How Marty Got His Groove Back

One night at the movies, with retarded sex offenders

So, working one night for Seguin Step Out, I had set up a trip to take four guys to a movie. Movie trips were always touchy compared to other destinations. You had to make sure each guy going would be okay with the content of the movie, both in terms of how he'd like it and in terms of their “high risk” exposure. We did not approve of taking pedophiles to kiddie movies, for example, and it was a rare night when at least one guy on the list was not some flavor of sex offender. On this particular night, it was three out of four. This story is all about one in particular.

Lets call him Marty. Lemme tell you about Marty. In a program designed for retarded sex offenders, he was one of the most extreme. He was extremely retarded; his IQ was in the forties, by far the lowest in the program. He was extremely short, right at five feet nothing. And his penis was extremely enormous. It was at least a foot long, and as big around as his wrist. I never measured it, but when he got a hardon he looked like a jack. You know, like when kids play with jacks, the little spiky things that you step on and cuss a lot? Like that, only retarded and naked. Marty was the kind of sex offender that was often referred to as “non-specific,” meaning that he was turned on by a wide variety of things. Like mammals, soft chairs, stacks of pancakes, pretty much anything squishable and in any proximity to his titanic dick.

There were several “rules” regarding Marty that were in place only for him, specifically to account for his penile logistics. No sweat pants or shorts, ever. Jeans only; nice, baggy jeans. He was not allowed on any of the meal trips (oh, you thought I was kidding about the pancakes?) or several other categories of destination. Also, we had to keep an eye out for the female staff from other programs, some of whom would have cheerfully kept him on a leash in their back yards, to rent him out on weekends like a ride.

Now, at the time of this story, he'd made remarkable progress in how he controlled his impulses to whip out his junk. He was earning privileges, including more trips to town, but we had to work harder to find places for him to go. Imagine the staff meetings we had! On second thought, don't, they were horrible.

So Marty wanted to go to the movies. Okay, but what do you go to see? It couldn't have anything to do with kids, or even have child actors as a main part of the show. It couldn't even be playing at a theater or at a time when kid movies were being shown nearby, because we couldn't even bring him into the lobby. After several phone calls and scouring the newspaper (the Internet was still in its toddlerhood then), we decided on How Stella Got Her Groove Back.

We had it all worked out. One van, four clients, two staff (Linda wanted to see this movie, so she came with me). We get to the theater, get our popcorn and drinks, and into the seats without incident. Two guys wanted to sit in the middle with Linda and I, but the other two (including Marty) wanted to sit waaaaaay down in front. We could still see them, and there weren't too many people in the movie, so it was okay.

So the movie comes on. If you've seen the movie, you remember it being pretty innocuous, I don't even remember what it was rated. No kids to speak of, no worries. Now normally on a trip like this I was the reigning champion of hypervigilance. It is hard to relax and stay on your game to make sure you bring home your clients without incident when they interact with the rest of the world. So far, this trip seemed to be going smoothly.

Then they showed the scene where the girl runs across the screen with no shirt on. It lasts about three seconds. Every guy in the theater starts hooting, you know, like guys do. Just then, Linda throws a hard elbow to my ribs.

“What the hell, Linda! What-”

Now I see that her eyes are about as big around as headlights and she is pointing down to the front of the theater. So I look to where our guys are sitting, to make sure they are still there. I see one guy sitting there, and next to him, in Marty's seat, all I see is the top of his head, bobbing up and down rhythmically over the seat back. One, two, three, four, oh my God he's jerking off. Right there, in the middle of the goddamn movie theater, he has unleashed The Kraken.

So I jump up and go running down the aisle. In reality, we were only about 50 feet away, but it seemed like it was taking forever to get there. I had time to do a lot of thinking, during that run. Mostly what I was thinking was “What the hell am I going to do when I get down there?” I mean, this was not part of my routine experience, you know? I couldn't throw a blanket over him because I didn't think to bring one. Who does that? If I shoved him out the fire exit it would set off the alarm. I couldn't drag him through the lobby, can you imagine? His unit knocking over displays and cardboard mannequins, popcorn spilling everywhere? Chaos. I can't just let him finish, but how do you stop him if he won't stop? Do they make handcuffs for this? What do I use, Blue Balls Jitsu?

Finally, I get there, expecting to see Marty's One Man Puppet Show Extravaganza. Instead, I see him sitting there, eyes fixed on the screen, dancing in his seat in a manner most consistent with the Cabbage Patch. Only a seated, retarded version. Fully clothed, no erections in view. He notices me standing there, smiles big, and gives me a thumbs-up. Then he puts his finger to his lips, as though reminding me that we're in a movie, don't be too loud.

I walk back to my seat, trying in vain to stop laughing. Linda is at the end of the aisle, looking past me to where Marty is sitting.

“Did, did you see it? Did he have it out? What's he-”

“Linda, sit down. He was just dancing in his seat because he got to see boobies.”

She stared at me for a second, then laughed. Then she whispered, “I never seen you run like that! What were you gonna do if he was doing that?”

I had no idea then, and hindsight has not lent me any answers even in retrospect. It was like my own well-hung retarded Kobayashi Maru: no winner possible.

Author's Note

See Seguin Explained for the setup