I Watched a Guy Get Sexually Mummified at My Childhood Video Store

GONZO

Bondage class at Michigan’s Occult 83

By Jesse Larkins · September 18, 2026 · 10 min read

Occult 83 gets colloquially referred to as the last video store in Michigan. Formerly known as Video Exclusive, the strip-mall mom-and-pop shop managed to survive the collapse of physical media by rebranding as a “retro adult boutique” in April ’25. I walked past it a few weeks ago, reminiscing about the hipsters and cinephiles who used to pack the place after school, only to see that it was now hosting workshops titled “Kink Class: Latex 101,” “Bondage Scouts,” and “Kink and Draw.” A week later, I was watching a tranny get package-taped to an office chair. Mummified, like the video store itself.

The slow death of the video store began earlier than most people remember. Blockbuster declared bankruptcy in 2010, and by 2014 they had completely pulled out of Michigan. The local franchises, like Family Video, held on until 2021, when COVID dealt the final blow. Most have now been repurposed as Dollar Generals and Pakistani dental offices. A more dignified fate than what’s happened to Occult 83.

Growing up, the video store was an institution. A place that was part of my family’s weekly routine. TVs hanging from the ceiling playing the latest releases. Feet connecting to vacuumed carpet. A comforting smell of industrial fresh plastic from new DVD cases. The nostalgia market has artificially capitalized on this particular sensation through Blockbuster scented candles that promise time travel from a whiff of synthetic popcorn.

I relished the opportunity to study its canon, surrounded by the candy-coated array of titles and sensational cover art. I can remember vividly being struck by haunting artwork that accompanied movies like The Shining or The Hitcher. Forbidden promises awaited if I could convince my dad to let me rent Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. We’d rent one a week, which meant we all had to agree. But the convenience of online streaming, mixed with the prospect of infinite choices on myriad devices, eventually eliminated the ritual.

I relayed the workshop titles to my girlfriend Allie, who suggested we attend one as an excuse to assess the state of the store. Images of the gimp in Pulp Fiction steered me away from “Latex 101.” And though it would have been funny to draw crude sketches of fat lesbians, we landed on the Bondage class. We went a week later, each downing a shot of tequila before we got in the car.

We approached the front door. A big state-mandated “18+ TO ENTER” sign plastered under the logo. Once inside, we saw why: massive rainbow-colored stuffed cocks, Fleshlights and stripper poles, dominatrix gear, and dildo variations including both werewolf and tentacle.

I asked the owners if I could use the restroom, and a soft panic overcame them, as if they might have to break up two guys sucking each other off so I could take a piss.

In contrast to the abundant queer paraphernalia was an inventory that spoke directly to my cineaste autism. VHS copies of Debbie Does Dallas alongside Tetsuo, preserved behind display glass. Before the class started, we purchased a copy of Carnal Knowledge and discreetly surveilled the people arriving for the workshop. A black man in a full suit and tie dropped a massive stack of video returns on the counter and, without stopping, speed-walked to the “Adults Only” section to rent more. Why not just go online? I wondered. We paid the class fee, and they stamped the back of our hands.

A cashier led us past the curtained section of black gangbang films into a stockroom that was lined with VHS. A black leather mat had been laid out on the floor with thirty or so chairs surrounding it. Spread across the mat were a variety of medical diagnostic tools and kitchen appliances: Saran Wrap, medical gauze, rolls of package tape, scissors, studded belts, and dog collars.

A tatted-up goth waif with V-shaped micro-bangs stood before the items in bulky cargo pants and catalogued them in her head. She shook out her nerves, like she was about to perform at the Globe. A skeletal long-haired boy in yoga pants and a crop top hugged himself tight, crouched on the floor at her legs like an obedient pet. His eyes darted rapidly, like a tweaker.

Flanked on either side of them, two volunteers sat at a folding table. A doughy Latino and a big bald man in a mesh crop-top jersey that read “Good Boy Department.” A surprising number of people continued to file in. The place became packed with an assortment of norwooding twinks and varicose trannies.

“My name is Petra,” began the goth. “I’m a Pro-Dom.”

She motioned to the boy on the ground looking up at her.

“This is Jane. She’s my sub.”

The boy, who I guess was being addressed with female pronouns, sheepishly smiled and waved.

“Who here has tried mummification before?” Petra said with a clap.

A baby-faced soyboy with a thinning mustache raised his hand.

“As a top or bottom?” she asked.

“Bottom.”

I wasn’t surprised.

“Nice,” she said. “By the way, this is the perfect type of kink for being on a budget.”

Her hands drifted delicately over each tool, referring to the wide array of different kitchen appliances that could be used to facilitate the bondage as the “kitchen kink.” The perfect fetish for downwardly mobile dinergoth types who can’t afford to travel or buy drugs.

She hammered the point that she and Jane (who was a man and was probably named something like Joe) had pre-negotiated every act beforehand, but that she would continue to affirm consent throughout “the scene.” The safety of the worthless, obedient, degraded, piece-of-shit sub was of the utmost importance.

“I’m sorry I’m so anal, but as some of you may know, there was a recent mummification incident that resulted in the death of a sub, and the OnlyFans model was sentenced to prison. So I take this stuff very seriously.”

I checked to see if I had a discreet enough angle from prying eyes to pull my phone out. It felt like the whole room was made aware of its presence, especially suspicious of Allie’s and my blatantly straight relationship.

“Without further ado, we’re gonna start with something I like to call the bitch suit.”

Jane stood up straight, holocaust arms at his sides, my eyes couldn’t help but drift down to the bulge. The guy was in a perpetual state of half-chub; not even trying to tuck.

Petra made sure Jane didn’t need to use the restroom before she took folded kitchen towels and placed them between his ankles and knees.

“I’m just gonna put some towels in to help add padding to these bony areas so they don’t rub up against each other.”

She handed him a dog clicker.

“One click to signal that you need air and two clicks to be let out.”

She explained this to him and then had him repeat it back to her.

“Good girl.”

She then took a roll of pallet wrap and stretched it across him. She spun it around him several times, making sure not to pull too hard on his skin. She started from the top, made her way to the feet, then back up to the top again. Everything below the head was encased in a jet-black sarcophagus.

I checked on Allie out of the corner of my eye. Curious to see if she was attempting to tame reflexive reactions of disgust. She was stoic, seemingly confused. It wasn’t really clear yet how any of this was actually sexual.

“I normally wrap people from 20 minutes to an hour. I haven’t done an all-day mummification scene. That sounds fun, but I’d have to learn how to work a catheter.”

A scatter of polite laughs.

“Next we’re going to demonstrate the type of impact play you can use on your sub.”

The package-wrapped tranny then did a trust fall into the Good Boy Department, and Petra lifted him up by his feet. From there, the two gently sat him down on the mat like he was about to be sacrificed. They put a red ball gag in his mouth, took out belts, and tied them around his legs.

“I got these really cool straps to give us even more compression,” she said, with the tone and delivery of an actor in a QVC commercial.

She then lay on the floor and used Jane to prop up her head while she talked to us.

“I could use Jane as human furniture and lay on her like she’s my ottoman. I could use her as a pillow. You can get really creative; you can mummify people to chairs, to furniture. A lot of fun predicaments you can put someone in.”

Petra then checked in with Jane, for the third or fourth time in the process, to make sure he was okay, safe, and consenting.

“Does anyone have any questions?”

An overweight woman who had been making eye contact with me raised her hand and asked, “How does it feel to breathe in that?” As though out-of-breathness was a problem she couldn’t afford to exacerbate.

“It’s not super restricting on the lungs,” she was quick to add, “but I wouldn’t recommend someone do it in a corset. Jane did a Shibari scene in a corset once, and that definitely restricted her breathing.”

The mental image of that guy in a corset was too much. I laughed in a way that signaled outsider status, and Allie kicked me in the side of the leg. Petra then talked about the care required when selecting certain Shibari ties, because they were dependent on your bottom’s genitalia. For instance, her “female” bottom who happened to have a dick. She then took safety shears and poked holes in the tape. She said to do this in case your sub was naked under the wrap and beginning to overheat. The overweight woman seemed to appreciate that we touched on overheating as well.

A mid-50s black man in a Ninja Turtles T-shirt raised his hand.

“Um, something I noticed earlier about the gag in her mouth, something I know from tons of experience, you want to be careful about stuffing something in somebody’s mouth because sometimes it can cause a choking hazard.”

Petra could barely conceal her annoyance.

“Yeah, definitely want to be mindful of that. Thank you for the tip.”

She then used the safety shears to cut Jane out of the cast. When he was free, the coil of used tape looked like a pile of shed snakeskin. It was unnerving and clinical, like the experience itself.

As I stared at the mummified remains, it became clear to me that the video store experience I remembered wasn’t coming back.

“Okay,” clapped the goth. “So now I’m gonna let Jane out. We can have Q and A time and playtime. If anybody needs a bathroom break, this is a great opportunity. And if you didn’t know, you get ten percent off anything in store! How’s everyone feeling after this?”

The class lunged forward. Detritus gays rushed to grab their choice of medical gauze, asking if there were extra clickers. Ninja Turtles guy started Saran-wrapping his geriatric male lover, a mummification so uncanny Allie and I wordlessly decided to leave.

On the way out, passing the previously mummified tranny, I politely said, “Have a good one.”

He lit up a Parliament and responded in a deeper voice than the one used back in the room, “Thanks for coming out, guys.”

Allie and I drove back home and crashed on the couch, attempting to find something to watch as we unwound. We succumbed to decision paralysis, scrolling through the options of four different streaming apps before eventually calling it quits.