Chronic masturbators, pants unslung, tiny boners weaving and darting through the dim half-light of the porn theater, drawing in huge orgasmic panic-breaths of sweaty air,
the broth of shamed compulsive excitement that hangs in the room like a shot of semen suspended in sooty bathwater.
Look at their desperate eyes, pained commas where expectant brows knit together creasing the bridge of their old-man noses. The eyes tell a story--horrifying, bleak--of untouched hands,
unscratched backs, lips never coated in another's spit, ears never blanketed by the gush of warm breath formed when the words "I want you inside me" are spoken.
Are they praying? Is their faith resolute? Because they seem to make holy the act of burnishing their raw, red glans--"Be proud, you're strangling your cock into an afterlife of pure flacid nirvana."
Regard them, and know that they've discovered the secret entrance, the beguiled door, the invisible gate with its coded knock of salty flesh on salty flesh, and back away slowly, keeping them in sight
