Behind the Curtain: Forbidden Pleasures and the Mythology of the Adult Section

Every video store had one. Somewhere in the back. Past the kids’ section. Beyond the action aisle. Usually near a cardboard cutout of Van Damme or a handwritten sign about rewinding tapes.

The red curtain.

To a kid in the ‘80s or early ‘90s, it was less a room and more a portal. A glowing, velvety gateway to forbidden pleasures and confusing emotions. It dared you to imagine. To peek. To step inside, even though you absolutely, 100% weren’t allowed to.

I never did.

But I wanted to.

Oh god, did I want to.

The Final Frontier of Hormonal Curiosity

That curtain was like Schrödinger’s Porn Closet. It both did and did not contain every naked woman on Earth. You’d glance at it sideways while pretending to browse Police Academy 4. You’d linger nearby, just hoping some dude would walk out and hold the curtain open long enough for you to sneak a glimpse.

And sometimes… you saw them.

The boxes.

Faded, glossy covers with names like Body Chemistry II, Private Lessons, or The Awakening of Emily. All white lace and soft focus. A woman biting her lip. A man with an unbuttoned shirt and a saxophone nearby for some reason.

You didn’t know what the hell any of it meant, but you felt it.

Like an allergic reaction. In your soul. And your pants.

The Myth of the Room

There was always one kid, one liar, who swore he’d been inside.

“Dude, I saw it. There’s a shelf with, like, full-on sex.”

Bullshit, Jeremy.

But we believed him. Because we wanted to. Because we needed to believe that behind that curtain was some sacred VHS temple where grownups rented movies with titles they didn’t say out loud in the checkout line.

Some stores tried to be discreet, handing over unmarked black cases like they were part of a Cold War dead drop. But not mine. No. In my neighborhood, they gave you a bright red VHS tape. Blood red. The color of sin and full-frontal regret. Like a cinematic scarlet letter you had to carry across the store in full view of someone else’s grandmother.

You didn’t rent adult movies so much as you confessed to them.

The First Time I Almost Snuck In

There was a moment. I was maybe 11. My mom was in another aisle. The store was quiet. The curtain was… open. Just a crack.

I edged closer. Heart pounding. Brain screaming. I reached out a trembling hand.

And then the guy behind the counter coughed.

That was it. I was done. I bolted like I had just tried to rob the place. Because deep down, I knew – I wasn’t ready. I wanted it, but I couldn’t handle it. Not yet. Not like that.

It wasn’t just about nudity. It was about crossing some invisible moral threshold. Becoming something else. Someone else.

Someone who didn’t rewind Wargames after watching it.

The VHS of Shame

And if you did rent one of those forbidden films? God help you. Because in my neighborhood, that red curtain came with a red tape. A special, unmistakable blood-red VHS that screamed “ADULT CONTENT” in a room full of strangers. You’d have to stand there in line, sandwiched between a kid renting The NeverEnding Story and some guy returning Lethal Weapon 3, just holding that thing. Like you were cradling a fire alarm that screamed “THIS MAN IS ABOUT TO SEE BOOBS.”

There was no hiding it. No mystery. You were marked.

And if you ever did manage to peek past the curtain, even for a second, you saw those covers, and they changed you. Somewhere in the late ’80s or early ’90s, the box art went from softcore Euro cinema to straight-up apocalypse fuel. Gone were the tasteful silhouettes and satin sheets. Now it was all blown-out lighting and bodies folded like IKEA furniture.

Just one peek and you understood too much. You weren’t old enough for taxes, but now you had a working knowledge of things with names like “glory” and “gap” and “sluts 9.”

Which, let’s be honest, is how we all eventually understood South Park’s greatest contribution to the national lexicon:

“This is worse than Backdoor Sluts 9!”

Yes. Yes it was.

Looking Back Now

I’ve seen more than enough naked people in movies. Some I even paid for. Some I definitely shouldn’t have clicked on. And yeah, I’ve seen the worst corners of the internet, too; places that make the red curtain look like a Sesame Street pop-up shop.

But I’ll tell you something: the adult section of the video store? That felt big. It felt dangerous. It felt sacred. Because it wasn’t just about sex. It was about mystery.

And yeah – I did make it behind that curtain. As soon as I was old enough, and maybe a little before, I stepped through like I was entering the Forbidden Temple. And yeah… there were boobs. And saxophones. And so, so much baby oil.

But also? It was kind of awkward. The room smelled weird. The boxes were sticky. Not like that, I hope, but just generally old and handled too often. The covers had gotten more ruthless. Gone were the artfully posed, soft-lit seductions. Now it was just aggressive, full-frontal chaos that felt more clinical than erotic.

Still, I lingered. I picked up every box like I was decoding lost scrolls. I studied titles, scanned the backs, checked runtimes like they meant something. I soaked it all in, even if I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. It was overwhelming. A little disappointing. A little thrilling. Like most firsts.

And that’s the thing. The mystery was better than the reality. The idea of that room, what it represented, was bigger than what it delivered. It wasn’t really about sex. It was about growing up. Crossing over. Being allowed into a space that used to feel so far out of reach.

Now? There are no curtains. No off-limits aisles. No shame rituals. Just infinite access and no effort. Everything’s available, and somehow none of it feels earned.

But I still think about that red curtain sometimes. And I’m still glad I waited until I could walk in without looking over my shoulder. Even if all I got out of it was a bad Teri Weigel movie and the knowledge that mystery, not content, was what made it sacred.