I’d sat near the window for nearly twenty minutes before a decently sized car rolled up. It was a silver thing, long in the bonnet, conservative headlights and coach doors. It was a Phantom. Oh, my god! I thought. What shocked me more was that a young man stepped out of it, handed the keys to the valet and walked toward the doors. He was dressed in a dark blazer, jeans, and a white turtleneck. I suddenly felt overdressed! He had long hair pulled back into a ponytail, glasses and a trimmed beard. A sudden bustle behind me had me standing up and checking my hair and makeup. The maitre ‘d had informed the owner of the new arrival, and Phil Stefani came bustling out of the back room. Four servers appeared out of no where, and I was left standing in the middle of the foyer. Which, I assure you, was a distinctly uncomfortable feeling. I tried to step out of the limelight and behind the welcoming party, but the maitre ‘d smiled and pushed me back into the middle, whisking my chair out from. You could see this from the crummy, and run-down condition of both the outside of these places, as well as their interiors. Very little money had been spent to fix them up! But, there was something decidedly exciting and thrilling in that. After all, they were supposed to be places of haut couture! They weren't The Louvre, and that was the point!2.) Another thing I associate with those earliest adult bookstore experiences was the smells. Everyone I ever visited smelled like cigarette smoke. Stale cigarette smoke. Cigarette smoke that was literally permeated into the walls, ceilings, and floors. Another smell was, at first, harder for me to figure out what made it; but I soon understood that it emanated from lots of other men's sperm!The preview booths were always dark. The stalls typically painted black. There was never much light (except for the TV monitor on the wall in front of you). But, as my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I started seeing curious whitish colored smears,.
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