Surprise Suck At Photo Booth by loyalsock

Finally, I was going to get a vacation. My damn boss never gave me any time off, but since I'm self-employed I had only myself to blame. I run a small electrical contracting company and business is quite good. Having been through slow times before, my motto was &#034Never turn down work.&#034 However, I've been going for nearly two years with little more than a day or two for kayaking, or hiking, or taking Stephanie to some exotic location like an abandoned stable to show her new ways to use ropes, or maybe a jacuzzi suite at a nearby hotel. Due to her college course load and the fact that she still lived with her mom who had no idea she was screwing the older guy next door, I only got to see her two or three times a month. So it was with heavy balls that I marched into the local mall in search of one of those do-it-yourself photo booths. See, my passport was out of date and I needed a new one if I wanted to leave the country. Well, I could leave but I couldn't get back in again. I needed the photos to include with my passport renewal application, along with the requisite form, my old passport, and of course, their fee. They said four-to-six weeks to get my new one, so realistically I needed to get the paperwork on its way pronto if I wanted to leave before the next ice age. When I was a k** those photo booths were everywhere; a box the size of a closet where people go in, sit on a little bench, and mug for the camera. There's usually a thin curtain to conceal them from …
the passers-by, and they're often used by d***k k**s to get those I-can't-believe-I-got-her-to-kiss-me photos that the girls often regretted the next day but the boys hung onto forever. Sometimes more than kissing went on, but the curtain stopped a foot or so from the floor and the booths were usually in crowded places like boardwalks, fairs, and shopping malls, so it was tough to get too crazy. But when I had gone online earlier to find one I was surprised that Olympia had very few. The nearest location was the mall a few miles away, and that's how I found myself weaving among women in shopping Nirvana, k**s yakking on cells phones, and families with husbands who looked like they'd rather be at the dentist. At last I spotted the booth. It stood right in the middle of the broad walkway, people flowing around it like a river around a rock. There was a shoe shop and a couple of teeny-bopper clothing stores on one side, and a cheap import store, a black-light-filled head shop, and a (gasp) book seller on the other. Muzak echoed from the thirty-foot ceilings and a babble of voices filled the air. The place smelled of popcorn and women with too much perfume and too much time on their hands. Walking up to the booth, I noticed it seemed bigger than the ones I'd seen as a k**. I felt a little self-conscious going in alone, kind of like a guy who goes to an amusement park by himself. But no one paid me any attention so I stepped inside and pulled the curtain closed. The curtain was a

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