I’VE NEVER BEEN a member of Manhunt, Adam4Adam or any of those online sex sites geared for horny gay guys. Mostly because I’ve always been terrified of a co-worker or acquaintance giggling over my photos or my profile, but also because I freeze up when confronted with the prospect of going to a stranger’s apartment for sex or, worse, having someone from the Internet come to my place. The handful of times I got laid via Craigslist, I hid knives in strategic locations all over the apartment. Clearly, I wasn’t cut out for online sex. Porn stores, however, turned out to be a different matter.

When I think of all the money I wasted in those tiny little buddy booths tucked into the backs of garishly lit porn stores all over Manhattan, I feel sick. A buck buys you a minute and a half of porn playing on fifty different channels as well as the chance to look through the Plexiglas window separating you from the booth next door. Cut into the wall beneath the Plexiglas is usually a hole big enough for a cock.

The first time I ever went was an accident, I swear. I thought I was going into St. Mark’s video store when I walked up the stairs to the second floor of a DVD store on 14th Street, but quickly realized my mistake when I saw the line of horny men cruising each other outside a row of closed booth doors. I went because I wanted to browse; I stayed because I liked being browsed. My self-esteem, never very sturdy, got a huge boost from all of the men looking me up and down and discreetly squeezing their crotches—or not so discreetly brushing against my ass—as they walked past.

The first few times I went, I stayed out of the booths. I just popped in for a quick pickme-up and then continued on my way. But one day, I was curious—and horny—enough to enter one of the little booths, pay a dollar and see what happened.

You have to understand how determined most of these men are. First you see an eyeball peering at you through the hole in the wall, then, depending on the fellow, a beckoning finger, a wagging tongue or a throbbing dick, now inches away from you. In a haze of lust and with the scent of poppers wafting from next door, I pulled my pants down to my ankles and pushed myself through the hole. After that, I was hooked.

I’d go constantly. After striking out at bars, I’d stagger in drunkenly for a quickie. On boring nights at home, I’d jump on the subway just for the privilege of spending a few bucks for some guy to watch me jerk off. There was a porn store around the corner from my office that I made liberal use of during my late afternoon coffee run, where I quickly became one of the regulars lurking in the dimly lit back hallway.

Eventually, of course, the whole thing snowballed out of control. I’d sneak guys into my booth to make out in between blowjobs or offer them a condom through the hole in the wall so they could fuck me. If possible, I’d make sure the guy on my other side was watching.

Thrifty little whore that I was, I quickly learned that if the guy seemed to like me enough, flashing him my empty wallet could get me a buck or two to feed the machine just to stay. And there was one night when, out of singles again, I asked the gorgeous hunk in the next booth if he lived nearby. As it turned out, he lived down the street from me, so we shared a cab home and he told me about his job at Saks.

There were frequently classier guys there than you would think: a gorgeous guy who said he was a plastic surgeon took me back to his apartment on St. Marks Place; the only man I’ve ever met who knows more about old movies than I do and who shares a duplex on the Upper East Side with his mother; European tourists who offered to make me their escort for the duration of their visit; men who would pass me Handi Wipes for maximum clean-up after we were finished. I got asked out on more dates in porn stores than I’ve ever been in bars.

But I spent as much time promising myself that I’d quit as I did going back. All that did, though, was prompt me to stop going when I was sober, leaving me swaying into a booth after too many drinks. Gone were the weird and charming conversations, replaced by sloppy sex that I instantly regretted. Then came rock bottom, when I staggered in after a rough day that ended with too much bourbon and Xanax.

After sneaking a guy into my booth so I could get a better grip on his huge dick, he offered to go buy us poppers.When he didn’t return right away, I wandered out to see where he went. He was gone and so was my wallet. Even through my boozy haze, I realized that I had stayed too long at the fair. The only thing more humiliating than losing your wallet after abusing prescription pills and the good will of bartenders is being mugged while you’re sucking cock in the backroom of a porn store. Besides, I was tired of the soles of my shoes being constantly sticky.

Mark Durane left behind his sordid past to become a member of the advertising world. He recently returned from a misguided move to Hong Kong, and is happy to be back in his apartment with his friends and neighbors.