A Double Dip

FOUR MAIDENS

"It's all about money, not freedom. If you think you're free, try going somewhere without money, okay?"

― Bill Hicks

Four maidens disrobed poolside, but only one tugged at Excalibur.

Sure as Craig T. Nelson from Coach is the evil overlord of Hades, this was PJ's initial trip to a swing venue. Thanks to the Internet, said tawdry tart was on a first date. In fact, she professed to be in search of a relationship. At a fuck facility?! She'd have more luck proving Whoopi Goldberg doesn't retain a Y chromosome than she would uncovering love at an ass arena!

After engaging a couple ― who solely spoke Spanish ― in repartee that flowed like dried mud, and becoming more frustrated than a guy with a 12 inch penis and no pee hole, I plied my terrible trade with PJ. Our lass du jour was a buxom beauty with superhero squirting skills.

As sure as a pair of undescended testicles reside between Oprah's legs, PJ was nude in moments, enthusiastically consuming cocks in the Jacuzzi. She had more nuts in her mouth than a plump squirrel living in Central Park.

Akin to a skilled photographer, I got the picture. Seconds later, I found myself slingin' sausage ― against our leading lady's ass ― with the vehemence of a hot dog vendor during a Yankee Stadium double header.

French Stewart will be crowned King of the U.S., before Jacuzzi sex becomes easy. Thus, I suggested an exodus to the Bed of Blasphemy: the most well-used mattress in the metropolitan area, although no one ― unless having sex with me ― has actually slept upon it.

My recommendation was heeded, and festivities continued on solid ground.

Not bad for a day that began so slowly, I initially pondered going through the metal detector at the airport to see if TSA would feel me up, so I could get my jollies.

I'd like to assert this recent journey to the cum cottage in question kicked more ass than Bruce Lee goin' 15 rounds with a donkey on sleeping pills, but I'd be lying. One salacious senorita ― when uncharted territory, though ― is definitely worth an entrance fee comparable to a Martin Sheen concert at SeaWorld!

ANATOMY 101

"Days grow shorter and the nights are getting long

Feels like we're running out of time

Every day it seems much harder tellin' right from wrong

You got to read between the lines

Don't get discouraged, don't be afraid, we can

Make it through another day

Make it worth the price we pay"

― Triumph

Hookin' up with women is easier than choking to death on one's own vomit, whilst watching The Ellen DeGeneres Show. Thus, I lose less sleep over being turned down than a narcoleptic overdosing on Lunesta and NPR broadcasts.

Been workin' it the better part of a week, and it appears to be takin' a dive akin to a Rodney Dangerfield Triple Lindy.

Seems more worthwhile than the impetuous shit most people come up with, though:

"I'm 104 years old, and I've never run a triathlon, after skydiving naked without a parachute, following a bare-knuckled brawl with a pack of ravenous lions. Even though I don't have any arms, and haven't walked since the age of three, I'm goin' for it!"

Of course, CNN is on the first leg of this fucker's stupid-ass journey, promoting his asinine attempt to kill himself ― because somebody didn't fuck enough women when he was younger ― like it's an inspiration to us all.

As should be expected, the bastard suffers a massive coronary before he can even leave his wheelchair, shitting himself on camera. At that point, the pack of lions break free from their cage ― mauling this son of a bitch in his death throes. Shortly thereafter, the plane he was slated to skydive from loses an engine, and crashes into the entire sordid mess.

I may not always be as successful as a home run competition between Barry Bonds and a drunken six year old with his arms tied behind his back ― "Shit! Look, little man! Yet another one outta the park!" ― but I do persist.

Case in point, Marianna and Sol finally replied. Communication with these two can be as effective as attending a Women's Lib convention, continually using the word "cunt" in conversation, and hoping to get laid.

Due to pursuing this lead with a stalker-reminiscent mentality, I prevailed, and found myself nude atop said housewife in a motel that wreaked of burning tractor-trailer brakes, unfiltered Mavericks, and deep fried roadkill.

Earlier, I'd received an E-mail from the meth-smokin', ex-con husband of the Austrian wife I hooked-up with this past Friday. Said stud enlightened me I was rude for not firing off my "Howitzer" during the interlude with his significant other.

I didn't respond. With this guy's history of domestic violence ― and extended prison time ― in the words of Apollo Creed, "Ain't gonna be no rematch!"

This prior week, at a local swing shanty, I attended Anatomy 101 with a newbie named Apple. Well, said senorita was new to me, but a 15 year veteran of the screw scene.

Rusty ― a second tenderfoot ― allowed me to taste her tits, as hubby dug his drill inside her.

An older duo arrived, and hit the pool. Apparently, they became more annihilated than innocent Iraqis during the bombing of Baghdad, and invited my friend Terry back to Room 14. Unfortunately, said couple were in Room 28.

As such, Terry wandered aimlessly for half an hour, before returning poolside, and doing his best to shoot a load on a lesbian.

The older couple then departed ― still more hammered than a hundred miles of railroad spikes ― and careened their metal carriage into oncoming traffic.

When said and done, I would've paid more for two large pies at a local pizzeria than I did for this memory of a lifetime.

― authored by Hugh Mungus