One small step for porn,
One giant leap for Nashville
Buying “adult” products in Nashville sure ain’t what it used to be. And believe me, my little chickadees, that’s a very good thing.
You see, a recent visit to Hustler Hollywood—that slick, neon cathedral of slutty shoes, sex toys, and hard-core DVDs—got me thinking about this subject. It was about ten in the evening when I pulled into the well-lit, landscaped parking lot. Inside, where all was spotless and sanitary, I browsed nicely merchandised aisles of lingerie and flavored lubricants. Employees greeted me with a smile and asked if I needed help; fellow customers roamed the store, fearlessly commenting on the larger than life implants of a particular porn star or the awe-inspiring dimensions of a particular dildo.
You might be thinking, “big deal”… In which case you are obviously either a recent transplant or have only come of legal porn-buying age since 2005, when Hustler opened its doors, and the legs of eager Nashvillians soon followed suit.
For once upon a time—and not too long ago, either—the residents of our fair city had a harder time purchasing items to get their rocks off. When I moved here in the early 90s, people who thought they were clever often joked that there was a church and a strip club on every corner of the downtown area. But while there were institutions to cater to every possible flavor of Christianity or pole dancing, there was no variety of adult stores. The naughty shops were not only tucked away with shame in undesirable neighborhoods, but were, in and of themselves, extremely unpleasant locations. You could get a lap dance, or pray, in comfortable surroundings; but you couldn’t buy a strap-on in a building that didn’t look like the setting for a snuff film.
Dimly lit parking lots led to low, dank, windowless buildings. The décor inside left you with the impression that you had wandered into some pervert’s nasty, moldy basement. If you were unfortunate enough to drop your keys, you picked them up very carefully, hoping to avoid the DNA of the generations of Nashville wankers who had frequented the rumored glory holes in the back rooms. A single employee usually sat behind a counter, leering and not even being remotely helpful. But, really, places like these were not designed with customer service in mind—the entire set-up seemed designed for the sole purpose of shaming the customer into silently overpaying for the meager selection of adult goodies. Which is why I’m happy to say I haven’t set foot onto those funky, spunky carpets since Hustler came into town.
Of course, not everyone was happy to see Hustler set up shop on Church Street. Both sides of the [entirely bogus] left-right dichotomy have long had their own reasons to disapprove of Mr. Flynt’s empire. Conservative religious groups have been known to sporadically protest in front of the shop, on account of pornography being evil and all; and the die-hard liberals usually have issues with the objectification of women. To the first faction, I have nothing to say, as they obviously already consider me hell-bound. To the second group, I would urge tolerance. I personally don’t have moral objections to fake-breasted women with shaved beavers, but even if I did I would still consider Hustler to be a tremendous step forward. Maybe one of these days we’ll get a female-centric sexual health shop a lá Good Vibrations, but in the meantime it is awesome enough that local gals can purchase their Rabbits in a safe, professional environment, without having to worry about getting assaulted in the parking lot or sneered at by the guy with the molestache behind the counter.
In fact, when I drive past the shop, and see it blazing forth in all of its tacky glory—fully visible from the interstate, no less—I feel the opposite of nostalgia for the old days. While the entire experience of making a group run to the Purple Onion or the World’s Largest Adult Bookstore could be mildly titillating in an “oh-my-God-we’re-being-so-dirty” kind of way, that excitement quickly faded when you ran out of dental dams late at night and realized you were too chicken to venture in there on your own. And while there was a certain subversive charm in providing yourself with an escort and venturing into the filthy wilderness in search of sexual satisfaction, nothing can compare to buying your necessaries in a convenient, shame-free fashion.
So it is with pride that I walk into Hustler’s glassy palace of smut rather than creeping into some dubious shop. And when I purchase the enchantingly titled “Cunt Coloring Book,” I’m perfectly content when the chipper sales associate puts it into a visibly branded bag, rather than the anonymous brown paper bag the perv behind the counter would have slipped it into with a lascivious wink. In the 21st century, a girl should be able to purchase a vagina-themed coloring book without shame or fear of hell, and Hustler Hollywood is the bright city on a hill, showing Nashville what it means to be sexy without being dirty.
Originally published by the Nashville Edge, 2007-2008.
May 6, 2009 at 11:21 pm | writings | No comment