My Favourite Wankers

It’s been an uneventful week, peeps-wise, save for an unpleasant incident with a young man who obviously presumed the “NO PHOTOS” signs were there to protect the punters from hordes of camera-wielding strippers. We are quite the shutter-bugs. As such, I’d like to take the time to reflect on some of my favourite regular wankers.

Gung-ho Guy was one of the first dudes I saw, back when I was just starting out, and I’d say he visits maybe twice a week. Usually, it’s difficult to see the face on the other side of the window unless you’re really looking, but there are exceptions. Gung-ho Guy is notable for the sheer enthusiasm with which he approaches wanking in a small booth: he always picks the one furthest from the entrance (for privacy?), and spends a good few minutes warming up. He strips right down (although for his sake I hope to God he leaves his shoes on), hangs his clothes over the back of the door, and starts doing sort of “aaaand STRETCH IT OUT” exercises. Only when he feels appropriately limber does he begin to jack off, and honestly I’m glad he takes the time to warm up because he could seriously pull a hamstring. He thrusts against the wall of the booth, bobs up and down, runs on the spot and hangs off the door all while his arm moves at approximately mach 7 and he makes strained grunts of encouragement to himself. I don’t know how he manages to last at that speed, but the guy usually has a good 6-7 minutes in him before he cums, signalled by what appears to be a small seizure and a good deal of yelling. Then he quietly cleans up, puts on his clothes and goes, leaving everyone in the surrounding area feeling slightly inadequate about their masturbatory techniques, myself included.

Texta Tosser is a slightly less regular customer, but he remains one of my favourites. A lot of guys will huff amyl in the booth (which is pretty risky, considering the poor ventilation. I have $20 riding on a huffing snuffing by the end of the quarter), so I didn’t think much of it when I noticed a guy raising his hand to his nose, inhaling de-e-e-e-eeply, grinning like a loon and wanking with renewed vigour. After a few minutes of him huffing up every ten seconds, though, I figured that the guy was either unaware what that much amyl was going to do to him or something else was afoot. So I sort of casually sidle (which is almost impossible to do naked, owing to the lack of pockets) over to the window of his booth and wait. Sure enough, about ten seconds later he goes for another sniff and I realise that the guy is inhaling from the tip of a big, black permanent marker- like the kids at school used to do when the teachers took away their glue. He continues on like this, huffing away, black smudges all around his nose, for a good few minutes more before he blows his load and goes on his way. He’s been back in, with texta, once or twice since. The theory? His usual choice is strippers and coke, but some days it’s just harder to get the cash together, so…

This is the hard shit, man.

It’s a living, yeah?

According to my calculations on the back of this coaster, I’ve spent about 600 hours this year naked for complete strangers. That’s a rough estimate, mind: if I was better at maths then I’d be doing that for a living instead of writhing around on a black pleather couch held together with duct tape, but there you go. Those 600 hours have been spread across the last five-and-a-bit months that I’ve worked in a peep show.

What the hell is a peep show?

peep·show also peep show

(pēp’shō’) n. An exhibition of pictures or objects viewed through a small hole or magnifying glass. Also called raree show. A short pornographic film presentation seen usually in a small coin-operated projection booth.

Kind of like that, but the object is a naked girl- dancing, playing with toys (the vibrating kind, although we do occasionally use Hungry Hungry Hippos. You know, for the freaks), squishing her boobs, making sex faces and occasionally yelling “DO NOT TAP ON THE GLASS”. I am that naked girl.

So you do that for a living?

Yep. Four or five days a week, for 4-8 hour shifts at a time.

Is it like being a stripper?

Kind of, but not exactly. Both are nekkid for cash, but while strippers perform shows on stage and receive tips from the audience (the monetary kind, not helpful advice. Unless you consider “WHOOO! GET IT ALL OFF” to be helpful, in which case you are very welcome, Sir), Peep Girls are separated from the punters by a wall with small frosted-glass windows. The punter puts in a minimum of $2 (this varies from place to place, obviously, but in my joint it’s two bucks, which buys you thirty seconds), their window goes see-through, a little red bulb over their window lights up and goes “BEEEEP!”, the Peep Girl puts down her book/magazine/crocheting and does her thing.

And that’s it?

No, we also do private shows. If a punter likes the look of you, he’ll fork out $40 to sit in a tiny room and watch you do pretty much the same show you just did, but without the glass between you.

That’s kind of weird.

YOUR MUM’S KIND OF WEIRD

Fair enough. So what kind of guys come to a peep show?

All kinds of guys. Business guys, student guys, old guys, guys with their girlfriends, guys with their boyfriends, guys who are girls, guys who are desperate, guys who are curious, guys who like to jerk off.

Why don’t you get a real job?

Tried it, didn’t like it, don’t wanna, can’t make me. Besides, I like the job I’ve got.

For real real?

Yeah, for real real. I make a decent living, I decide my own hours, I wear what I want (what there is of it, anyway), I listen to the music I like and I don’t have to wear a name tag. There are downsides, sure: days when I barely make bus fare, idiots yelling “SHOW US YER TITS” (I…I thought I was?), late nights, having to maintain obsessive standards of personal grooming all the damn time, people TAPPING on the FUCKING GLASS. But it’s a give-and-take, and as far as I’m concerned the positives far outweigh the idiots.