Stale Fritos
When you're the height of the average Ewok, and gettin' laid more than Home Depot linoleum, you don't ask questions.
Thanks to decades in the foxholes of fucking, I knew the "D" would eventually disappear from the dice, and they'd go cold. Given enough time, they always did.
Voted Most Likely to Never Be Remembered, I was a high school loser.
I was also a single, male swinger boasting decades of experience. With over 3,000 notches on my bedpost, we weren't talkin' a weekend spent in single's bars, post-divorce. The threesome — with the same couple — every New Year's Eve, doesn't count.
Determined to play with 5,000 women — before my heart's final beat — I'd dedicated my existence to a goal most would conclude unattainable...and probably asinine.
Kinkier than an aged garden hose, she appeared primed for dong, like a virgin on her wedding night. At least that's the way her Internet ad had been worded. Poring over Casual Encounters, midday, it seemed I'd found the ace to complete my full house.
The online classified claimed a wanton woman awaited at a glory hole an hour from my home. I'd seen the ad before, but had yet to respond within enough time to reap its benefits. On this occasion, however, I declared I'd be more victorious than Hannibal and his elephant army in northern Italy.
Unfortunately, en route to the specified locale, my trustworthy, metallic mare gravitated toward a pothole I'd passed — sans incident — thousands of times prior.
Two miles into my onslaught, the crater in question clipped my right, front tire.
My truck careened out of control, like the late Haim on a coke binger. When the dust settled, I came to rest in a field; my tire more shredded than a steroid-addicted bodybuilder.
My mind raced. I was a mere two miles from the homestead. If I could sprint the distance — most of which was uphill — I might still make my rendezvous with the shapely trailer trash seeking sausage.
I could use my mom's car. Yes, I lived with my mom. Once I'd had my cock anonymously sucked through a breach between two rooms — each the size of a hallway closet — I'd feel a whole lot better about havin' my truck towed out of a field.
A two mile sprint? No problem. I biked 20 miles a day.
Let me begin by stating that normal humans aren't meant to run uphill, at full speed, two miles consecutively. This fact became all too apparent 30 seconds into my shitty race for sex!
Was I seriously this desperate?! Of course I was. My life had revolved around bare tit, since the first one I saw in National Geographic. Now, some 25 years later, here I was, risking a massive coronary to obtain a simple blowjob.
Anybody who asserts women are the weaker sex are as delusional as people who believe Oprah's constantly-revolving hairstyles are natural.
Suffice it to say, I didn't make my appointment with oral gratification. In fact, I quickly discovered my AAA membership of 12 years had expired the month prior. I was also made privy to how little said corporation truly cares about those who pay them tens of thousands of dollars over the course of a decade. One missed installment, and the feigned compassion ends.
The monetary system: It's as useful as an appendix.
Obviously, I received less sex from this endeavor than the head of the chess club does via the prom queen.
Bending over for the slender pee pee, the Automobile Association of America likes to refer to as it's schlong, I paid my bill. Hours later, my vehicle was once again intact, and I was on the road.
Certain the hole from the previous classified had gone dark, I ventured forth to another house of ill repute.
Wandering the lobby of a local porn store, I continually asked myself why I was here for the sixth time. Because I naively believed the claims of a swinger friend who asserted this shithole was teeming with horny women.
More credulous than those following the Heaven's Gate cult, I took note of the Ebony Princess working the counter. Since I'd been on premises to rent a movie, and view it upstairs — where it was possible I'd receive sex — I chose a classic to peruse in my personal viewing booth. Fuck Me, White Boy! appeared appropriate.
Of course, the clerk was less enthralled by my selection than Don King is of a pot-bellied, white, one-armed boxer.
Upstairs, things were more dead than a guy in a motor-less rowboat, ringed with meat, in shark-infested waters.
Should this location be devoid of women, yet again, I pledged it would be my last undertaking at this particular venue.
I fired up my cinematic selection.
Folks trickled in. Unfortunately, all in attendance were male.
Without warning, a female ventured upstairs, followed by what appeared to be her husband.
Grabbing my bag of stale Fritos — which I'd purchased from a vending machine in the porn store's mezzanine — I pursued the duo to the deluxe rooms.
Clearly not seeking company, the couple locked the door behind them. Knowing this could change at any moment, I placed my ear against the closed entrance, and eavesdropped.
These two were watching the feared porn with a plot. Seventies stuff, from what I could determine. Not good. When folks are earnestly desirous of humping, they can't be bothered by story line.
Next comes the couple's conversation, which went something like this:
"Do you really think Trish and Dale will sell their house?"
"The market's soft. They'll be lucky if they get half what they put into that place."
"Jesus, I can't stand watching 'em struggle like this. Isn't there anything we can do?"
"You're kidding, right? Steve Hendricks is on the fuckin' warpath at work — help me with this, will, ya'? They make these goddamned packages so difficult to get into — I may have to take a pay cut, as it is."
"Oh, Tim, you're not serious?"
My ear bled profusely, as I dry heaved uncontrollably. "How did I wander into the least sexual porn shop on Earth?!"
Despondent, I turned, only to find myself face-to-kneecap with the most gigantic transvestite in the history of cross dressing! She spanned the dimly-lit hallway, making travel back to my viewing dispensary — which seemed a safe house, at this point — impossible.
Eventually, I reached my booth, and decided it was best I throw in the proverbial towel. Before departure, I observed the girl from the aforementioned couple headed for the bathroom. Redemption! Galvanized with a goal, I pulled "it" out for fresh air, and pumped my most prized possession with plenary passion.
Moments later, the woman emerged, glaring at me in disgust, on her way back to a dude who was certain the annual percentage rate is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Admitting defeat, I ate the remainder of my Fritos, came to the end of interracial, cinematic heaven, and made for the door. Once again, my pathway was blocked by a transsexual similar in size to a Ford F-350.
As it turned out, said cross dresser was a regular at this locale, and a wealth of knowledge. She confirmed this venue was as easy for a straight guy to get laid in as a gay bathhouse. I stood out in this place like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar at a KKK rally.
As a result, I bid my tranny acquaintance a good night, and made a beeline for the nearest establishment offering alcoholic alleviation.
Just one of a million tales in the Big City, and nothin' I'll recollect five years from now. A story you probably hope to never remember, as you finish reading it.
— authored by Hugh Mungus
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