Skin Flicks

Joe Somebody walks to the grimy part of town to take care of some grimy business. Namely, the sort of business one takes care of at a porno theatre, since that’s where he’s going. Keeping a low profile in a grey coat and baseball cap, he purchases his ticket at the counter and walks into the lobby, avoiding eye-contact with all and any employees or fellow patrons. He pushes through the double-doors of screening room number two. The header above the door reads, “Loose Lucy.”
The film hasn’t begun yet but the room is dark and the credits from the last showing are rolling. Some human shaped silhouettes are getting up and leaving but most of the couple dozen stay put; no other plans for the day. Joe finds a seat situated by itself, as has everyone else. A few more tailing silhouettes take seats of their own, making sure not to sit in those just vacated. Nobody says a word, nobody turns their gaze from the screen, nobody dare even cough or sneeze. The credits end and shuffling can be herd from the projection room as the reel is started. Three, two, one.
The room isn’t so dark anymore as celluloid is projected onto the screen, displaying the title of the film in curvy, white lettering over the opening shot of a man and woman drinking at a bar. They’re the only two there and are animatedly showing their inebriation by way of slurring their words and balancing precariously on their barstools. The woman, Loose Lucy one would presume, has wavy, blond hair and an ample chest made known to the audience by the cleavage exposed behind her white blouse. The man is inconsequential. After a conversation no one listens to and a few laughs that display Lucy’s bright smile, she stumbles off her stool and towards the bathroom.
The scene cuts to Lucy washing her hands and looking up at the mirror to see the man behind her with, wearing a devilish grin. He moves in close and gropes her from behind. Despite her protests, she hardly fights back beyond a playful manner. What ensues is an act of intercourse that is surprisingly able-bodied on both sides despite the two of them appearing to be fall-down drunk just a few moments ago. The scene ends as one would expect, with most of the audience having done what one would expect.
Shortly after the screen goes dark, Joe walks out to the scarcely lit lobby. He pushes through a door into a room lined with grimy tile, concrete, peeling wallpaper, and graffiti over all of it. He walks past a row of sinks, then urinals, before opening the first of four stalls and making use of it. Just before he reaches for the toilet paper, he hears the restroom door slam open and the voices of four or so people.
“Stop struggling!”
“Just keep movin’!”
Something slams against the side of the stalls, causing Joe’s walls to shudder. That same something is then shoved into the corner, just outside the last stall. Joe listens to a man’s pleading.
“Please stop. I promise I won’t come here again.”
The voice is answered by the slapping, cracking sound of a heavy fist laying into a cheek and the toppling of a tall man onto the floor. Joe can hear the others shuffling so as to surround him.
“Please let me go.”
“Boy, there’s nothing I’d like more than to let you go, but first you gotta stop lying to us,” said a voice brimming with superiority.
“I’m not lying--”
A few more landed blows can be heard before the same voice continues, “You see, that’s what I’m talking about. Lies. I can’t stand them. So why don’t you tell us the truth and I’ll let you go. Why don’t you tell us that you were watching that nice, white woman get raped in that movie? Why don’t you tell us how you watched it, imagining yourself doing the same thing? Raping white women; that’s what gets you niggers off. Isn’t it, boy? Just say yes and I’ll let you be.”
The defeated man mumbles something.
“I couldn’t hear you, boy.”
There’s a short pause before he repeats himself loudly and clearly, “Yes.”
“Good,” Joe could hear the brute patting the man’s bloodied face.
“You heard him boys, this nigger likes to rape white women. He’s probably thinking of raping you’re wives, mothers, and sisters. Now I’m gonna leave because I’m a man of my word and I promised to let him go. But I can tell the rest of you aren’t done with him yet.”
“Ay, boss.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it,” the leader of this mini mob says before he can be heard washing his hands, pulling paper towels, and letting the restroom door close behind himself.
The two or three men left behind turn to the cornered man and pummel him until he stops struggling and calling for help; Joe figures the man must be unconscious. He hears three zippers followed by the sound of streaming liquid hitting tile and cloth before he hears the zippers again. The men wash their hands and leave. Joe hears the door shut but stays seated. Before Joe can figure out what to do, the man in the corner gets up and walks up to the door of Joe’s stall.
“Why didn’t you help?”
Joe doesn’t answer.
“So you’re just gonna keep pretending you aren’t there? Not take any responsibility for what just happened to me? You gonna try and forget this ever happened?”
Joe just sits there.
“You know you won’t forget. You’re going to remember this for the rest of your life. You’re gonna remember this day, when you hid like a coward while a hate crime was committed just fifteen feet from where you were taking a shit.”
Still nothing from Joe.
“Well I hope you’re a racist, sir. I hope you’re happy that I got beaten for watching the same movie you and all your white friends watched. I hope that’s what you wanted. Because I can go home and change out of these piss-ridden clothes. I can take a shower and clean the blood from my body. I can simply wait, and my wounds will heal. But you can’t do anything to change what you did here today, so I pray to god that you wanted it to happen.”
The man’s uneven footsteps bring him to the sink. The water runs for a long time before he pulls some paper towels and leaves the room. Joe waits a good fifteen minutes before opening his stall door. In the corner is a puddle of blood and piss slowly spilling towards a drain at the center of the floor. There are dark-red splatters on the wall and the where the man was slammed into the stalls. A trail of watery-red shoe prints from the corner lead to a dirty sink before heading out the door. Joe washes his hands at a different sink before leaving the bathroom and walking back into screening room number two; taking his former seat in time for the next showing.