Yes! A good description. I remember doing that and the guilt/worry that I might be seen.
Later in life I found a very quiet newsagent shop, with a good top shelf, run by a couple in their forties. She had a nice mature body with big tits and I would try to wait until he was serving so I could hand her my purchases. (Remember Peaches?) I passed her the glossy mags wrapped in a newspaper and I liked her reaction and knowing that she knew why I wanted them.

Looking at them was one form of thrill; purchasing them was another type of thrill; and then finally getting some alone time with your purchase, that was another type of thrill. That's the way it was for me, anyway.

It took me a few trips before I could whack up the ginger to even walk through the door. Mrs Banks worked a few steps away from the vendor, and I was afraid one of her bosses or coworkers would bollick out the office door after working late and see me about the place. "Hey, I saw your husband last night at the fuck book store."

Once I got in, I found the books were in clear plastic bags and stapled in rows to the walls. Black-and-white books went for $5 each; B&W with some color pictures were $7; all color books were $10 and up. No videos for sale as the VCR wasn't even in stores yet.

And the customer could only look at the front cover and the back, although flipping the mag up to look at the back meant you were looking at the back cover upside down. At that time, even $5 was a shit ton load of money to me. I would agonize over which book to get, trying to get the most I could for the money.

Once I was there looking for a mag and there was this guy just hanging around the back by a drink vending machine. He was wearing a blue uniform-type of garb. When I left, he followed me back to my car, walking 10, maybe 15 yards back. As I got to my car and opened the door, he called out to me, "How about a blow job?" or something like that.

I was young and very nervous about being there. I called back, "No, thanks."

He said, "I'll do all the sucking." I just got in the car quick as I was able and got out of there.

Some months later I changed jobs and that guy was a regular customer there at my new place of employment. I don't think he recognized me; he barely saw me, from behind and rather dim lighting. I never said anything to him about it. I met and got to know a little bit his brother, and found out from him that the guy who'd followed me was a married man, father, seemed to be a regular guy.

While I did not want to be judged by the wrong people, I did also like to be judged by the right one's I do remember Peaches magazine and was a rare find. Though on each occasion there was a busty female serving. Unfortunately for me, the only times I found it was when I was well away form home so could not use the places on many occasions. I did however enjoy seeing their reactions to my purchases.

Always easy to say what we would do after the fact and another to actually do it at the time

In the early days I was always very nervous going into shops to buy all my glamour girls mags. Later I grew to love it, and I'd go in in my 'dirty' mac, even on warm days, and I'd choose shops where ladies served. My favourite was Aphrodities where I went for many years, buying lots of mags with my mac open showing my spunk-stained trousers, putting my hands through the holes in my pockets and opening my case crammed with dirty books to pack the new ones in. I even opened some of my mags at pages showing ads for mags so She could see the spunk stains and my pervy captions. Those were the days...

Everything about the whole experience was part of the excitement.

True but we all have our fave parts

posted before but....
I agree. Hanging around outside. Waiting until the shop was empty, I'd get more and more excited - and nervous - about the thrill of going in to buy them. I'd scan the top shelf (this is the UK in the 70s/80s) and take a couple of mags down, flicking them open. Then the exciting/embarrassing bit - taking the mags to the sales counter with a raging hard on and the knowing look from the female sales assistant who (deliberately, I think) took an age to look for the price of each, ring them up, and laying them on the counter in full view while she took the money and opened the till and sorted the change. And me getting redder and redder as a queue behind formed and she going as slowly as possible to make me squirm as she fiddled with a brown paper bag and finally the relief as she handed them to me with sometimes the steely 'enjoy yourself' comment, heavy with all its implied meaning, you wanker, you loser...
And then the excitement of smuggling them indoors, cock bulging with anticipation. Carefully opening the brown wrapper later in bed, then opening up to see all those Escort lovelies in stockings and suspenders, all that hairy cunt. Then a long slow wank, edging and edging, building up the pleasure. Then, when you'd found the most exciting pic or the horniest reader's letter, the huge release of spunk, spurting onto chest, face and bedroom wall.
Many nights maybe weeks with the new magazines, masturbating to several climaxes until you were wanting new images, new stories - and having to go through it all again, the thrill building at the thought.
Mmmm, I particularly liked Mary Millington in Playbirds - she was one of the first in the UK who loved to spread her pussy for the camera. God only knows how many times she helped me cum :-)

Amidst the open air, I lingered, biding time,
Anticipating emptiness within that aged shop's chime,
A surge of excitement intertwined with nerves, a dance,
Yearning for the thrill as fate beckoned, a chance.

Upon the high shelf, within a bygone UK's embrace,
Lay the tales of tails, a secret, a clandestine space,
I'd retrieve a couple, flicking pages with stealth,
A clandestine rendezvous, a pursuit of self.

To the counter, I'd tread, courage not yet old,
The sales assistant's gaze, her story subtly told,
Each price sought deliberately, suspense in the air,
Laying them forth, exposing a clandestine affair.

Blushing hues adorned my cheeks, a queue amassed,
She'd linger, deliberate, making moments last,
A brown paper bag, an emblem of veiled desire,
With a whispered "enjoy yourself," fueling the fire.

And in that hush, with treasures now mine to hold,
Unveiling worlds within, in whispers yet untold,
Many a night, perhaps weeks, with those newfound dreams,
Seeking fresh tales, fueling the thrill, or so it seems.

The first few times I bought them in newsagents I was served by men I was nervous but nothing to worry about. When I was served by women initially I was nervous and felt my face going red, but that stopped and I enjoyed it and loved the fact some of them were old and young. I would imagine what they looked like naked with mostly the older ones I got to enjoy their bodies as they were very forward with the chat if the shop wasn't busy giving me either their phone numbers/addresses or telling me when they got off so we could meet in local park or country lanes. I also got with some of the younger women when their boyfriends/husbands weren't paying them much attention. They used to like looking at the magazines with me and then the sex was unreal with some of them wishing they were daring enough to send in Readers Wives pictures for men to see which got them so wet just thinking about it. Wish we could go back to how it used to be in newsagents.

I so miss those days when you could walk into a newsagents and there would be all those girlie magazines on the top shelf, with the glossy horny covers enticing you with descriptions of the contents inside. Like a lot of guys I would be extra turned on if there was a female assistant behind the counter, I would have such a hard on and usually she would really seem to be taking her time serving me, looking for the prices of the mags and handling them so seductively. I would be thinking to myself that the next pair of hands touching them would be me.I loved the idea she was probably thinking to herself that I was going to be Naked at home soon Wanking for the rest of the day in my bedroom by myself. To a Lifelong Wanker like myself I totally miss the days when magazines were the go to for Wankers like me.