Where there’s smoke....

or “The Orgasmic Mr Fox”

On the afternoon of Wednesday March 25, I came across this shocking item on CBC.ca:

Undercover officer alleges XXX activity at porno theatre

An undercover police officer says that casual sex, prostitution and drug use are making Vancouver’s last XXX film theatre a health risk.

This comes as Vancouver’s licencing department prepares to debate the future of the pornographic establishment.

CBC News obtained a copy of an email to the city’s licensing department by Vancouver police Const. Mark Jarvie, who revealed that he went undercover at the Fox Cinema earlier this year.

As the movie screened, he watched men perform sexual acts on one another, female prostitutes with clients, and was himself approached and propositioned.

During a series of visits by police in uniform in 2008, Jarvie says officers witnessed sex acts, an overwhelming unpleasant pungent odour, puddles of body fluids and excrement, and even patrons smoking.

“My god,” I thought, my face flushing with indignant anger. “People are smoking in there? Disgusting.”

However, it must be said that if there’s one thing more dangerous than second-hand smoke in a porno house, it’s law enforcement personnel. When you open your fly in the presence of Vancouver’s finest, you could be taking your very life into your hands—given that an erect penis is long, hard, fits comfortably in one’s palm, and is handy for sticking together pieces of paper, a cop could easily mistake it for a stapler.

But I digress. Given their recent track record, I sure as hell wasn’t going to take the testimony of the Vancouver PD at face value. And so, that very night, I paid an undercover visit to the notorious Fox Cinema.

* * *

I attended the Fox Cinema in plain clothes between 9:10pm and 11:45pm on Wednesday March 25. Upon entering the theatre (which is, interestingly, next door to a place called “Wang On Blinds”) I sat down in a central aisle seat and waited for my eyes to adjust.

On the big screen, an African-American man and woman were making sweet love in glorious Super-VHS. The sound was turned down low—so low that I could just hear the faint sounds of wanking all around me, like the furiously beating wings of a distant flock of Vaseline-drenched birds. Yes, naughty things were afoot in this place, which appeared to contain between nine and twelve other men—an accurate head-count was difficult as some patrons were lying on the floor.

It didn’t take long to verify some aspects of the police report. There were indeed men performing sexual acts, both on themselves and each other, in plain sight. There was what appeared to be a naked female prostitute and client up in the balcony area (getting kicked out of the balcony area, in fact).

And I was quickly “approached and propositioned” by a short, chubby gentleman who fixed me with a distinctly pervy stare and stated, in a rough, thickly-accented voice: “Suck-ehh, suck-ehh.” I declined with a polite wave, and he courteously left me alone for the rest of the evening.

Contrary to the police report, however, there was no detectable “overwhelming unpleasant pungent odour,” and although I did my best to locate “puddles of body fluids and excrement,” none could be found. Not even in the bathroom, which to my surprise was clean, brightly lit, and contained no copulating mammals whatsoever.

As for smoking, at least four patrons were enthusiastically smoking what appeared to be crack cocaine. Surprisingly, no one was smoking marijuana, or even tobacco—until the disturbing incident that I shall now relate.

It started innocently enough. A handsome male in his late twenties sat down across the isle from me, pulled his penis out of his pants and proceeded to pump said penis with the relaxed, confident strokes of a man who clearly loves the journey at least as much as the destination. Verily, this guy really knew how to masturbate, and he wanted me to know it too.

The stroking went on for perhaps 15 or 20 minutes, and then suddenly, like an elysian epileptic crushing a cream-filled pastry in an involuntarily clenching fist, he ejaculated. He then produced a tissue from his pocket and cleaned himself up, leaving behind no puddles of body fluids. Or excrement.

But then, this model masturbator did something frankly appalling. With his spent, flaccid member still poking languidly out of his pants, he leaned back contentedly in his seat and pulled from his pocket not a crack pipe but a tobacco cigarette. Which he casually placed between his lips and lit with a butane lighter.

“My god,” I thought, my face flushing with indignant anger. “He’s smoking in here. Disgusting.”

Unbelievably, none of the assembled wankers, cocksuckers, crackheads and voyeurs took umbrage at this rogue tobacco smoker. (Maybe they were all out-of-towners. I don’t know.) So I didn’t say anything. I just gave him a dirty look, got up, and left.

In conclusion, the VPD’s claims of health hazards at the Fox are exaggerated and/or out of date. The cops think the place is a sewer, but I think any reasonable person would agree that it’s merely a gutter. And there’s nothing wrong with a gutter so long as it gets hosed down—with water, I mean—every now and then. I also think the police should refrain from molesting the Fox’s patrons, as they’re already doing a pretty good job of molesting each other.

Additional visits (and perhaps even some selective audience participation) may be needed to produce a more comprehensive report, but based on my current observations I would advise the city not to revoke the Fox Cinema’s business licence. Indeed, the Fox is the only movie house in town—except perhaps the Scotiabank Theatre—where you can casually pull out your johnson and stroke it without fear of being escorted from the premises. And if we lose that, a lot of Vancouverites will stop coming to the movies.