RANDY HOG

In the early 1990s, in my late teens, I would hop on the Metro North looking for someone to make me cum. The norms of suburban life never sat well with me and being close enough to the City, “The Deuce” was calling. Still a teenager having just helped elect another pervert Bill Clinton I would venture off alone to see with whom and where I could stick my dick. Having just graduated from high school and pretending to study writing at the local community college, I couldn’t possibly ask for what I REALLY WANTED which was a reenactment of the dusty VHS tapes in the back room of the video store in the “fetish” section. All the piss, squirt, feet and gaping holes. What is missing from video is the smell, taste and heat of other bodies.

In an era before cell phones I could board a bus and I was untraceable. No one could ping, Facetime, call or text me and I was free to explore the depths of my inner depravity. A problem was that I would have to do it with $25 in my pocket (about $50 today) so the escorts in the back of the print edition of the Village Voice were off limits. These formative years created the pig that I am today. Surface beauty and the traditional standards of beauty were cast aside for functionality. No teeth didn’t mean you needed dental work, it meant you had no barrier to slurping down my hard black cock. The feelings of being free-for-use were mutual and I was fine with that. As a tall young black man with a nine-inch dick I was willing to be used for mutual pleasure. A fair exchange is no robbery. The late night streets were littered with freaks such as myself and sex workers in search of their next hit of crack. I avoided sexual situations where there was explicitly money or drugs involved. In a pre-camera era you could easily find yourself getting robbed, stabbed or kidnapped and/or getting fucked up the ass. Maybe I was paranoid from the seedy dark dime bags of weed I smoked in harsh White Owl blunts but the stories you would hear and the people that went missing seemed to confirm my anxieties.

So where to go? By my own recollection between 34th St and 42nd St on 8th Ave there were at least ten adult bookstores where there were booth peep shows and some featured “live girls” where you could touch a tit for the right tip. I was more inclined to go to the “dungeon” areas with the booths and slots where you could watch videos and often find a play partner. You’d see a lot of transgender/cross dressers and hungry homosexuals. Oddly enough I became the target of many of the patrons which led me to moving from free-use slut to a true whore. I found myself doing amateur porn scenes with cross dressers and transgender women, dominant humiliation with gay men (pissing and big foot fetishes were big) and of course cuckolding where I was paid to fuck tourist wives, sometimes getting a fee to conjure up more hard black cocks to fill their hot, saggy-titted, white wives. To be able to enjoy sex and be compensated financially is an incredible empowering experience, dick is always treated as abundant and begging. 

Unfortunately, the sex shops have shuttered in lieu of weed shops however the Adams Administration shut those down so there is just empty midtown real estate, a harbinger of “Urban Decay”. 

Let’s be real: change is a constant in modern society. People don’t shop or consume media the same way. Porn is on your tablet and phone and sexual encounters are app-based as well. Instead of dropping quarters in a peep show you pay for a premium membership where hopefully there are less bots. No matter what happens in the future the spirit of 8th Ave will live on. I’m betting that our version of a red light district is going to make a comeback sooner than later. 

—RH

Randy Hog

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