspect. They simply sat in their seats to masturbate, some looking to make sure she was watching, some oblivious to her presence.

She liked the oblivious ones, the ones who focused on the screen and not her. They were at once unthreatening and intriguing, they made no demands of her, not even to witness, and at the same time, they revealed some inner world of male sexuality. She liked to watch them masturbate, particularly if they weren’t particularly aware of her. She liked the ones that took their cocks out so she could see. It was like watching some exotic animal play at the zoo.

Sometimes, she’d even change seats for a better view, moving as close as she dared. There might be nods of acknowledgment, subtle consents, and she would sit almost next to them, watching.

Or sometimes doing more.

It was like a playground to her.

So of course, she played.

&&&

One of the theatres showed gay porn. For her, in her developing fetish as a voyeur, this was by far the liveliest. She found she didn’t respond strongly to gay porn. The male actors were probably better looking, but it often lacked the spark she looked for. In gay porn, the characters simply being in the same room with each other was sufficient justification to have sex.

There was a fascination of novelty, but as it wore off, she was less and less engaged. But the audience? That was a different thing.

Every time the door opened to admit someone, heads turned to check them out. Sometimes the response was a wave or a call to join. There was a steady movement as men changed seats to sit with or near someone else or to get a better view. There was whispered conversations, sometimes giggling. With a group of men in a row, she sometimes watched as a message or remark passed from lip to ear in a chain. Sometimes two or three men would leave together, sometimes even holding hands, only to return fifteen or twenty minutes later.

If the straight porno theatres were exercises in isolation, the gay theatre was practically a social venue.

Despite this, she was more intrigued than threatened. The gay men were clearly aware of her, but left her strictly alone. She didn’t make herself approachable, and so was not approached, her distance was respected.

She was allowed to be a voyeur.

She witnessed her first porno theater blow job. Two men, one older, Asian and in a suit, the other was young, white, bearded, in casual clothes. They came in together, looked around and sat in a back row, one ahead of hers. She stared openly, they were aware of her gaze, but not concerned.

Moments after sitting, she noticed the young Caucasian man bending over the waist of the Asian, who looked down, watching him. She hadn’t spotted the beginning of the blow job, simply became aware, during a scene change, that it was happening.

She was fascinated. After the first two or three visits to the theatre, she was very used to the idea of men masturbating, or in the gay theatre of even men masturbating each other.

But this was new. There was something casual and unashamed to the act that surprised and fascinated her. Obviously unself-conscious, if they were doing it in an open theatre where anyone who looked could watch.

Faith watched the shoulders of the young man heave, glimpsed his bobbing head, and after a moment, she changed seats to get a better view. The Asian man glanced at her, but seemed indifferent to her presence.

She changed seats again, now only two seats removed from theirs in the next row. If she craned her neck, she could glimpse the Asian man’s shaft as the young man bobbed his head on it.

Abruptly, the young man left his seat, to position himself kneeling in front of the Asian man, who spread his legs wide to accommodate. He laid a hand on the young man’s hair, but otherwise did not force him. The bobbing sped up, becoming rapid. Then the Asian man shifted slightly, as if momentarily uncomfortable, the only sign of his ejaculation. The young man slowed and finished between the Asian’s legs, clearly swallowing. Then he returned to his seat, while the Asian tucked himself away and checked his watch. They stood up together, and with barely a glance at her, left the theatre.

Faith was utterly astounded. She had done oral sex, some of it. She’d seen a lot of it up on the screen. But this was her first witness of a real life live blow job. She was amazed at how casual it had been, how indifferent they’d been to being watched.

She was struck by the utter lack of technique on display. That had been something she’d paid attention to on screen, had found actually sensuous. But this? This was just head bobbing with no art that she could see. It was a little disappointing.

But she was stunned by the enthusiasm. This was oral sex solely for itself, not as a prelude, not a warm up. It was a blow job for the sake of a blow job, its own ultimate purpose. She was struck by the obvious enthusiasm of the younger man, he’d clearly wanted to do it, but more than that, he’d enjoyed doing it, loved doing it, had needed it, found it satisfying. She’d seen that on the screen, but it hadn’t really made an impression, not until she saw it in real life.

It made her want to do it herself, to touch and own whatever sensuous pleasure, whatever fulfillment it brought, to know the need or craving that she’d witnessed. Except, maybe, use some of the technique she witnessed on screen.

After that, it was as if she had been sensitized. She became much more aware of blow job activity in the porno theatres. The motion of one person going down on another, the tilt of a head watching, sometimes the mysterious disappearance of a companion. Blow jobs happened a lot in the gay theatre.

They occurred in the straight theatres as well, she realized, now that she knew what to look for. They weren’t nearly as common, and typically between men. Were these gay men offering? Slipping into the straight theatres to perform their services? If so, she thought that was kind of them, an act of generosity.

Or were they straight men, surrendering to an impulse. She wasn’t sure. She wanted to ask, but thought it might be intrusive.

&&&

Faith carried condoms in her purse or pocket whenever she visited. She never went with the intent of using, them, or of carrying out any specific act. How could she? She could never know until she got there what the movie was like, or how many men there were, or how appealing anyone was.

She wasn’t the only woman who visited the porno theatre. The first other woman had been a prostitute coming in with a John. The John had been nervous, the hooker polished. Her head vanished from site, the John tried to watch the movie. It had taken less than ten minutes.

From time to time, other prostitutes came and went, but at best, it seemed an occasional thing. A last minute improvisation rather than a regular practice. What was going on? Did management intervene if hookers came here too frequently? Or were they indifferent, and hookers preferred other locations? She almost wanted to ask someone.

Other women attended with their boyfriends, exhibiting varying degrees of discomfort or enthusiasm. Sometimes they stayed only ten or fifteen minutes, sometimes for the whole movie.

She noticed that invariably, they tried to ignore the rest of the audience. Someone sitting near them would trigger them to relocate or even leave. Sometimes they watched the movie. The bolder couples might even play, making out in the theatre or even masturbating each other.

Faith was the only woman who came alone to the theatre, or at least, the only one that came frequently.

&&&

Faith decided to suck a cock.

Honestly, she’d been thinking about it since witnessing the two men in the theatre. She often masturbated about it at home in bed, visualizing herself picking out some man in the theatre, bending over her seat, kneeling between the rows.

Sometimes in fantasies, it was totally alone. Sometimes she was watched avidly by one or two men, or a dozen. In her wildest fantasies, they stood up from their seats like sentinels to get a better view as she knelt, and they jerked off, finishing as her partner exploded into the air like a fountain.

Going to the porno theatre, it turned out, was very good for Faith’s masturbation. Often the theatre experience was not terribly exciting in and of itself. The sort of uncontrolled and uncontrollable lust and sexual permissions she’d experienced in her first visit was a rare thing.

The movies, some of them, or at least some of the scenes could be arousing. Watching men masturbate or service each other was exciting. But the arousal was manageable. The occasional time she dared masturbate in the theatre, she found herself unable to reach the level of deep arousal needed for orgasm. Even masturbating a complete stranger, that was often exciting, but it was only partially a sexual excitement.

Still, it was as if she picked up a sexual charge, and later, when she was safe and alone, in her home, in her bed, the vibrator buzzing away, that was when the charge built up into something explosive.

She was sitting next to a man, half way down the thirteenth row, the two of them watching a blonde starlet on screen having sex with two bodybuilders. She had no idea who he was. She wasn’t even looking at him.

She had his cock in her hand, gripping it loosely, moving her hand up along the shaft to the head, rotating her wrist and then back down.

She would do that from time to time, when the mood was there. Just sit next to a man and toy with him.

It was a nice cock, rigid and hot in her hand, ramrod straight, the shaft smooth, not veiny, circumcised, the head proportional and nicely shaped with elegant curves. His pubic hair was trimmed, not a thick wiry thatch. And it smelled nice, or perhaps didn’t smell at all, It wasn’t especially large, which she liked, average or on the lower side of average, not thick. Something she could easily put in her mouth.

Some of them weren’t nice, weirdly shaped or disproportionate, some crotches dense with thick thatches of curling hair, and hair crawling half way up the shaft. Some felt sweaty or even greasy to the touch to the point she’d want to wash her hands after.

The worst ones were the ones that smelled, usually rancid male funk, stale semen, sometimes with an after-odor of sour urine, or the more general stench of an unwashed male body. It wasn’t common, but it wasn’t rare either.

Some men were just pigs, that was all you could say.

But this guy? Good looking, clean clothes well kept, nice body, nice cock, and well mannered, not pushy.

Sometimes, when Faith walked into the porn theatre, she felt like a goddess. It was like another world in there, leaving her humdrum life of ordinariness behind, and entering a realm of pure sex. She might sit there almost invisible, watching the movie, watching the audience, wise to all their subtle nuances.

Or she might manifest, go among them, sit down next to or near someone, overwhelm with her female presence. She might grant them permission to play with themselves, even watch them do it. Or simply reach over take someone in her hand.

There was a genuine power and excitement to bringing a complete stranger to orgasm. She loved it, and found herself increasingly willing to do it. One night, she masturbated four men in a row. Her choices. The rule was that she always chose, they didn’t.

Sometimes, she allowed herself to be touched, even invited it. Only one partner at a time usually. A hand on her breast usually, often under her clothes, but sometimes unbuttoned in full view if she was feeling bold. It was wildly exciting to allow herself to be groped by a complete stranger.

A hand on her thigh, allowed to approach her pussy, that was also common, and exciting. But only a few were allowed to actually fumble at her pussy. Most ended up being awkward, she cut those short.

A few were allowed further, depending on their skill. Notably the one that resembled Christian Slater, his hands were good, gifted. He’d brought her to orgasm two more times, and she’d masturbated him on other occasions.

It could have been more, but sometimes she saw him and avoided him, not wanting entanglement or to seem needy. Sometimes she looked for him and he wasn’t there. They never exchanged a word, which she liked. She didn’t want to have a conversation with him, or anyone there. One would just sit down next to the other, and if she allowed it, something would happen. Then they’d part.

What she did in here was disconnected from the rest of her life. In some sense it was unreal to her, a kind of material version of her night-time fantasies, and she insisted on it. She wanted no conversation, no recurring recipients, she wanted no familiarity of any kind. It was about perfect anonymity without consequence or context. Impersonal.

Ironically, and it did occur to her, what she looked for most about the porno movies she watched, was the complete opposite. The sense of contact and connection, the sense of intimacy, of flirting, of personal engagement.

She wasn’t bothered by the contradiction or inconsistency. In here, she was the goddess, it was her rules. So what if they were arbitrary?

The movie was more engaging than most. The man had been in once before, she’d watched him from a distance. This second visit, she’d decided to sit next to him. After a while, she’d reached over. He exposed himself for her, and she took him in her hand.

She thought about exposing her breasts, but found herself more interested in handling him.

But the thing about this cock, as she ran her fingers loosely up and down, clean, smooth, straight, not smelly or slimy, a well-shaped head. Perfect for oral sex.

The thought fluttered about in her mind like a butterfly as she watched a woman suck two cocks on the screen in front of her.

To do it right here, right now, that seemed so deeply transgressive, so exciting. In her mind were the first two men, and other examples, some only distantly glimpsed, but all willing, even enthusiastic.

“I could do it,” she thought. The image in her mind, the notion made her wetter, it made her pussy clench slightly.

“Why not?”

On impulse, she bent over quickly, ducking her head, and took him in her mouth, lips sealing around the glans, swirling her tongue around it. He gasped loudly a combination of shock and pleasure. Immediately, she returned to her seat, staring at the screen, giving no sign she had done it.

Except for the smile, she couldn’t help that.

That had been thrilling! If the thought had tempted her, the quick oral kiss was almost delirious with its impact, her arousal redoubled, she was filled with this sense of transgression and power, doing a naughty thing and getting away with it.

She wanted to look around, to see if anyone had noticed, if anyone was watching. But it would be an admission to turn her head, a surrender to conformity.

Besides, she wasn’t sure that she didn’t want anyone to watch. Sometimes, especially in the gay theatre, the couples she watched would look directly at her, enjoying the attention, dedicating some of the performance to her. Sometimes, when she played with a man’s cock, or allowed her breasts to be fondled, she’d spot watchers and would make eye contact, smiling with perverse pride.

Faith slid smoothly onto her knees in front of him, never losing her loose grip on his erection. He spread his knees wide to accommodate her, and shifted forward in his seat. The floor felt harder on her knees than she expected, and between knees and toes, she found herself much more aware of the slope of the floor. It felt dirty in the sense of being unwashed, but not sticky. It would have ruined the moment if she’d knelt on a sticky spot.

She looked up at him, his face was illuminated by the light of the porno film on screen.

She had a fleeting moment when she found herself missing it. Most times she’d played with men, the screen had always been there in front of her, spilling out light, things going on. It was a part of the experience. She could hear it, but that fourth wall companion was missing.

Instead, there was a live human face above her, excited, expectant. Too close, too real. Illuminated by the movie screen, it almost felt odd.

“Watch the movie,” she told him. “Don’t look at me.”

She focused on the cock instead, guiding it forward, to lean in her direction.

“No hands,” she warned. “No touching. Or it’s over right then.”

“Okay.”

That seemed harsh. She tried to soften it.

“You’re going to love this,” she assured him.

“My name is–”

“No names,” she cut him off quickly. And again tried to soften it. “All right?”

Deliberately, Faith shifted her attention from him to his cock. Where to start? A hundred porno scenes flickered through her head. She grinned up at him, wanting him to see the grin. But focusing on a point above and beyond his head.

Keeping the grin, she lowered her head and shoulders until she was almost level with the erection. She stuck out her tongue, and approached, licking the front of the head like an ice cream cone, one long sensuous lick. It throbbed in her grip. She was struck by how hot it felt, how alive it was in her hand. Experimentally, she licked all around the head, spacing out the laps, so she could feel the answering throb each time. Then she lapped up and down the shaft, and the sides, as she’d seen in the pornos, but the response wasn’t nearly as strong. She stole a glance upward at him, to see how she was doing, but he was obediently staring at the screen, and she couldn’t read his expression.

Faith left off the shaft and lifted her head to look down on it, considering her next move, casually stroking the shaft. What next? Maybe just jerk him off? Maybe in a bit. She kissed the tip of his cock, lightly at first, and then again more passionately. She opened her jaw, keeping her lips closed and pursed, pressing against it, and then let her tongue slip out to lash at the head. She was rewarded with a gasp, and his body shifted in his seat.

Glancing up, she saw his face gone tense. He was gripping the armrests of the seat tightly. Good, she liked that response.

Carefully, she went down, letting her lips open as they slid across the head, feeling the curve of the glans, the bumps of the prepuce. There was just the faintest slickness on her tongue, a taste of precum. She could feel the cock reacting to her mouth, the head flaring, as she opened her jaws wider, pressing down with her lips. The cock head was enfolded in her mouth, and she slid further down feeling the shaft enter. She descended until had a couple of inches of him, distending her jaw and filling her mouth, her lips wrapped tightly around the shaft. Below her lips, her hand moved slowly up and down.

Faith kept it there, not withdrawing, not advancing, just gently enfolding it in her mouth, sucking slightly, flexing her tongue against it. She could breathe easily. Even now, there was no foul odor. He wasn’t in far enough, or pushing enough that she worried about gagging.

It was pleasurable. Sexy yes, and hot, the raunchiness of her act had an effect on her. She was aroused and wet. But it wasn’t as if she had a clitoris in her throat, mechanically it was no more arousing than sucking on a popsicle or a banana. The arousal came from context, both his desire and her awareness of the nature of the deed.

But there was another pleasure mixed in, a kind of deeper satisfaction or fulfillment that made her think of babies with bottles and soothers, or children sucking their thumbs. Some deep primal instinct to suckle that had crossed with and mixed with sex.

She understood why the gay men she’d watched had seemed to enjoy it so much. She was struck by how much she enjoyed it, although both more and less than what she had anticipated, and how different the experience was from her expectation.

Outside the porno theatre, giving her lovers head had always been this mixture of lust and obligation, of gifting. Somehow, in here, the experience was distilled, shorn of all baggage. She was finally free to just experience.

Going a little deeper, she found the limit of her comfort and reversed direction. She began to lift her head until her lips curled over the rim of the glans, and she slid back down again. She went slowly, trying to focus on the feel of it on her tongue, the sense of its shape in her mouth, descending a couple of inches but far short of her limit, before rising again. Her head began to bob slowly at steadily over his manhood in easy rhythm, all the while exploring with her tongue, tightening or loosening her lips, trying to gage both its and his responses, to find what affected them. Below her mouth, she kept her hand on the shaft, stroking it, but finding it difficult to coordinate the movements, her mouth and hand almost worked at cross purposes.

He touched her hair, stroking it, and for a second she considered stopping to warn him off, but he wasn’t rough or forceful, so she allowed it.

After a moment, she lifted off, lines of spit connecting her lips to the head, and took a breath. She didn’t need to breath, just work her jaw. She looked at him, and descended again, bobbing steadily.

“Faster,” he whispered, his hand brushing her hair. She acceded to his request, picking up the pace, her head bobbing up and down his shaft. She slowed. Stopped. Began again rapidly. Stopped suddenly as low as she dared to go. Pulled back until the tip was barely against her lips, and then dove down again maintaining a quick but not rushed rhythm. He liked all of it, she judged, going by his reactions.

She was surprised by how easy it was, in one sense. But also by how much work it was, the strain of keeping her mouth open, using tongue and lips in unfamiliar ways. Faith wondered how long it would take, worrying about tiring and about strain on her knees. If he didn’t come soon, she decided she’d just finish him with her hands.

Despite this, his orgasm took her by surprise. She felt his cock seem to buck between her lips, felt the head swell, and then semen filling her mouth. She pulled away quickly, running her hand up to the glans and squeezing, watching semen erupt. He gripped the arms of his seat, his body twisting as she jerked the ejaculating cock.

“No more, no more,” he hissed. It was the first time she realized that the sensation of male orgasm could be too intense.

Faith’s mouth was full of semen. She reached into her pocket for a Kleenex, and spat it out, wiping her tongue on the tissue. She could still taste it. On kind impulse, she wiped him with the Kleenex as well running the tissue up his shaft to the urethra, and dropped it on the floor. His cock was deflating rapidly, she actually found that more fascinating than the erection, she was used to erections, but it always seemed kind of a miracle when it subsided. Where did it go?

Satisfied, without saying another word, Faith got up and walked away. There were men clustered around, more than at the start. She didn’t acknowledge them, but she knew that they’d watched her, something that made her blush, but also left her oddly proud. She felt light, excited more than aroused, and her legs wobbled a little, which she attributed to kneeling on the floor. She walked out of the theatre and went home.

At home, she immediately undressed, reached for the vibrator, and relived the experience again and again, concluding each time with her own orgasm.