Cashiering at a book store was the first experience I’d ever had selling porn. It was really interesting, so I wrote down my thoughts on it.

You could always tell when it was a kid’s first time. He’d wait around until there was no one else in line, then ease on up to your register and place the magazine face-down on the counter, his I.D. right on top so you wouldn’t have to ask. He’d refuse to meet your eyes and his self-consciousness would be so thick you could poke it with a fork. Sometimes he’d have an aw-shucks kind of smile on his face, and if you were lucky, he might even giggle or grind the toe of his right shoe against the ground. Cute as a button.

Next there was the guy who went to great lengths to hide his purchase. He’d show up in line with a stack of magazines, so it would appear that he had lots of interests beyond naked girls, and it would consist of random picks like Guitar Magazine, Vogue, Penthouse, Martha Stewart Living, and Science Today. In a sense, he’d be paying twenty five dollars for five bucks of entertainment. I thought the charade was frivolous and I showed these people no mercy. I always rearranged the stack so that the Penthouse was on top, in clear view for everyone else in line. The guy, outraged that I’d foiled his plans, would usually open his mouth to berate me, and then he’d catch himself. If he said something out loud, he would only draw more attention to his shame, plus his disguise of nonchalance would be shot. I’d have him trapped. This may be a little mean on my part, but the way I see it, if you’re going to buy some porn, show a little balls. The people in the magazine do. (zing!)

Next were the middle-aged business types who had no qualms whatsoever about purchasing porn. Some would even be so brash as to spin it on your counter, drawing special attention to their purchase, as if they were excited and just had to share the news. But even these men would not break the cardinal rule: never purchase porn from the opposite sex. If I had a line with ten people in it and the girl next to me had a line with two, the man buying porn still stepped into my line. And when the girl would offer to take some more people over at her register, he’d graciously let others go before him. But not because he was nice—because he was embarrassed. With me, that same person would advertise the fact that he was buying Celebrity Skin. He might even ask me if I’d read it, and which woman I thought was the hottest. But he’d eat the thing before he’d buy it from a girl. Wuss.

The old men were my favorite, though. They came in two varieties, mostly.

Old Man A:
Dressed in a bomber jacket with a slight scowl on his face to show that, despite his years, he meant business; this one would always slap the thing down and give you a glare that said "I’m sixty years old and I’m buying porn — what the hell are you going to do about it?" They purchased on the offensive, almost challenging you to smile or say something smart. They’d pay efficiently, but not too quickly; wordlessly proving that they weren’t embarrassed, but did, in fact, have somewhere else they needed to be. Always a pleasure.

Old Man B:
This is the one you’d see on the porch at the end of your block, waving and smiling at anything that passed — whether it was a piece of trash that was caught in the wind or a dog on a skateboard. He’d probably have suspenders, a baby-blue button up shirt and chocolate colored slacks. He’d approach you’re register and ask you’re name, and when you told him, he’d say what a nice young man you were. Then he’d plop a copy of Jugs on the counter, licking his lips and gyrating slightly. This variety caught me off guard more than once, but was equally as entertaining.

The bathrooms were the biggest surprise for me, though.

Occasionally we’d get a customer complaint about the bathroom door being locked. I’d usually be forced to knock and ask if there was a problem. The person inside generally said nothing, hoping I’d be so confused from the lack of response that I’d think the doors had just locked themselves, or I was retarded. Then, when I’d come back ten minutes later to check on progress, the door would be left open in a way that suggested a hasty flight, and there, stuffed between the pipes under the sink, would be a slightly used copy of Playboy.

At first, I was baffled by this. I’d always considered masturbation a “comfort of your own home” kind of act. It didn’t really fit in with my views of “fun in a public restroom,” like pooping in the urinals or peeing in the sink. But some people took it further.

One night, my manager and I received a complaint that one of the ceiling tiles was caving in the men’s bathroom. The reason for this, we discovered upon inspection, was not a leak, as we suspected. Turns out someone had stashed a hoard of magazines up there — 14, to be exact. Apparently, for some people the pursuit of porn was a covert operation, involving carefully executed plans and stashing the loot in hard-to-find hiding places. But what I didn’t get was — what was all the trouble for? Pornography isn’t expensive. Somewhere between five and ten dollars, mostly. And if you’re creative enough to come up with the plan of hiding it in the ceiling, I’m sure you could figure out a way to just steal it. That’s what all the underage kids did.

I’m not judging anyone, though. I have nothing against porn. I’ve never bought it myself — that’s what the internet is for — but the amount of thought that goes into buying it surprised me. I’d always assumed it was pretty cut and dry. Lesson learned.