A Double Dose

A COUPLE FRIES SHORT OF A HAPPY MEAL

"So many of the women in swing clubs spread easier than Skippy Smooth."

― Anonymous

Her tits were bigger ― and more interesting to me ― than the recent demise of American Top 40 DJ Casey Kasem. Hence, I grabbed those babies with as much glee as a shoplifter does merchandise, in a convenience store sporting no security cameras and a sleeping cashier.

From there, I migrated away from the pool table, and meandered into the back room, where Liza was dancing nude.

This Footloose female was the venue's live, flesh sex doll. As such, I knew she'd be a 24 hour Denny's ― open all night. Hence, I plied my trade with a Latin couple who spoke less English than I do street slang Hindustani.

Initially, the seas were rockier on this quest than an ocean drained of water. After an hour watching this inebriated wife flash her hair-laden honeypot, though, I eventually had a pair of delicious, cellulite-riddled ass cheeks in my palms.

Fifteen minutes later, the duo in question and I were headed to the couple's theater, in this maze of the mirthful.

Ten minutes following that, I found myself bangin' staff against a rapidly opening ― and rather accommodating ― doorway of delights, as the Mexican maiden beneath me pretended to cum.

Marv ― a second suitor ― made his way toward the festivities at just the right time. As such, I handed this brown beauty off ― like a football behind the line of scrimmage ― and headed to the opposite end of the grind house, where Liza was polishing pole.

Naked as a newborn, I positioned myself on the contiguous couch ― a single article of clothing beneath my non-existent ass, in order to protect myself from a decade's worth of bodily fluids embedded in the cushions. From this vantage point, I stroked like a PGA player on the open fairway.

Within moments, Liza sauntered over, dropped to her knees, and tasted my toothpick. Because I'm a loser, a couple minutes into the blowjob, I uttered, "Hi! I'm Hugh."

Gazing up from her task at hand, Liza inquired, "What?!"

"Hugh. That's my name. I'm Hugh."

The lovely lass rolled her eyes, as though I was more dorky than a farmer's tan; more retarded than Mr. Martini in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

"Uh, yeah. Whatever. I'm Liza," she stated, before engaging in seconds on my slight snack.

Eight minutes later, she was spread eagle atop the dirtiest sofa in the U.S., accommodating my three inch throbber, whilst simultaneously suckling several, salacious swords hovering precariously above her eager mouth.

When it comes to swinging, play as often as possible. Via this modality, you'll become as well-seasoned as a $200 steak. At that point, you'll have no choice but to soar higher in your erotic endeavors than the SR-71.

Like a plane on auto pilot, with a dead captain at the helm, I'm not certain where all this will end up. That said, what follows is a small sampling of another one of my personal experiences in Swingville.

THE CLIT TO END ALL CLITS

"All the words on the wall

Look the same in the mirror

Every riddle and every clue.

You've got Allah in the east

You've got Jesus in the west

Christ, what's a man to do?

They'll find a cure for anything

Just kill the pain, or numb my brain

We see a man speakin' the word of God

Proven to be a fraud

His own church applauds

Stop lookin' out, start lookin' in

Be your own best friend"

― Van Halen

She was a butch lesbian with a thirst for dong, whilst her girlfriend was at work.

I was a dork comin' off a blindfolded housewife gangbang.

At the cross streets of Internet and Wireless, our paths connected, and we arranged to meet.

The wild card in the deck?

A 60 pound Pit Bull named La Machine, who mistook my temporary sex partner's orgasms for suffering, and entered into protection mode. The above condition ― in low gear ― came complete with snarling jaws, foaming mouth, and gnashing of Einstein-sharp teeth. Think the aliens ― from the aptly-named movie Alien ― moments before they attacked.

In cruise control, this state incorporated light nips at my nuts, as I pounded this deadly dog's master. For whatever reason, it was imperative this killing machine ― more efficient than a Navy Seal on street-purchased speed ― be allowed to remain in the room, while I humped in 106 degree heat beside a broken air conditioner.

After engaging in several rounds of coitus, I noted my ephemeral partner's fingertip-sized clit, and commented how I didn't require a GPS guidance system ― as per my usual floundering ― in order to find her bliss button. To this, I was apprised said enhanced erogenous zone was resultant of testosterone the voluptuous woman beneath me had been taking the past two months.

Being even less of a medical practitioner than Dr. Dre, I queried ― employing technical jargon, "Isn't that the shit that builds up in a guy's balls? Who would want an extra supply of crap from some dude's nuts?"

"A female who wants to be male," replied this 44-DDed wonder of womanly wares.

Shocked like a squirrel eating through a power cord, my thoughts were as luminous as a Tim Leary overdose.

"Well, good luck gettin' rid of those babies," I referred to her tits ― which resembled twin cabbage heads grown in a carbon dioxide-rich environment.

"I plan on having them removed," my gender-confused friend responded.

Feeling the onset of tears, I queried, "Will you send 'em to me when you do?"

Less comical than a Yakov Smirnoff joke, my attempt at levity ended in strained laughter that was quickly replaced by more sex.

Upon leaving this woman's apartment, I was five pounds lighter ― due to the six quarts of sweat I'd expunged during intercourse. Still, I was satisfied I hadn't met her a year from now ― at which point she may have disrobed, exposing a small, malformed penis.

Holed up in a motel room that would be an entomologist's wet dream, it was my third separate encounter in a week, and each rendezvous had been more strange than the previous.

― authored by Hugh Mungus