Pornoisseur

For years, I was so concerned that I would be ridiculed for liking Coldplay that I hid the band’s CDs with the paranoid shame of a pornoisseur.

The fellow behind the desk — I’ll call him Rahim — was, like everything else in the store, bathed in enough fluoresence to radiate even greater shame and humility on the pornoisseur, which, at this hour, included no one other than myself.

I’d heard similar proclamations from pornoisseur friends, but a celebrated adult performer calling it the pinnacle of smut.