Stories

I am a Glory Hole – Mark Wilson

Anyone who says there is nothing worse than hanging drywall can fuck right off.

I’ve installed one thousand two hundred and thirty two glory holes in Dave & Buster franchises across twenty seven states and it never gets easier.

It gets faster, but never easier.

There was joy in it once. When I crafted out of love, out of curiosity and exploration of sexuality, but now every hole was the same. The specifications, the long-lasting petroleum lubricant, the sanding, the diameter, the miniature “fun zone” neon sign, everything about bathroom sex had been transformed into PowerPoint presentations and efficiency charts. You even had to use your officially branded Dave & Busters Power Card to open the tiny locked wooden gate that covered the pleasure trench. If no one was in the stall adjacent, they even had a fake hand that would churn whatever was jammed into the hole until it was limp again.

It was sickening.

Sticking your dick into a mysterious bathroom cavity wasn’t about the prospect of an unreciprocated orgasm anymore, it was about bottom line, it was about revenue generation. I didn’t know how anyone could still get off, I guess some people didn’t care about the tradition of it all. Sometimes a failed endeavor was more exciting than a successful one. Sometimes the hunt was more thrilling than the kill. Waiting for hours for the right person to come into that stall and be intrigued enough in what they saw, that carnal urges exceeded bodily needs, and their jalapeño popper fueled shit was postponed for thirty to forty seconds.

But no one would get that experience anymore.

I guess we abandon anything we believe in if it means convenience. We require things to be powdered and stepped on and Yelp reviewed before ramming them through a skid-marked dollar bill into our bloodied sinus cavities. There was no love of exploration anymore. All traditions die, or exist long enough to be watered down and drizzled into the quivering lips of dying losers who refused to consume it at its purest.

There was no artistic expression in what I did, everything I loved has been sanded down and smoothed into oblivion so as to not nick a throbbing vein and cause someone to bleed out before paying their check and refusing to tip the waitress that they had sexually harassed all night. I signed the contract and collected a paycheck, but as my bank account grew, so did my resentment for the things I made.

The holes haunted me.

They drained me.

I could feel their blackness consuming me like a dying star.

Every portal I sculpted was killing the thing I loved most, normalizing something that was anything but.

The more I created, the less I understood.

I created not because I wanted to, but because I had to, and though the holes were more widely used and arguably superior to the ones I used to make, I despised them. Their precision infuriated me, I could see tracers from old holes when I shut my eyes. The conformity and absence of deviation was smoothing me into a similarly comfortable receptacle for aimless thrusting.

My back was beginning to give out, my arthritis making it impossible for me to execute a perfect circle. I’d hide my shaking hands from managers in my pockets, I’d tell them the hole lived up to corporate standards, but I knew it didn’t. Sometimes they’d offer me a bottle of water and tell me to take a break, other times they’d demand hourly status updates and tell the growing line of customers that they’d soon be able to penetrate the bathroom partition. Sometimes they’d notice the slot wasn’t quite right, but they were too sad to say anything, taking pity on a dying old man who was responsible for saving the sex lives of an entire country.

I drove and I measured and I drilled.

I could feel the diminutive shaft of some suburban tourist inching close to my face as I tried to squeeze out a shit that I knew would never come.

There was an urgency to my toil, as though I would ever finish the entire country’s worth of Dave & Busters franchises before I died, but I wanted it to be over, so I carved until I couldn’t carve from sun up to sun down.

My ability was deteriorating rapidly but no one seemed to really notice or care, as long as when I left, there was something for customers to fuck. I wished they would fire me, I wouldn’t have minded sitting in a one bedroom ranch house in Northern Indiana collecting unemployment until my heart finally gave, but I knew they wouldn’t. No one else wanted this job. No one else could carry this cross.

So I sat on the toilet and just hoped the constipated blockage would budge before the shaft touched my skin.