A Two for One

A WIGAN HANDSHAKE

The place: Bob's House of Ass ― a local swing shack.

The time: 5 PM. Saturday.

A party of three ― comprised of two women and one guy ― enter the pool area. The dude is somewhere in his late 70s. The chicks are in their early 30s. One senorita is obviously a butch lesbian; the other, sensual white trash. Disrobing, the group head straight for the hot tub.

I drop my insignificant woodworking project, and make a beeline for the water.

The luscious lass eyes my swollen salami like a $1,000,000 bank error in her favor, blurting out, "Am I the only one in the house who loves penis?!"

I deduce she's at least not fully homosexual, and for once, I've got a real shot on this one!

In response, the butch chick pulls the object of everyone's desire as closely to herself as possible.

This is Bob's House of Ass, lady! There's no room for jealousy, here!

Whilst acclimating to the tub, I inform the delicious damsel I'd attended a swing party the week prior at a Motel 6.

"I live at a Motel 6!" she squeals.

I grin, submersing myself.

The septuagenarian turns to me, inquiring, "Do you mind if a guy touches your cock while you're fucking a woman?"

People, I just came to soak...and hump the hottie chick, whilst you turn a blind eye! Is that too much to ask?! I considered returning to my task at hand, but the little lass spread herself out like a kitten basking in the Sun.

On one side, I had an ireful butch lesbian. On the other, Mr. McFeely was sizing me up like Rosie O'Donnell does a six pound burger.

I retaliated by doing the only thing a man in my position could do. I fired up the jets, slid my hands beneath the water, and grabbed as much of the beauty's shaven perfection as possible.

There are obvious perks to bein' a regular at Bob's! One becomes familiar with the terrain. Handfuls of heavenly hairless, and neither Dongmaster, nor Martina Navratilova, were so much the wiser.

More turned on than the lights at Wrigley Field, during an evening doubleheader, the trio departed for the privacy of Room 42.

Upon stepping outside to urinate in the bushes, I ran into the butch chick taking a smoke break. She informed me she was lesbian.

I was more shocked than a guy in the electric chair.

Her fine female friend was her lover.

A conclusion I'd arrived at, as well.

The Colonel Harland Sanders look-a-like was their john.

That one threw me, since the client/prostitute relationship isn't one you encounter at Bob's often. Elucidating she becomes violently angry, when watching anybody touch her woman, the butch expressed extreme enthusiasm to nuzzle my nuts.

More mixed signals than a 10-way intersection with 50 lights.

She asked for my phone number.

I provided erroneous digits, whilst watching her down a pint of Popov. Staring into the window of her truck, I was introduced to her congenial dog, whose efforts to consume my head were stymied by a pane of glass.

When the lesbian hookers departed, I observed Julio ― another friend of mine ― race after them in his diesel-fueled monster truck.

Even though these women could return and kill me for providing a fake phone number, I knew I was at least temporarily safe. I'd had my hands all over the little one, and wasn't slashed from stem to sternum by the butch, or manhandled by Bob's bisexual, senior citizen contingency.

It was a truly fucked up day, which I'd have to refer to as a success!

BROTHERLY LOVE

Into a microphone wreaking of happy hour cocktails, Bob Barker bellowed forth, "Okay, Hugh, what's it gonna be? Door Number One, Door Number Two, or Door Number Three?"

Before me was a sexual smorgasbord: three nude women, laying face down, asses prone, awaiting oral gratification. Standing over the orgy bed, I slapped myself to certify I wasn't dreaming.

Simply surmising which was better ― original Cheerios or Honey Nut ― caused my brain to cramp. Choices of this magnitude weren't best left to someone who didn't stop believing in Santa Claus until after receiving his driver's license.

My mind overwhelmed, I was as useless as wearing a condom when one masturbates. I felt more fatuous than a person street racing next to a police station.

Unable to decide, I lunged headfirst into the ass in the middle, and was soon sorry I'd made such a hasty choice. Although her twin mounds of pleasure tasted like ambrosia, I was horrified when she turned to her left, exclaiming, "Hey, bro!"

Beside me, another guy had entered the fray, and was furiously knocking at Door Number One. In response to the salutation, he replied, "Hey, sis'! Havin' fun?"

Shocked like a kid sticking a butter knife in a wall socket, I stopped consuming chocolate starfish and gazed up. Like a hand grenade pop flied, I wasn't sure how I should field this one. Realizing there was no way to gracefully put this, I simply asked the woman, "You are speaking metaphorically, right?"

"What's that?" she turned.

"Wh― When you referred to him as your, um, sibling?"

"Nope," the woman smiled. "Steve's my real brother."

"Twins," the sinewy dude chimed in, between sweaty thrusts. "Born seven minutes apart."

At that point, I became as soft as the underfur of a baby rabbit, and less effective than a gun with no bullets. How could I continue dining on a woman, whilst her kinfolk was on the same bed, having sex?

Had I not known the two were family, I wouldn't have paused, so why were things suddenly different?

We're all related, when you trace familial roots back far enough. Possible everyone came from Africa, or some extraterrestrial Petri dish, it took a scattering of people to jump-start humanity, correct? Hence, everybody is either a brother or sis―

Too much to cogitate for a guy who couldn't breathe wondering if Anne Heche would escape the island in Six Days, Seven Nights, I excused myself, asserting I had to pee.

Crossing the floor of the swing club, my mind raced, "This isn't the first time you've experienced this, is it?"

Quelled recollection: a low-budget porn audition in an apartment dirtier than a dog's mouth. I'd been organ grinding with one woman, whilst a second was working the camera in the nude. After a knock on the door, an additional danglin' dong entered.

In response, our photographer dropped to her knees and batted the newcomer's balls with her tongue. Surfacing for air, she turned to the actress I was with, stating, "Meet my brother Ted," as she motioned to the guy she was orally servicing.

I'd been so paralyzed with fear, I was scared stiff ― at least below the waist. I recall being too terrified to ask the camerawoman if she was serious. I needed the money, so my focus was on the audition. Also seven seconds from what seemed a life-changing orgasm, I hadn't wanted to ruin the romance.

Now, scrambling for my clothes, frantic for a respite, I couldn't help but wonder if everyone around me was inbred.

To god-fearing members of society ― many of whom were in attendance this evening ― I was a heathen. This experience took things to a whole new level of debauchery, though. I suddenly felt dirty ― a reprobate in need of a shower.

On my way out the door, the largest pair of tits I'd ever seen passed by, and I immediately forgot what I was running from. When all was said and done, I ended up on a heart-shaped bed, flanked by bare beauties, with Dean Martin crooning in the background.

― authored by Hugh Mungus