Cockblockers

"There is no such thing as freedom of choice unless there is freedom to refuse."

― David Hume

"Don't get anywhere near us!" hubby screamed, testing potential slogans for his assisted living home franchise.

I retreated, as though the guy'd been tattooed with 500 radioactive warning labels. Such stated, I was already across the room. Aside from crawling beneath the bed, or leaving the swing club entirely, I couldn't get further away.

"We know who we wanna play with!" the bellicose bastard bellowed, as pleasant as raging diarrhea, on a 16 hour road trip, inside a bus with a broken lavatory.

As per his typical modality, hubby'd chosen his wife's suitors for the evening ― two lanky Latin lads who spoke the lingo. Spanish being his native tongue, hubby had a preference for those who conversed in the language with which he learned to communicate.

Behind the eight ball, without even pickin' up a cue stick, I lamented not listening to the cooks converse in every greasy spoon I'd been enslaved. I knew enough Spanish to keep from shitting myself, whilst below the equator.

I watched, as the Latina HotWife ― breasts the circumference of medium-sized tortillas ― sucked the life outta the Mexican men with whom her husband had provided her. At the edge of the bed, she sat topless, covered in sweat, as she slurped.

Ass-beaten red lipstick ringed the slender cocks of "the chosen ones," as they moaned in elation. Greedy hands gripping four leathery balls, the woman worked the shiny sacks of both men, manually.

Before getting hard, the guy to her right shot his load.

"Back the hell off, goddamnit!" From the perimeter of the scene, the harried husband played policeman, shrieking at onlookers who had no intent of intruding. The guy was more stressed than a rolling "R" in Spanish.

If I had to guess, swinging had been his wife's idea, when she became interested in sampling strange shaft. Hesitant to comply, hubby eventually acquiesced, due to what were probably divorce threats.

If he was gonna go this route, he told himself he'd at least wield some control. As such, he shouted at everyone within a 30 foot radius.

The majority of men to whom he granted access to his bride fired their rounds before battle. Either that or ― like determining if Oprah is greedy ― failed to become hard, and crept defeated from the scene.

"Madre de Dios!" the crazed companion cried, spreading his arms, attempting to keep a disinterested throng from touching his wife. Glancing at the lone lance down his girl's gullet ― and the weirdo wielding it ― hubby continued, "Can't you get it up?!"

The frantic fucker attached to the cock was desperately wishing he'd stayed home, and jacked-off to celebrity look-a-like porn. His confidence crushed, he gazed into the crowd of caballeros watching him "fail."

Further impaling the stake, the insane husband grabbed the demolished dude, yanking him from the scene. Being forcefully extracted from the woman's lips, the deflated man's dick made a cacophonous "Pop!". Glaring into the crowd, the incensed husband screeched, "Can't anybody properly fuck my wife?!"

The onlookers dispersed. At its foundation, sex is energy, and this energy had gone bad.

Such was the freak show playing weekly in the swing club off Trop'. For multiple despondent dudes, it was a nightmare. Even when one of 'em managed to cloak his cock, and penetrate this woman's pussy, he only lasted as long as it takes to burp, upon chugging a quart of Coke.

This was either due to the pressure cooker hubby had created, a desire to distance himself from such pugnacity, or both.

Having been rejected by this couple for eight months ― even though I'd only propositioned them once ― I felt fortunate I wasn't enduring such pain. Still, I told myself if I ever got the chance to show off the goods, I'd dive in head first. Since the wife in question had only seen me clothed, she was probably sure I couldn't secure sex, if I had a million dollars, and owned a brothel.

As it so happened one evening, opportunity presented itself.

I'd been atop an orgy bed at the club, pretending the woman with whom I was playing was a deflated tire. Hence, I pumped her. Gazing left, I caught sight of Boris and Natasha, and decided it was now or never. Exiting the mattress, I planted my nude ass two seats down from the Latin duo.

Harder than driving a Buick Regal to Jupiter, I lubed up, and stroked my vein-wrapped cock. Glinting in oil, it was more difficult to miss than a cheating girlfriend who steals your money.

My intended target zeroed in on it without hesitation. "Oh, my God!" she exclaimed. "May I touch it?"

Since her trembling hand was already in motion, I moved closer to bridge the gap. Simultaneously, I caught sight of hubby ― who was none too happy with his wife's violation of conduct. He made the decisions, damnit! Not her!

Just call my cock "matters," because in this case, his wife had taken matters into her own hands.

Even though hubby had cockblocked me countless times prior, the ball was in her court now, so to speak. She was adjudicating, and her first decree seemed to be stroking my dick.

That order of business concluded, she moved on to her second directive. In less time than it takes one to rule out suicide, if the victim's got 14 bullet holes in his head, she was spit shinin' my salience.

Hubby watched in horror, as his wife commandeered this voyage, draining drool down my dong, before he could protest. Once he found his voice again, the best he could hope for was keeping other potential penises at bay. "Stand back. Uh, just stand the hell back!" he stammered, glancing at his woman workin' my wang.

"Pound the fuck out of me!" his bride gazed avariciously into my eyes.

"Uh, condoms," hubby protested. "Condoms!" he pointed to my cock ― which had been shrink-wrapped, and delivered to his wife's mailbox, 60 seconds prior.

Tuning out hubby, the way a sane person tunes out NPR, she was on a mission. That goal solely included cumming on my dick ― which she did minutes into our merger.

"Once you get her to cum, she can't stop...," the desperate douche bag attempted to interject, but he'd domineered long enough. It was her turn to call the shots.

A hitchhiker, I was simply along for the ride. When said and done, I'd vanquished this particular hubby ― one of countless types of cockblockers. Was this the optimal method for overcoming those dumping saltpeter on your shaft?

Of course not. My tactic worked in this situation, but may have failed in others. Since there are a myriad of sexual scenarios, there are innumerable categories of cockblockers, ready to keep you from obtaining the sex you seek.

What weighs 350 pounds, smells like fast food farts and diesel fuel, and stands between you and a good time?

Why, it's a cockblocker.

What can fit inside four square feet of space, or a size two dress, eats less than a pound of food per day, and can sexually satisfy hundreds of men in a 24 hour period?

Of course it's a cockblocker.

Who was suckin' O2, pumpin' red corpuscles, and spewin' loads, back when George Washington was enslavin' folks, and is currently upright and ambulatory, today?

It's none other than a cockblocker. These prehistoric anomalies have probably been shufflin' across the planet since shortly after the inception of jealousy. As long as somebody lacked confidence, while feeling the pangs of prurience, cockblockers have been an obstacle to those seeking sex.

You might be innocently squeezin' your summer sausage at a backyard pool party, or jockeyin' for position around a glory hole in the frozen tundra. Sure as that trite Corona commercial with the palms, and the voiced-over whistling of "O', Christmas Tree" will air every December, you'll encounter cockblockers in the swinging arena.

Wherever one person can prevent another from having sex, today's cockblocker can rear its repugnant head.

Enslavement ― i.e. "work" ― calling you in to cover a shift, when you're scheduled to participate in a college cutie's first gangbang. An inebriated idiot whisking her BFF away, nanoseconds prior to the perpetual pal slathering your straining salience. There's no tellin' where, and when, a cockblocker will strike.

Determining who, or what, will stop your cock from penetrating pretty parts, is more difficult than getting politicians to admit they're nothing more than a band of thieves.

Every conversation was identical. The ignorant debt slaves incessantly rambled about walrus shit. None of it mattered.

The same trite buzzwords emanated from everyone, like some sick mantra: "Fakebook; Viagra; Walmart. Fakebook; Viagra; Walmart. Fakebook; Viagra; Walmart."

It became a repulsive chant, through which the corporate demon was summoned.

Zero original thought. Repetition of rote. An homage to consumption, acute narcissism, and mind-numbed prayer at the altar of "authority."

It was the foundation upon which the Covidian Era was brutally built. It took a population so desensitized, obtuse, and indolent to carry out an objective as blatantly stupid as a "pandemic" with no sick people.

In a society where the masses think for themselves, a "pathogen" as asinine as Covid-19 would be laughed at, and never entertained as "real." As a result, people's existences wouldn't be forfeited; nobody would quarantine themselves, and not a single face mask would be worn.

Then again, in a civilization comprised of rational people, no one would allow themselves to be separated into "countries," and folks wouldn't watch TV. In a logical culture, there'd be no government, and the word "authority" ― let alone the ideology behind it ― would be unknown.

To an analytical populace, the concept of war ― the systematic slaughter of that same populace ― is absurd, and would never be tolerated. Contemplative people would denounce the insanity of money, and simply allow nature to provide for everyone.

Of course, logic is the opposite of the paradigm in which we reside. We celebrate not only the most inane systems, but the most harmful and lethal to us all.

Thus, we hide within our houses, fearful of each other, and fearful of ourselves. Cab drivers obsessively scour the seats upon which their fares sat. Restaurants ― those left open ― are maniacally scrubbed, every minute, at the sixty second mark.

It's lunacy!

We've become hypochondriacs, and we don't even realize it. We're demented in our actions; deranged toward those who refuse to pick up a bottle of detergent, and "detoxify" everything around them.

Swing clubs are forced to shut down; many indefinitely. People are frozen with fear, afraid to get near anybody else. By wearing face masks, and believing in this fabricated "disease" — some shithead entitled Covid-19 — we've cockblocked ourselves.

― authored by Hugh Mungus