Bob's House of Ass

E-mails.

That's how this asinine article began. White wine spritzers at 3 AM cause a man to do things he normally wouldn't. At that hour, you have two choices: jack-off, or write. "Why decide?" I cry. "I'll do both!"

Hence, a good portion of my stories were recorded one-handed style. Forty-two words per minute! A World record? Perhaps, but good luck findin' it in the Guinness Book.

You disseminate late night correspondences to friends, delineating your revolting carnal past. Akin to a noble politician, a benevolent attorney, or a working airplane made of chicken meat and urine, acquaintances assure themselves you don't exist.

Since Bob's House of Ass ― a discounted, regional swing club ― at one point featured considerably in your adventures, you incorporate torrid tales originating from this libertine locale.

Does Bob's exist, or is said screw shack ― akin to Zeus, unicorns, and natural 78-DDD tits ― comprised of more bullshit than a cattle pasture?

Thrown together with putty, electric tape and the finest stolen furniture, swing clubs dot the landscape. Hidden like camouflaged hunters in the dense underbrush, venues of questionable morality ― whether they be churches, or sex sheds ― are ubiquitous.

Rifle through the glossy, substantial pages of your local adult rag, and you're bound to uncover advertisements for a few. Better yet, commence Internet investigation for these nearly invisible prey. Don't be stupefied to discover one three blocks from your house.

You won't find these locations showcased beside the latest from the Nordstrom Rack. Jack Nicholson will pose in Playboy before places like Bob's are accepted in mainstream society.

Forbidden fruit, swing clubs are modern-day oases for the parched traveler succumbing to the arid, lifeless drone of contemporary existence. Hotter than crankin' the heat on a summer day in the desert, screw shacks are fuel for fantasy. Males will woolgather about them in the dark, while strengthening their wrists, but few will enter their inner sanctum.

So, yeah, Bob's exists ― not only down a tenebrous back alley near you, but also in your mind.

Step off the grid. I did long ago, and never looked back. Become a dweller of the fringe. Drink mezcal, and engulf peyote for breakfast. You'll be glad you did.

Bob's is a cryptic alias for an actual location somewhere in the "United States." At said casa de carnality, clothing is optional, and exhibitionist group sex occurs daily, if not hourly.

E-MAIL #1

Bob's. 4:30 PM. A newbie couple enter, and make the mistake of sitting beside me.

Naked, I'm compelled to show off my latest diamond cutting implement.

From past experience, I've deduced this approach affords me a 50% chance of a blowjob, handjob, or invitation to the orgy bed. The other 50% of the time, I'm met with stares of revulsion. Either way, for $20, I'm goin' for it!

Saturday's senorita ― bewildered by the abundance of assorted nuts in attendance ― offered little response.

5 PM. A lascivious librarian enters, dispensing blowjobs. A few of us attain pole position, as she services all able and willing participants. Minutes later, we're invited back to Room 23, where hubby is hard at work hanging a sex swing, and charging the batteries in his digital camera.

Including myself, 10 guys enter this den of iniquity, and proceed to jack-off over our female emcee ― who's enthusiastically producing milk from her breasts.

I turn to find the blonde from the initial couple watching, as the horny host pretends I was born with a lollipop between my legs.

For a moment, I thought this alluring voyeur might reach in and grab some tender rod and nuts, or perhaps dine at the Y. Alas, this little filly chose to solely observe, perhaps intimidated by the dozen naked people surrounding her.

With all this useless crap I keep sending your way, you may wish to call a team of sewage experts.

Buzz Saw

E-MAIL #2

Four couples at Bob's, today. One was Nikki and Maurice. Nikki fears rubbers the way a vampire does sunlight. As such, I choose to merely grab handfuls of her lovely flesh.

The second tandem played in the hot tub, where the woman in question's derriere was poised for penetration. Already rubbing my pencil-thin protrusion against this abundant ass, Nikki ― once again of Nikki and Maurice ― kept encouraging me to slide inside.

Sex in the hot tub is more difficult than winning the Lottery, if you don't buy a ticket. Because my trusty Trojans were 20 feet away, vacating the Jacuzzi meant losing my optimal place in line. With two additional horny bastards preparing to mount the woman I was grinding against, I merely chose to massage the girl's gorgeous groin with my offensive outgrowth.

A third couple manually gratified each other in a pair of chairs. After inquiring, I was permitted a front row seat, where I commenced waxing my wick. Such said, this latest lass was less interested in me than the cast of The View is in never eating again.

I could've sworn this fine feline had her eyes glued on my Usinger's Famous. Then again, I'm also convinced Corey Feldman is the President of Croatia.

Some bald dude ― not tall enough to ride half the attractions at Disneyland ― got approached by a gorgeous Latina. This guy was clad in a bow tie, black socks, and dress shoes! The girl in question hauled this fortunate bastard back to Room 29, and fucked him more intensely than the government does taxpayers!

Suffice it to say, I'm headed out to purchase a bow tie, black socks, and dress shoes!

Rick O'Shea

E-MAIL #3

For the past three weeks, things at Bob's had been firin' on all 12 cylinders. An influx of lovely ladies: a couple from Louisiana, in town for a sexual bonanza; a second duo covetous of accumulating naked time in Room 13.

Any surfer riding Internet waves, in search of sex, will inform you these are the crests enjoyed for unpredictable periods of time. With pinnacles come the seemingly endless dives into nightmares of baby oil, streaming porn, and not a tangible woman for miles. Following 21 days of bare bliss, the red carpet to encounters with horny housewives unraveled.

More misguided than the dude who invented the cardboard ocean liner, I'd exchanged E-mails with a couple who "lived in the woods," and were anxious to meet. The male component of said duo was named Ox. With each consecutive correspondence, the disconcerting theme to Deliverance echoed more loudly in my head.

Deciding to pass on this invitation, I was contacted by a woman I deduced was a man.

This exchange was followed by a promising lead that went sour, when the girl in question informed me she was homeless, and wished to charge $60 for 15 minutes.

Today's round of E-mail tag included a pair of women seeking a protuberance with which to satiate their lust. Upon ascertaining what I possessed between my legs was felicitous to their needs, we proceeded further.

The first woman revealed she was married, and planning on cheating. Infidelity is an insurmountable impediment for me, since I have an ironclad rule to never play with those who're married, should their significant other be oblivious. As such, communication dwindled more quickly than the erection of a man hit simultaneously with divorce papers, and an $80,000,000 lawsuit.

Our next contestant and I exchanged commensurate, nude photographs. Communication was frisky and spirited. What follows is a sampling of our actual correspondence:

Woman: "Goddamn! Nice! I'm available now. Are you?"

Hugh: "I'm definitely available! Feel free to send me directions, and I'll head your way!"

At that point, my inbox became more empty than a eunuch's undergarments.

The Loin King

― authored by Hugh Mungus