Since homosexualism, pornography and the damage they do to our people and society have been big topics here at Daily Stormer of late, I thought perhaps sharing this experience from my early adulthood would be enlightening and informative, as well as topical.
As the 1980’s were coming to a close, I was coming of age. Being from a small town that was still absolutely devastated by the collapse of the domestic oil industry that had occurred a few years prior, I relocated to Dallas as a last resort at getting even a minimum wage job, which at the time paid $3.35 an hour.
After a few months of working a couple of dead end part-time jobs for precisely that amount and still struggling to pay for the crappy apartment where I lived, an acquaintance suggested I apply at this adult bookstore where he had worked. He said it was just basic clerk work and paid way better.
When I applied for the job, I knew there was gonna be more to it than just getting used to seeing porn all over the place for eight hours a day, because of the questions they asked.
The lady who interviewed me seemed more impressed by my height and size than any job experience I’d had. She wanted to know if I’d ever been in any fights, and how many, and what the outcomes were. She explained that I would be working nights by myself in dangerous parts of town. As it turned out, that was the least of it.
I spent a week in training, working the day shift with the manager. It was fairly tame during the day, all things considered. The smut shops were all zoned away from residential neighborhoods, schools, churches, etc., so the neighborhoods looked normal during the day when people were at work.
At night, the degenerates came out, and they were everywhere. Fags, black gangsters, drug dealers, pimps, street whores, anything of that sort that you can imagine was running wild and in packs. And they all thought everything there belonged to them.
When my training was over, I learned that I was to join a crew that was all bikers (except me). It was called “the clean-up crew” because when word got out that one of the stores had a weak staff, all the most aggressive faggots and dopers would actually take over the stores. This meant that once we cleaned up one store by just working there and dealing harshly with problematic turd burglars and the other assorted misfits, we’d move to the next problem location.
The stores were all basically the same, with a few differences here and there. Some would have live nude female dancers behind booths, some would not. The one thing they all had in common, and which was responsible for the majority of the foot traffic in and out of the store was the “XXX Adult Arcade.”
For those not in the know (hopefully most of you, lol) a XXX adult arcade is kind of like a game room, but instead of playing games, the customers go there to pretend to watch dirty movies while engaging in anonymous gay buttsex with multiple partners, preferably never the same one twice. It was also the ideal location for closeted fags to sneak away from their wives and children and enjoy some NSA buggery.
It was because of this that I learned what a “glory hole” is. I could have lived out my days in happiness without ever having that knowledge!
The arcade fags had no interest in watching movies, and the only way the arcade made money was for them to spend tokens in the machines. Therefore, we had signs by the arcade entrance clearly stating that to get into the arcade you had to buy two dollars worth of tokens from the store clerk. They really hated this, and it was always the first challenge at a new store that needed our special attention. The fags would just walk past, and when you shouted at them they’d act like they didn’t hear you. When I’d go to the back they’d try to argue nonsensically about their rights, or claim they had already paid the other day & shouldn’t have to pay again.
I learned quickly that once I had to step out from behind that counter there was no purpose in talking anymore. The only thing for it was to physically grab them and eject them, painfully, from the premises. This not only taught the rule-breaking homo a lesson he would never forget, but the other fags would come boiling out of the arcade to see what the commotion was all about, and then I’d never have another problem with them either.
But the degeneracy never ended. Hell, degeneracy was the business itself!
When we moved to the second store that needed “cleaning up,” I discovered another reason these fags didn’t like paying to enter the arcade. There are dozens of these stores with adult arcades in the Dallas-Ft. Worth area, and most of them hit every single one of them every day!
Think about that for a minute. These homos were going to all these locations for anonymous, unprotected buttsex (they all openly discussed how they absolutely refused to use condoms, and I’m sure most of them are long dead), and the only thing that would slow them down even a little was the fact that they’d already had sex with all the other queers at whatever location they were cruising. If I was working a store on Harry Hines BLVD, they’d say “There’s nobody new here, let’s go to the store on Oak Lawn.” If I was working the Oak Lawn store, they’d say the opposite.
They were so bad about this that I regularly had to go to the entrance of the arcade and tell them that if I didn’t hear a bunch of tokens start dropping into those machines, they’d all be ejected. If I didn’t do this, they’d just stand in the doors of the booths all day, vying for their chance at any “fresh meat” that crept in.
It’s like they were trying to get AIDS. And this was back when AIDS killed you quick!
They were so disgusting that the stores had to hire black cleaning men, and pay them well to clean those arcades. No clerk would have ever done it. I’m not going to describe it, but you can probably imagine how bad it was.
But I digress. When I first walked in to the second store, they had a weak guy running the place. The gays had completely taken it over to the point that not only were they running amok, using services like the theater and the arcade without paying. they were having a big ol’ time scaring the crap out of the clerk, threatening to rape him over the pinball machine, etc. and he was frightened to death.
Imagine, roving packs of demented bull-fruits roaming the streets, looking for men to rape. This is some straight-up Old Testament stuff!
When I was fairly new, I saw one of the most heartbreaking things I hope to ever see.
One day a nice looking lady in her early thirties came in, with two small children in tow and an infant in her arms. I stopped her immediately, as no minor child, even if he had parental consent, is allowed by law to enter a sexually oriented business. She told me she really needed to get in there, so I stepped outside to see what the problem might be.
She told me her husband was in there. I asked her how she knew this. She pointed to his car. It was Office Guy’s car.
I told her I couldn’t allow women in the arcade, because they were either prostitutes, or they didn’t know what was really back there and they’d surely get raped. I told her I’d fetch him.
I went back there and got him. Fortunately for me, he hadn’t yet found a suitable partner for his shenanigans, so I didn’t have to see that. I literally had to drag him out. This entitled faggot thought he could just hide in there and leave his wife and little children out in a parking lot full of pimps, whores, crack dealers, and every degenerate in North Texas, basically. I was not having any of it.
The moment she saw him, the poor lady burst out in tears and sobbing. She could see the life that she had planned for herself and those lovely White children being destroyed, because this degenerate had lied to her, and now she and the kids would have this horror to deal with forever. It wasn’t the first time she’d caught him doing this, she was very clear about that.
I told her she’d better leave him. I told her what goes on in there, how it’s so disgusting and diseased that they have to go into the back of a dark and filthy concrete cesspool to act out their unbelievably sick and unnatural urges. I told her he’d surely give her AIDS if he hadn’t already, and that it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he infected her children as well, since most child molesters are in fact also homosexuals.
Homosexualism is bad for children? How can you be such an intolerant goy?
I managed to get them to leave in fairly short order. I have no idea what became of them. I still picture those poor children in my mind fairly regularly. I hope they grew up okay.
And the fags had their own domestic troubles as well.
One evening, some guy came riding up on a moped. He came in the store and headed directly for the arcade. I informed him that he had to pay two dollars. He said “I’m just trying to find somebody.” I replied, “Everyone back there is trying to find somebody. Two dollars.” I also made him give me his motorcycle helmet.
He came out a minute later, dragging one of the “regulars” out like a little kid that doesn’t want to leave the candy store. The offending pole-sitter was half undressed. Some old Negro was following at a distance, hitching up his pants and fastening his belt.
I honestly didn’t care what happened to these freaks as long as it didn’t happen in the store, which was my responsibility, so when they exited I forgot them. A couple of minutes later another “regular” came in and said there was a disturbance outside. The moped driver was bashing the tail-lights out of the other freak’s new BMW, so I asked. “Why in the hell is this fag drama happening on my parking lot?” My exact words.
The moped homo said “If you must know, he’s my boyfriend and I just caught him in a bookstore doing a god damned nigger!!!”
I swear I never laughed so hard in my life!
These are just a few of the hundreds of tales I could tell from my few months working in this horrid industry. Most of them are unfit to print, here, or anywhere.
Just one thing though.
Never, ever, ever, ask me about the time someone told me there was a dead body in one of the booths, and when I went to see all I discovered was a filthy booth with three dirty syringes, a spilled bottle of amyl nitrate, several little empty dope baggies, and a dead rodent with a string attached to it’s tail!
It gives me PTSD just thinking about it.