Adult Theaters, Adult Cinemas, Porn Theaters, Blue Moon Theaters, Dark Rooms, Suckitoriums, and Masterbatorias. What magical places for the sexually adventurous. Never having dipped a toe myself, I have witnessed just about everything that goes on in adult theaters. In fact, it takes quite a bit to shock me now.
The first time I ever stepped foot into one was on my very first interview with the company I still work for today. After the standard interview questions with one of the managers, I was given a tour of the facilities. I have no doubt this would be a very important part of an adult store’s interviewing process. It was quite an experience for a first-timer, and unlike any other job experience I had ever had before—and I’ve had quite the collection of weird jobs.
She led me through the arcades, and sales floor, saving the best and most shocking for last. As we were let in by one of the staff members, it took me a minute for my eyes to adjust to the sudden dark lighting. Once my vision adjusted, I realized I was standing in a large, dimly lit room with comfortable sofas and lounge chairs placed strategically around the floor so that they were accessible from all angles. There were numerous large-sized, modern TV screens playing various scenes of porn. People of all shapes, sizes, ethnicity, and gender lounged around, mostly naked, as fair play to each other. It looked like what I would expect an ancient Greek bacchanal to look like. Everyone looked comfortable and content; boundaries were respected—it looked...dare I say, fun?
As I took it all in, pondering what it would be like to encounter this every day and for it to become a normal daily thing, right in front of me, I saw a younger man completely in the nude, bending down on all fours. Directly behind him was a man well into his 80s, with a strap-on harness and a dildo stationed at the front. I had a lot of questions, but I didn’t feel it was appropriate to walk up to this individual, mid-hump, and ask something. But I still couldn’t look away from the scene. It was so unlike anything I had ever witnessed before.
We exited the theater, and I was told they would be in touch. I walked out into the cold night; my interview time had been at 9 p.m., and the position was for the graveyard shift. The fresh air felt good after being in that stuffy and sweaty, dark room.
Portland has a very rich history of sexual liberation. The now-closed Oregon Theater was the first of its kind. It was 6,000 square feet of kinky fun, built in the 1920s by the founder of the Aladdin Theater, Isaac Geller, which is now a venue. Last I heard, ever since Geller passed, there is a new owner, and the Oregon Theater will remain a theater—but not for porn. There were several adult theaters located in downtown Portland, and until recently, the last one, Paris Theater, closed its doors, and I haven’t heard even so much of a rumor about its fate. Many of our local adult stores were casualties of the Covid pandemic.
Not long after that night of the interview, I received a call requesting I come in for a second interview and to bring documentation for filling out the new-hire paperwork. I was thrilled. The second interview was quite a letdown compared to the first one. No shocking revelations, just the standard procedure that I’ve been through so many times with many other new jobs. But I didn’t care! I got a job working at a porn store! How wild is that to say? My dad always told me that no matter what job you do, it’s always worth doing it well. I’ve always taken pride in what I do, even if it’s as minuscule as dishwashing (which I’ve done) or as complicated as taking care of exotic reptiles (which I’ve also done). Every job is worth your best effort, and I take that to heart everywhere I go—even applying this to porn customers.
There is no typical theater customer. Just like the arcade, customers come from various backgrounds—many opposites, with that being the only thing in common. Like the glory hole fantasy, many expect a completely different setting for a porn theater. Prominent among swinger couples, gay men, and the sexually adventurous, the most common question I get from my customers is, "Where are the women?" I can’t answer that question completely. But as I have mentioned before, I have witnessed a lone curious woman who enters the theater by herself for the first time and is completely taken aback by the scene. A very accurate portrayal would be the Finding Nemo scene with the aggressive seagulls. That is the partial answer to that repetitive question.
One of my weirder theater stories happened a few years ago, on a graveyard shift with my friend and coworker. He had been with the company far longer than I had, and his crazy stories outmatch my own. We were closing the theater after a standard uneventful night. Going through the standard procedure of having someone walk through the room with a flashlight, searching every nook and cranny for someone trying to hide. As he exited the door, I saw him wordlessly shaking his head. When I questioned him, he replied, "there is a carrot."
"A what?" I asked.
"A carrot. In the theater," he said, "go look for yourself," he told me as I stared at him, confused and speechless.
I walked into the theater with all the overhead lights on, which was quite jarring from the usual dark and dimness. Sitting on top of a single brown paper towel was a very large, unpeeled carrot. It was so big that I thought it was a yam at first. I stared, perplexed, at this otherwise normal object that was so out of place. I had questions, but I decided I didn’t want any answers. I walked back out of the large room, and my coworker was standing at the counter with his arms crossed and shaking his head.
"People are freaks," I said with a shrug and a chuckle.
To this day, we still laugh at the memory of the porn theater carrot, and it has become an infamous story between us. Other odd finds have been a whole uncut pizza, homemade paddles, dentures, dildos stuck to walls (one had a suction cup that was so strong, nobody could pull it off), and a hammer, to name a few.
But this is—by far—the tamest story I have of the much-eluded porn theaters, but those are stories for another time.
Atticus Rexx is a Portland native, wanna-be graphic artist, and a gutter punk at heart who never left the ’90s. When she isn’t writing, she can be found bouncing from one unfinished project to another or running a porn store. Find Atticus Rexx on Instagram as @quinzelaple.
