Communal Somnambulance

"Why would you die for someone's sins? Your sins are the only thing interesting about you, you dreary, bleak motherfuckers. Your sins are what make you fantastic; what keeps us great, and exciting, and fun. It's what makes you alive.

You should wear your sins on your sleeve, and try to top them on a daily basis."

― Doug Stanhope

When you're the height of the average horse jockey, and find yourself nude, drenched in baby oil, and receiving handjobs from a pair of six foot tall women at a Hollywood motel, you know you've done something correctly.

Meeting for a first date in the back of an unmarked van, clad in fewer clothes than the moment you were born, causes a man to feel he's somehow transcended mortality.

Making out with a drunken stripper in a desert casino, and not having to pay a dime for the experience, is just sound financial planning.

Enter the wild, wonderful world of wife swappin', and these types of adventures become commonplace. Buyer beware. Your mundane 9-to-5 existence will no longer hold your interest. Prosaic life becomes unbearable.

"No problem," you exclaim.

Of course it's not a dilemma now, but once you're accustomed to sex with multiple women, you may never be able to achieve complete satisfaction from monogamy again.

Overcome that minor speed bump, and all that's required to catapult into the sportfucking arena is an inquisitive mind. Why should porn stars have all the fun? You come equipped with the necessary attributes to thrive like Ron Jeremy. Use what you inherently possess.

Two AM.

An abandoned expanse of interstate.

I'm exhausted.

Windows wide — during winter, no less — I'm blazin' across I-40.

Through my headphones, Dream Theater waltzes The Dance of Eternity at the highest volume possible on my $20 cell.

I'm mainlinin' Monsters like a desperate alcoholic does hand sanitizer.

My heart is sprinting.

Still, my lids are closin' faster than a restaurant with an "F" rating, and a one star Yelp! review.

Fuckin' Yelp! Can't y'all think for yourselves? "Oh, it got one star, so I'm not gonna read it." Great way to become homogenized, and boring.

That's why there's a new Spider-Man movie every other year, and soldiers keep shootin', instead of refusing to fight. Guess what? It's okay to be different, guys.

New Mexico, baby! From Big Daddy — that creepy Muffler Man in Las Cruces — to Mac Brazel unearthing anomalous wreckage in Roswell.

You got Lonnie Zamora chasin' UFOs in Socorro, and Alien Amber Ale bubblin' forth in Moriarty.

From eight-fingered Phil Schneider fightin' ETs in Dulce, to the Miraculous Staircase in Santa Fe, I've loved New Mexico, since my first trip to it!

Still, we're talkin' a conspicuous lack of screw shacks. With only The Clubhouse in Albuquerque, and Mountain Dawn Lodge — east of Taos — the Land of Enchantment ain't exactly swing central.

That doesn't mean folks don't play in the 47th "state." They definitely do.

Lids heavier than Archspire's Involuntary Doppelganger, I feel the car pullin' to the right. It's that delicious sensation, when you know you're still drivin', but allowing your eyes to close feels so decadent.

"Danger, Will Robinson," you little bitch face!

Portnoy's drumbeats get louder, as my bucket o' bolts rolls over rumble strips on the shoulder. I need to get the fuck off the interstate, and fast.

And there it is, like a laser butt plug amid an asshole: Gallup.

Population 21 thou'. Not too big, not too small. A Goldilocks city — if you will — replete with sleazy motels.

Slammin' the remainder of my canned coronary, I veer off the road, slapping myself repeatedly, to remain awake.

Bustin' a left, or perhaps a right — I can't recall — I blaze a trail for cheap accommodations. Stained sheets; in-room heaters hot enough to make the Devil sweat; communal ice machines dispensing brown product.

I can't wait!

Although my ultimate goal is 5,000 women, my immediate objective is a moldy pillow, amid a room with a ceiling fan, and a toilet with permanent shit stains.

Without a dream, a man has nothing.

Gazing out a bug cemetery doubling as a windshield, greed and myopia beckon me forth. Comfortable lodging for "$49.95," "$39.95," "$29.95."

"And Bingo was [that ass pigeon's]...name-o!"

A right sharper than the Slap Chop, and I'm in a car park, minutes from slumber in a room featured on America's Most Wanted.

The place is your standard one level dive. Everything's wood, and painted no more than two drab colors.

None of the vehicles in the lot rolled off the assembly line after Nixon was impeached.

You pass these leaking lavatories every time you take a wrong turn, and end up in a neighborhood less savory than Preparation H-flavored ice cream. Invariably, these hellholes charge monthly, weekly, daily...and by the hour. Believe me, I know.

Lugging my backpack inside a Porta-Potty, that turns out to be a lobby, I'm shocked to find a delicious, Latina TGirl at the helm of the graveyard shift.

Sleep is suddenly the furthest thing from my mind.

"Evenin'." It's my standard opening line...even in the mornin'.

At 2:17 AM, unless drunk, high, or fuckin', nobody's primed to be awake. This gorgeous gal obviously isn't the latter, and doesn't appear to be the first two. As a result, I receive no reply.

"Uh, I need a room for the night," I chirp, through some bizarre speaker apparatus, inlaid dead center in two inches of bulletproof glass.

The goddess stares back — and rightfully so — with a look sarcastically spitting, "Thanks for clarifying, 'cuz I was certain you stumbled in here to play beach volleyball."

"One bed, or two?" she queries, barely audible.

"One, please."

"Thirty-seven, twenty-five."

Digging a saltine-thin wallet from my backpack, I slide my card through the one inch opening between the counter, and the bottom edge of the heavy glass.

With multi-colored nails, the chick snags my ticket to debtor's prison. Reaching to her left, she produces a carbon, and fits it into one of those ancient credit card copiers most wouldn't know how to drive, nowadays.

Watching oily lips smack, as she snaps old gum, my cock starts to rise. I gotta come up with a plan.

Glancing around, I examine my surroundings:

The ubiquitous leaflet library, filled with brochures for local attractions. It's an amenity you find in every motel — even the sleaziest.

A vending machine offering up snacks older than Betty White. The last time anything was purchased from this contraption was probably prior the Atomic Age.

A desktop computer — which appears to be SCSI technology. The term "trapped in time" comes to mind.

A listing table, upon which the CPU in question has been precariously positioned.

A three-legged chair, propped against the wall, so it doesn't topple over, when those desperate enough to sit on it use the computer.

One at a time, here:

All I foresee in the vending machine's future is food poisoning.

Feigning intrigue in local places of interest, I could ask the desk clerk about the brochures, but the only regional attraction I wanna check out is her. In addition, I seem more excited about shitting blood than she does talking.

That leaves the computer. Perfect!

This is an era before — as Carlin promulgated — cell phones stroked your cock, and flipped ya' flapjacks. As such, I'll tell her my laptop died, and I need to do some late night Web surfin'. From there, we'll see where things go.

Pointing to the computer sliding off the table behind me, I inquire, "Uh, does your Internet connection work?"

Without gazing up, the delectable damsel nods, continuing to chew, as she fills out the remainder of my paperwork.

"Cool," as if the erudition she imparts ranks right up there with: "That lube you're about to jack-off with is laced with fluorantimonic acid."

Fidgeting in my pockets — as though this has anything to do with anything — I mumble some shit about having to check my E-mail.

Upon completing our transaction, I snatch my room key, and depart for the confines of what ends up being a solitary confinement cell with a lamp. Searching the dim surroundings, I find hatch marks carved into the wall, by a previous occupant who — akin to a prison inmate — had obviously been marking days.

Frightened, but dogged in my pursuit of sex, I stash my backpack. In under a minute, I'm in the lobby again, attempting to manipulate a computer built before T. rex ruled the planet.

Thanks to persistence, I access a pic sharing sight, upon which I've splashed countless photos of my cock. Gazing up at the luscious lass, I envision a stack of Massive Member magazines reaching to the ceiling at her apartment.

Shiny pages dripping in coconut oil, I'm certain she plays with herself constantly, when not here, pursuing the promising "career" with which she's enamored.

If I can just find some way to broach the subject of sex, without seeming perverse. Flipping the nitrous switch in my brain, I blurt out, "Do you like porn?"

How else am I gonna segue into somethin' like this?

I'm shocked, when she nods — without hesitation — from behind glass that might even be able to stop Oprah.

"I was a—," I thought this one out on my way back to the foyer, so although it's still choppy, I belch it forth with a modicum of success. "Well, a porn actor."

Turning from the bug-eyed Zenith — upon which Maury Povich gargles corporate cum — the woman calmly stands, exits the office, and heads my way.

Expecting to be maced, I wince.

Composed, the lovely lass steps to my side, questioning, "Can I see?"

Motioning to the monitor, I watch her eyes widen — her once sedate demeanor transforming into something other. Cheeks reddening, I'm certain I can hear the gears in her own erection spark to life, as she stares at a full-color photo of my cock.

Her increased breathing causes my loaf to rise.

Scrolling through my photos, after the third pic, she states, "Show it to me. I want you to jerk it, and cum on me!"

"Doesn't Donald Duck utter that to the credulous masses at the gates of Disneyland?" I silently ponder.

This wanton woman orders me behind the front desk, promising to return after battening down the hatches.

Being left alone, I strip completely. Pulling a travel bottle of baby oil from my sock, I lube up, as I gaze out the office window.

The sexy senorita closes the blinds in the lobby.

In the meantime, I'm workin' out the wrinkles.

Locking the front door, she turns out the light in the vestibule. Returning to the tiny office, she flips a switch marked "Front."

Through the slats in the shutters, the glow from the pink neon "Vacancy" sign sizzles out.

A sucking sound — the glide of my hand over my lubed erection — stabs, and kills, the silence of the room.

Closing the door to the office, she turns and stares at my hard-on. For the first time, she displays emotion. Gasping, she locks focus on my straining shaft — the only thing she appears to see right now.

"You like that huge cock, baby?" I question.

Nodding, she flops into a swivel office chair, and beckons me over.

Complying, I step toward her, bald headed miner in hand.

Reaching out, she wraps her fingers around my glazed Goliath, staring at it from as many different angles as she can. "How, Papi?" her eyes enlarge. "How?!"

" 'How' what, baby?" I inquire.

Rubbing it over her chest, it's clear she's become enamored with it. "How'd it get so big?!" She gazes up at me, "You take pills?!"

" 'Pills'?" I ask.

"To make it so big like this," she gulps, as though she'd love to taste it.

"No," I smile, staring down at her small, brown hands around my shaft.

"You have an operation to make it so grande?"

"Nope," I respond.

"Mmm," she kisses my straining piss hole, as though she's fallen in love with my dick. Eventually standing, she directs me to take her place in the mobile La-Z-Boy — that looks like it's been ejaculated on every day, since it left the factory warehouse.

So turned on, I comply, not caring where I plant my bare ass.

Reaching down, she continues massaging my meat muscle — now backwards, and between her legs — as she lowers what I imagine is an appetizing asshole upon it. Remaining clothed, she gives me a lap dance, while simultaneously stroking me.

Eventually sitting — my aching hard-on between her legs — she lays her head back on my shoulder.

I pull her heavenly hair from her face, and dance my tongue over her petite neck, and collarbone.

Breathing heavily, she moans, while arching. Her perfect ass presses into my pulsing trouser ham. Reaching between her legs, she caresses my oiled bean bag. We gyrate in synchronicity.

Acute heat emanating from her diminutive frame, I whisper into her ear, "You want me to fuck you with it, baby?"

Shocked, she turns, pressing a hand into my naked chest. "No way! It's too big! I bet you hear that all the time, but I won't be able to take it."

Burying my face into her neck, I push my tumescence against her jean-clad butthole.

Spinning, she asserts, "I wanna feel it cum all over me." With that, she removes her lace blouse, exposing a frilly, black bra, hiding what I surmised were perfect B-cups.

Standing, I reposition her in the chair, as I straddle her face.

Sliding a seductive palm beneath my balls, she caresses my ass crack, from her vantage point in front of me. Latching onto my lance with her opposite hand, she pumps with a purpose.

Groaning, I look to the ceiling.

There, an overhead fan distributes the stale air of thousands of atomic "tests," innumerable heavy metal particulates, and fossil fuel carcinogens gone ape shit. By heeding the demands of the criminals we call our "leaders," we've made such possible.

Communal Somnambulance. Nighty night, guys. Just keep walkin'.

"Not my fault," I zone out. "I've done my part; shovin' the truth in everybody's fatuous face. I'm gonna bask in this superlative handjob for the next 28 minutes, and 14 seconds, until I completely lacquer this salacious sylph's exquisite chest."

Always one to keep my promise, that's exactly what I do.

Suffice it to say, I'm thrilled I chose this particular rest stop at which to "get off."

— authored by Hugh Mungus