A Second Helping

COCK ZOMBIES

The onslaught that would terminate humanity commenced in the middle of the night, whilst an unawares populace slumbered.

Predawn, I caught sight of the first invader, its claws gripping hunks of grass at the perimeter of the lawn, as it made its way toward the house.

My fear was palpable. You could've cut it with a knife, and served it at all-you-can-eat buffet, complete with Ranch Dressing, and piping hot biscuit.

By noon — 573 hours later — the assault had reached the porch. It was then CNN made the announcement: "Yes, turtles have become ravenous for human flesh."

Over the next 8,000,000 years, Homo sapiens would be unrelentingly annihilated by the tortoise population. People were, at times, nearly forced to walk from the approaching deluge in fear.

The only things slower than the extirpation of humans — by voracious terrapins — are the reading of this article, and my recent swing experience at a Midwest XXX theater. The latter goes a little like this:

The smoldering city beyond was post-apocalyptic, perilous, and where I needed to go to complete my mission. I gazed across the river at what looked like an establishing shot out of Escape From New York.

I was Snake Plisskin — minus the eye patch, cool name, and superior fighting skills. Without Adrienne Barbeau's abundant attributes riding shotgun, I aimed my metallic mare at a borough more feared than the possibility of The A-Team: A Musical.

The chances of me escaping alive? The same as finding an Indy 500 winner who can't drive stick.

That said, I needed sex. It'd become the fifth food group for me, since discovering a Playboy beneath the couch, during original episodes of Reading Rainbow. Still, I was less delighted about placing my life on the line, than Dolly Parton was in keeping her tits real.

"Jesus has risen again!" the billboard screamed forth, similar to the previous 14 interstate declarations. I would've listened, except for the fact that if JC had returned, he was doin' a shitty job, since innocent people were droppin' dead everywhere.

You can use the "master plan," and "works in mysterious ways" excuses all you want. Once everyone's takin' dirt naps — because they've been praying to a godhead that doesn't exist, rather than figuring out how to divert Earth-bound asteroids — there will be nobody left to whom we can articulate.

Yes, it was the Bible Belt, and I was deep in its control-crazy heart.

Since I'd found myself here, and surmised I was already damned, I figured I'd garner a nice piece of ass!

Arriving at the porn theater during rush hour, I produced a crumpled Jackson from my pocket, purchased a ticket for the show, and entered.

I am, by no means, an aficionado of adult features. I mean, is there such a person? It seemed fewer folks viewed porn for its cinematic merits, than those who play barefoot soccer with a cinder block.

There's a reason Siskel & Ebert didn't review XXX films. Nobody stretching the spaghetti gives a burning bung about continuity, nor choice of filters, while watching Madison Ivy engulf erection. At least that's what I'd erroneously concluded, before visiting my first adult cinema in God's country.

Ostensibly, all 12 women on the planet — eager to critique porn — were in attendance, when I made my inaugural trip to this lust locale.

With a turnout like that, you'd think I'd be seein' more action than an Arnold Schwarzenegger flick.

Even so, one lone blowjob was administered during an entire seven hour period. Of course I wasn't the lucky recipient.

Amid snores, and the dissonance of frantic masturbation, farting sounds emitted from the rear of the grindhouse, as a chubby couple rolled nude atop one of the Naugahyde couches.

In response, a gaggle of us migrated toward the noise — cocks in hand. Reaching the perimeter of the sofa, we were stopped in our tracks by the female of the duo. Locking her arm at full extension, she displayed an outstretched palm, while sucking the soul from her man's limp lance.

Comprehending the global gesture for, "Don't come any closer," all but one of us ceased. Unfazed, the number one demographic for Fleshlight sales continued forth, trousers about his ankles, wreaking as though he'd just run a 487K.

Bracing for impact, I winced.

The guy was an out-of-control locomotive that had jumped the tracks. Unstoppable, he literally jammed his diminutive dong in the woman's ear, before she spun in shock.

Turning sharply, the sylph squealed, "I'm less attracted to you than I am the thought of having my anus cored out with molten metal chopsticks, while hoards of flesh-eating ear mites devour my brain."

The man paused.

"Does this mean we aren't going to fuck?" he replied.

Of course that's what my overactive, and undersexed, brain hoped I'd witness. Either that or, "How'd you know my clit is located in my ear?! C'mon, guys! Everybody gets a turn!"

Instead, the voluptuous blonde simply told the stumblin' stiff to, "Fuck off!" and we all dispersed. That's what cock zombies do, I suppose.

How could 12 women watch porn, and not even become slightly stimulated?

Wish I could attest, akin to a satisfying shit, I'm thrilled with the way things came out. That said, the remainder of the evening was spent determining which loved me more — my right hand, or my left.

Although my initial journey to this locale appeared as futile as Jeff Bezo's search for his morality, I gained valuable insight into the inner workings of sex in the Bible Belt.

SWINDLED

"No kissing," he emphatically stated, as much as a drunk could emphatically state anything.

"No kissing. Right." I repeated, ensuring him I understood his instructions.

"No s— spanking," he slurred, a spray of spit fountained from his mouth, narrowly missing my face.

Glancing about the well-stocked tool shed, I couldn't help but take note of how sharp the gardening implements were.

"You can't call her baby, darlin' or h— honey," he continued.

I'd become preoccupied with the stockpile of slaughter around me. "We're these tools always this well-honed, or had he stropped 'em on my account? And why did we have to meet in this shed in the middle of nowhere?"

"You won't be fucking her in our bed. That's our bed, goddamnit—!"

I snapped to attention at his sudden outburst.

"—and it has nothing to do with you! Nothing, do you understand?!"

Fearing for my life, I nodded in compliance.

"Good," he smiled, reaching out to pat me on the back.

Uncertain of his intentions, I flinched before composing myself.

" 'C— Cause I was in the Coast Guard."

Not certain how that last comment pertained to humping this guy's wife, I feigned comprehension.

"Well, let's—s head inside and see if she's ready, shall we?" Completely hammered, he attempted to open a solid wall, before realizing the door was five feet to the left.

Crossing the field in the moonlight, I sensed I was inadvertently traipsing on fresh graves. This psycho could hack me up like 1,000 cats regurgitating 1,000 fur balls, bury my body in this marshland, and even Bud wouldn't be the wiser.

Something unseen and massive rustled in the underbrush to our right. The house seemed so far away. Had it always been like this?

In the distance, I could discern the guy's wife, dancing nude — probably inebriated — in a bay window that overlooked a spacious deck. Tiki torches lit the scene. I was either about to get laid, or diced into more sections than the goddamned Bible.

Inside, The Best — or worst, depending upon your outlook — of Abba blared from blown-out speakers. Empty whiskey bottles littered the termite-riddled floors.

The lights dimmed, as I turned to see the drunken husband "setting the mood." Taking the corner, the music also subsided, and the same nude, dancing queen from before was immersed in moonlight.

Each tit was more massive than a Cabbage Patch Kid's head. I hadn't been this inspired since watching Kirk Cameron in Left Behind. Before I could catch my breath, she rushed me, jamming her tongue down my throat.

"Fuck!" my mind raced. "Had the gardening shear-wieldin' defender of the coastline seen that obvious breach of Rule Number 47?! I turned, as said lunk staggered into the darkness mumbling about, "More beer."

The concupiscent cutie stammered, "Kiss me, baby! Make me your slut, darlin'! I love you, honey!"

Hadn't she gotten the memo?! Blatant disregard for Rule Number 49! You couldn't have scripted that any better. With all the terms of endearment out there, she had to specifically choose those three?!

Dropping my sweatpants, she engaged in serious weed whacking with one hand, whilst spanking me with the other.

"Hubby'd been ambiguous as to who couldn't be slapped," I concluded, "so was this really indifference for Rule Number 48?"

"Spank me, baby, darlin', honey," she whispered in between kisses.

I was sure this woman hated me, and wanted me dead by the hands of Mr. Militant.

"Put it inside me," she squeezed my Nathan's Famous, as if to emphasize my growing affection. "Let's go up to the bed."

Glancing around, I noted a capable couch, as well as a strategically-placed, open futon.

Uncoiling our tongues, I pulled back, "You're testing me, right? This is some sort of test—"

At once, I realized we were being watched, and perhaps had been for some time. Frightened, I glimpsed the pugnacious prick of a husband mere feet away, fuming.

"Did I just see what I think I saw?" the bellicose beau inquired.

"I— I mean—" was all the articulation I could muster, before the woman shouted out, "He kissed me!" pointing in my direction. "Did you see that, honey? This bastard kissed me!"

A 10 second pause ensued, before both hurting hubby and I raced for the door. Even with my pants around my feet, I was able to beat the son of a bitch, and escape. Intense fright often results in amazing acts of strength, as I'm certain I set a new record for the 100 yard dash that evening.

Cheating death was more satisfying than receiving the corner piece of cake — the one with all the frosting. Much like a broken quarter machine, nothing during that night made cents. Still, the entire experience has caused my mid-morning Tanqueray and Tabs to taste that much sweeter.

— authored by Hugh Mungus