Double Down

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY

"You got a hernia," the naked chick slurred beneath breath wreaking of Good Times Cigarillos and cheap tequila.

"A hyena?" I quipped, thrusting uncontrollably between the moistened thighs of her comparably nude friend.

"No, goddamnit. A hernia! A fuckin' hernia!"

What I believed that word meant at once registered within my pint-sized cranium. For a harried moment, I stopped having sex and became despondent.

"How is such a thing possible?" I pondered. I had just horizontally hip-hopped with four senoras, and was currently playing with number five. "Was I superhuman?"

To any woman who's experienced me sexually, nothing could be further from the truth. As potent as a 90 year old eunuch with no tongue, chicks weren't even lightly penciling me into their Little Black Books. Still, I had managed to have sex with five women during a two hour period, and anyone afflicted with a hernia couldn't possibly accomplish such a feat, could they?

"She's full of shit," my provisional physician asserted, checking my lower abdomen on an examining table colder than corporate compassion.

"Who's that?" I queried.

"The woman who informed you you've got a hernia."

"Really?!" I beamed.

"Uh, huh," he probed longer than appeared necessary. "You have two."

"Fuck!" I pictured myself hunchbacked, holding a bulge the size of a watermelon in my pants, while horrified women ran screaming.

"How did this happen?" I harkened back. A gorgeous girl with a clit the size of a big toe was swilling my skewer, whilst a silver-haired sweetheart was taking a break between our sessions. From the bottom of a handle of discount tequila, this second senorita decided it was time to impart the bad news. One of the better days of my life had suddenly become one of the worst.

My bony, white ass cheeks clenched atop the examining table, I queried, "Am I gonna die?"

"Yes," Marcus Welby, M.D., responded, as if he could read my mind. "But not from this, unless you fail to get it treated."

As such, I found myself under the knife and out of commission for two months, before I catapulted back onto the mattresses of horrified honeys everywhere. Call me a breakfast staple because, for eight weeks, I was toast.

BIG BOY

She was a supermodel from France.

I was a dork with a dream.

The only thing that would come between us was my dong. Thirty minutes into our tryst, I was blasted out the motel room door as readily as lies in a campaign speech.

"Next!" the woman's escort announced into the crowd of horny guys awaiting their turn. We were each afforded half an hour to touch any body part above the waist, while the delicious dame lubed our lances. Those were the rules, as decreed by the woman's significant other.

My time being finished, I sped for a separate room where I could use the two remaining condoms in my handy 14 pack.

Normally, the company who makes my brand supplied a dozen raincoats per carton. Along the line, some asshole in advertising realized he could offer two "extra" condoms for "free," and furtively add $3 to the overall pack.

These "gratuitous" sheaths could have easily been trash bags, since they provided as much pleasurable sensation as an IRS audit. I always saved these last two until the end of the carton, bestowing them upon guys seeking to "borrow" a condom.

Who borrows a Johnny Hat, anyway? If I give you a rubber, consider it yours for life. Akin to chickenpox, I don't want it back.

Digging into a rucksack filled with sex supplies, I came to the horrifying realization I'd accidentally imparted these last two prophylactics to some other slob. As I entered this next room, to find a sensual circus occurring ― centered around a female EMT ― I cursed my lack of preparation.

Disrobing, I searched the sweaty space for anything: errant Saran Wrap, a sandwich bag, an ample swatch of tin foil.

As generous as I'd always been, folks were less likely to return the favor and offer me a condom, even if they owned Church & Dwight ― the company that makes Trojans. So we're adoring "Americans" on the anniversary of 9/11, but any other day it's all danglin' dongs for themselves?

Scouring the floor, I came up emptier than Nicole Ritchie's head. Confounded, I hopped atop the waterbed, which was experiencing a tsunami, due to the number of bodies upon it. Whilst jockeying for position, I noticed an unused Magnum XL on the ebbing mattress.

Before I had a chance at the prize, a pair of hairy balls began descending upon it like a trap door across a cave in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Closing my eyes, I fumbled for the foil-covered French Letter, as the horrifying huevos dropped like death. At best, I figured I'd lose a finger.

Snatching something, I retracted my arm a second before the nuts reached the sheets, blocking off my access forever. I'd returned unscathed, and now held the refulgent riches in my hand ― an unused condom.

Being next in the queue, I'd no time to ponder whether it would fit. I ripped the wrapper of the extra large rubber, and suited up.

Incredibly, the thing was more snug than parking a fully-loaded Amtrak in a one car garage! Even if Oprah had suddenly vanished, never to return, I couldn't have been more enraptured.

Pathetically, this is a milestone in my life. Others rejoice upon marrying by the age of 25, or purchasing their first home by 30. I was ebullient over the fact a Magnum XL fit firmly on my happy home-wrecker!

New avenues suddenly opened up. Options had ― in one fell act ― become limitless.

"I finally got enough money, I could buy my way out of anything! I could do anything I want, and I can get myself a lawyer...and I'll walk! Finally, [Hugh Mungus] is above the law!"

― Kingpin

The mirrored ceiling parted, as a glorious light shined down upon me, and a powerful voice commanded, "You're up, dude!"

"Huh?!" I broke from my reverie.

"You're next, man."

I was back in the room with naked folk, and a horny female ambulance driver spread-eagle in front of me.

"If you don't wanna go, let me in," some corpulent, tattooed guy demanded, pushing his way toward the woman.

"What―?" I instinctively lowered myself upon the libidinous lass, before the slime bag ― to whom I'd bestowed dozens of condoms in the past ― could intervene.

As soon as I took my turn, and no more free latex shields could be found, I departed for my local drug store from which I purchase all my condoms. Awaiting me was the lovely ― and seemingly lusty ― Cynthia: a sexually frustrated cashier who had recently divorced, and grown weary of singles bars.

Months prior, this sultry slice initiated a conversation, whilst ringing me up ― a carton of Magnums on the counter between us. Since then, she'd always managed to wait on me, a conspicuous case of large contraceptives at the core of our exchanges.

Today, I was about to up the ante, and throw the more capacious condoms into the fracas.

My plan was foolproof. She'd take note of the upgrade in size, and make a comment along the lines of, "Not your normal brand is it, big boy?"

To which I'd respond, "Yeah, I kept breaking regular Magnums, and needed something 'roomier' with the XLs." Of course, this was a lie equal to, "As your leader, I promise..."

Her reply would then be, "Oh, yeah? Well I need something bigger, too."

Cue the cheesy porn soundtrack.

Wet and ready, she'd take me into the breakroom for a christening of my new brand.

As sure as America's Next Top Model sucks, none of the above transpired. Cynthia could've cared less if I'd thrown a gallon drum of Preparation H on the counter.

In response, I raced home, scribbled this article, branded the beef stick, and passed out watching Fred Sanford feign a coronary.

― authored by Hugh Mungus