A Double Feature

JUAN CARLOS

"The end move in politics is always to pick up a gun."

― R. Buckminster Fuller

"Put the gloves on," Juan Carlos whispered, as he unbuttoned a shirt six sizes too small, exposing more hair than the clogged drain at a dog washing kennel.

"I don't wanna put the fuckin' gloves on," I thought to myself. "It's bad enough my cock has seen the inside of a condom more than it hasn't; now you want me to cover my hands, too?!"

"Just put them on," the bizarre, little man with the esoteric accent reiterated, while bequeathing me a pair of rubber mitts ― the type proctologists use when exploring butt. Between us, a live Butterball turkey ― JC's stout wife ― basted naked in its juices.

The bed beneath our sordid entourage ― more used than the word "fuck" on tax deadline day ― squealed like Ned Beatty in the throes of passion...Cajun style.

In order to get here, I'd navigated more obstacles than a Tough Mudder course. Now, however, my path was being impeded by this latest obstruction: "Lucia's never been with another man besides me," Juan Carlos elaborated, as my aching erection twitched two inches from his wife's coveted canal.

I was Indiana Jones scaling a sheer glacier, and swimming a piranha-infested river, only to be thwarted from obtaining treasure by a child-proof screw cap. It didn't matter since ― thanks to my liberal criteria ― Lucia was the most recent entry on my list, after she'd stroked for an eagle on my lengthy fairway.

"Put them on," Juan Carlos repeated, forcing the cold, clinical gloves upon me.

Out of options, I reluctantly complied.

What a sad encapsulation of society that one of our last vestiges of escape now has the erotic intrigue of a workplace piss test.

"Feel how wet she is," Juan Carlos instructed.

"Isn't that impossible with the gloves on?" I quietly concluded.

People and their lack of protracted planning: "Well, we've got a myriad of energy sources at our disposal, in unlimited supply, but we'll choose this one called petroleum, that could run out at any time, and not only destroys the environment, but kills us!"

Inserting my fingers into this other man's wife went over as well as inserting the term "cunt-faced whore" into a church sermon about Jesus' mom.

"Not that way," JC admonished, grabbing my wrist. "Like this," the man contorted my hand with a martial arts submission move.

My hard-on disappeared faster than an unlocked, mint-condition Bentley ― with no alarm system ― on inner-city streets.

"I could be having better sex fantasizing about the social security system," I quietly contemplated.

My mind began to wander: "I bet the hair spray industry hates Dr. Phil, and is hatching a plan to destroy him―"

"Are you listening?!" Juan Carlos' words were nuclear-tipped missiles exploding against the tenuous glass house that was my reverie.

"What? Huh?!" I responded, with as much eloquence as Billy Ray Cyrus, when asked to mathematically solve the conundrum of inter-dimensional travel.

"This finger goes here," the diminutive man instructed, "and you make sure your thumb never touches the anus. That's a dirty part, and we don't like dirty."

My digits were being manipulated like the populace, by those at the top of this pyramid scheme erroneously referred to as "democracy." I pondered how many nude women awaited in the main room of the swing club, and what line of bullshit I needed to dispense, in order to escape my current situation, and partake of them.

"Jesus fuck! I took a junkyard of shrapnel in my left ass cheek back in the Mexican-American War, and will never be the same. Sorry, guys, but I suffered to ensure y'all had this freedom thing―"

That would be layin' it on thicker than the skulls of registered voters. But why not? Taco Bell would feature tongue tacos on its regular menu, before I'd be allowed to have intercourse with this woman. Like a baby in the birth canal, it was imperative I find my way out.

Unfortunately, such would not be the case on this particular evening, as the couple in question ― for whatever reason ― liked my company more than Hillary Clinton adores genocide. As a result, for the rest of the night, I remained trapped like a chimp in the zoo.

STERILITY & SLOE GIN FIZZES

"What else is troubling me?

Mickey Mouse's birthday being announced on the television news as if it's an actual event. I don't give a shit! If I cared about Mickey Mouse's birthday, I'd have memorized it years ago, and I'd send him a card.

'Dear Mickey, Happy birthday. Love, George.'

I don't do that. Why? Don't give a shit. Fuck Mickey Mouse. Fuck him in the asshole with a big, rubber dick. Then break it off and beat him with the rest of it.

I hope Mickey dies. I do. I hope he goddamned dies. I hope he gets a hold of some tainted cheese, and dies lonely and forgotten behind the baseboard of a soiled bathroom in a poor neighborhood, with his hand in Goofy's pants.

Mickey Mouse. No wonder no one in the world takes our country seriously. We waste valuable television time informing our citizens of the age of an imaginary rodent!"

― George Carlin

"I'd be thrilled to find out I was sterile!"

Ed's laughing ceased.

Since it was my fourth Sloe Gin Fizz, and I was neither buyin' nor drivin', I failed to notice.

"You get all these whiny ass clowns in movies, cryin' like spoiled children, after their doctors tell 'em their gun ain't loaded. What a bunch a morons, huh?"

At this point, I was probably pontificating loud enough for the cooks in the kitchen to hear. It didn't matter. I was rollin' like an Ecstasy addict, and ― akin to a 700 pound man walking on soft ground ― making a strong impression.

"If I discovered I couldn't have kids," I continued, "I'd be ecstatic! That's half the damned battle right there! You spend a small fortune on condoms for two reasons: to remain STD-free, and avoid getting a chick pregnant. When you've got expired fertilizer, you've already won 50 percent of the war―"

"I'm sterile," Ed leaned in, gripping my collar, eyes more bloodshot than a senorita's crotch during the Crimson Tide.

In fright, I observed radio silence, as I realized I'd gone too far. Ed's classified stipulated he was seeking someone able to carry on an intelligent conversation, not become a painful reminder of a feat he couldn't accomplish.

"In fact, Melanie and I had been trying to conceive for years," the troubled man whispered viciously. "When we learned I was sterile, she filed for divorce."

With no lifeboat on this sinking ship, I sucked down the rest of my adult beverage, and felt whatever brain was left behind my right eye freeze.

Ed let go of my shirt, staring off at the massive tits of our waitress for a moment. Sitting back, I pressed my forehead to relieve the excruciating pain in my frontal lobe.

As Ed came to, it appeared the release valve had somehow been triggered, and I'd be provided a temporary stay of execution.

"But all that's behind us, now," Ed continued. "Mel and I are good. We're good, okay?! I sleep like a baby every night knowing she loves me."

I started to interject, prepared to inform this walking neuroses most babies wake up every hour in a diaper full of their own shit, but I judiciously kept myself in check.

"Another cocktail thingy?" Ed pointed to my empty fishbowl.

"Has Ozzy ever done drugs?" I replied.

"Ma'am? One more, uh...whatever it is he's having, please."

Again, Ed leaned in. "Look, I just want you to pretend she's a high-paid call girl, and you're her first client. Got it?"

"Sure as Genghis Khan didn't die a virgin."

Ed winced. "Okay. That being said, there are a few rules we need to establish. First, you're only there to get a blowjob. Intercourse isn't part of the deal. Second, no mention of me, or that you even know who I am."

"Okay."

"It's all part of the roleplay. She's supposed to believe you're unhappily married, she's a well-paid prostitute, and you're her first john. After you leave, I'll transfer cash into her account, so she thinks you've paid her."

"As clever as a successful escape plan from Alcatraz," I responded.

My handsome cocktail arrived.

"Oh, yeah. A couple more things. I'm an avid big game hunter, and I'll be watching from the shadows around the house."

That divulgence had me more on edge than a suicide jumper. I gulped, " 'An avid―' "

"Never mind. Go to this address," Ed scrawled on my cocktail napkin, "at 9 PM tomorrow, and Melanie will be waiting for you."

Said domicile ― the size of a shopping mall ― couldn't have been deeper in the middle of nowhere if it was my literary career. I'd passed the last traffic sign miles ago, and appeared to be in the remaining portion of the country not comprehending the perks of street lights.

Upon banging a gargoyle door knocker ― sporting a facial expression resembling Tim Tebow's reaction after discovering there's no Jesus ― the most incredible woman I'd seen in 3-D stepped through the entrance. Clad in a dress more gossamer than Obama's promise to repeal the Patriot Act, this goddess led me to a bearskin rug next to a fire almost as raging as my current hard-on.

"Would you like something to drink?" was her first inquiry.

"Would you like to get nude?" was her second.

As if her initial question hadn't been uttered, I dropped my drawers faster than Mike Tyson dropped Marvis Frazier.

"Would you like to fuck?" was her third query, as she stripped away the tissue paper impersonating her gown.

At a mental crossroads, I recalled Ed's initial stipulation: "You're only there to get a blowjob."

Gazing about a room rivaling the gargantuan dimensions of Liberace's asshole, I couldn't help but notice I was in the wolf's den. The stuffed remains of bear, elk and lion glowered back at me from the darkness.

I remembered Ed's hobby of choice ― big game hunting ― and wished the bastard could've just thrilled at stamp collecting. Scanning the walls for empty wooden head plaques with the nameplate "Hugh Mungus" beneath them, I felt the sudden need to evacuate my bladder.

When hands softer than the voice of a mute began stroking my amicable appendage, I responded in the affirmative, encasing my engorgement, and easing inside with the precision of a blind driver parking an 18-wheeler into a compact spot. In less time than it takes a Taco Bell fart to clear a room, Round One had completed, and the pretend prostitute raced for the facilities.

It was at this time I found myself alone, naked and gazing at the jungle of murdered animals snarling back at me. Not heeding the "no sex" rule, I surmised ― from the dark regions of this Amityville Horror House ― a rifle was presently aimed at my sweating sack. Visions of my bony body ― in taxidermy repose, between Yogi and Simba ― filled my 10 kilobyte cranium.

Hence, Round Two was even quicker than Round One, and I faked a headache before my female friend could cause my lower extremities to override my upper.

Thanking the lovely in question for what was easily the most arduous experience of her life ― outside of a hysterectomy performed sans anesthesia ― I ran for my truck. All the while, I congratulated myself on obtaining sex, and not becoming a trophy in the process.

When the supper siren sounded, it was an adventure more well-done than a burnt steak.

― authored by Hugh Mungus