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ROUND ONE

Whilst lamenting the sudden, tragic cancellation of Charles in Charge, I discovered myself wandering the woods naked.

"If Charles really was in charge," I wondered, "would the show have been terminated?" It seemed he was doing rather well for himself: a regular paycheck; a loving, surrogate family; a roof over his head; three squares; and his own room. Hell, he even had access to the entire house, which had obviously become his own, personal bitch lair.

Before coming to a conclusion, the passenger's side door of an abandoned VW Beetle opened up 20 feet in front of me. From it, emerged the nude butt cheeks of the highly-prized hornus housewifus, prepared for penetration.

From an indeterminate point, a disembodied male voice beckoned, "Wanna fuck my wife?"

I tried dropping my pants faster than I'd drop a gold diggin' girlfriend with crabs, but realized I was already naked.

The tractor beam, emanating from between the woman's gorgeous globes, pulled me in like a Costco customer to free samples. In no time, I was embedded in lubricated cheeks, like Excalibur in the stone. The sally's hubby cheered me on from the driver's seat, as though I was his favorite sports team.

Most people venture forth into nature to discover new flora, or perhaps a rare species of finch. I embraced the great outdoors for sex. Here, in the middle of nowhere, my search had produced bountiful fruit. Had it not been for Al Gore's greatest contribution to humanity — the Internet — I would never have uncovered this discount swingers resort.

Others were trapped dealing with furious customers at the post office, or offering extra sauce to people who believed tipping was a province in China. I, however, was basking in splendid sunshine, free of the encumbrances of clothing, almost balls-deep inside a woman who was perhaps a bank teller, or guidance counselor.

It surely was a fantastic day, and well worth the $20 entrance fee.

However tremendous the experience was, it didn't encapsulate the entirety of outdoor sex I'd encountered in the past, which quite often found me hiding from the cops, or running for my life.

Nude, and sliding down loose soil of a mountainside, whilst the girl you're humping suddenly experiences a violent version of her period, is never fun. Couple that with being attacked by fire ants the size of cashews, and you've got a scenario you'd only repeat when Richard Dawkins becomes Pope.

Overall, though, outdoor sex is a big turn on. Driving the deserted streets of suburbia at 3 AM, while a department store owner — in the passenger's seat beside you — fondles her tits, and pisses in a 72 ounce cup, is a Kodak moment.

Humping on a front lawn, as the "owners" of the house sleep soundly, is a joyous benefit life has to offer.

Still exuberant over Casual Fridays, or a 25¢ pay raise, most folks don't get it. You don't have to be wearing a bright orange jumpsuit, and standing behind bars, to be incarcerated. We're imprisoned all the time. Don't believe me? Ask yourself: Would you go to work, if you didn't get paid?

At least 90% of you perusing this — which equates to eight people — would reply with a definite, "No!"

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

Exiting the highway, I blazed a path for the porn theater. I'd been on the road for 12 hours, and although I'd yet to eat, my need for sex took precedence.

The ice cold contents of a 64 ounce Big Gulp, sloshing around in my bladder, I had to urinate like a dog in a town filled with fire hydrants. This necessity, however, also took a backseat to my carnal cravings. Traversing five states, I hadn't prepared even a modicum of relief.

Utah had been so boring, I jimmied my joystick, while driving through half of it. A billboard in Arizona, of a bikini-clad mom on vacation, had gotten the ball rolling — so to speak.

Of course stopping at a roadside diner, only to discover a curvy, brown Latina breastfeeding didn't help.

Forking over 50 cents, and thumbing through a local XXX newspaper, put things in overdrive.

I jacked-off to the Sears Catalog bra section, in a bathroom of what turned out to be the most active rest stop on the planet.

Flashed three sets of tits, by college chicks piloting an SUV, I was ready to purchase the next Taco Bell bean burrito I could find, and insert myself inside it.

Truck stops advertised Asian massage services, in what were assuredly darkened rooms dripping in island themes, Don Ho tunes, and orgasms.

The two sunny side up huevos I ordered, at a roadside greasy spoon, resembled the first pair of tits I'd seen in the flesh. My best friend's mom had invited my seven year old ass into her bedroom. Brushing her hair, totally naked, she'd inquired, "Do you think I have a beautiful body?"

Still of the belief my member was solely something to pee from, I'd nodded, and left to search her freezer for ice cream. In the back of the ice box, I'd uncovered condoms filled with frozen water. It was a, "If I knew then what I know now" moment.

Casting off my virginity to a separate pal's older sister, while said buddy was in the adjacent room — passed out drunk — was a memory that now flooded my brain.

This road trip had become a nightmare. Sex surrounded me, yet I had no place to get off. Hence, when I finally reached my city of destination, I made a beeline for a local adult theater. It was a shot in the dark that hit the target.

Ponying up the entrance fee, I wandered into the sickly-smelling lust lair, compelled by the sounds of onscreen orgasms, and slapping skin. In the dingy surroundings, I could barely make out the group that had congregated in the front row — before a 15 foot tall, nude woman, with a clit piercing the size of a wrist bracelet.

In this type of venue, wherever there was a crowd, at the center of the cluster was a female. As sure as musicals are a bad investment, the object of everyone's affection was a homemaker, with tits that could've kept the Titanic afloat.

I couldn't believe my luck. I'd frequented this theater a hundred times, meticulously planning each outing, only to register a 20 percent success rate.

Acclimating to the lack of light, I stumbled forth, slipping on something viscous beneath my feet. Cringing, I planted myself in a chair darker — and more leathery — than Morgan Freeman's ball sack.

Two seats to my left, concerned citizens manipulated their flesh firehoses, in attempts to ameliorate some invisible blaze on the chest of the only senorita in attendance. Understanding this kind of event had a half-life on the order of a Martin Short/Joey Lawrence buddy cop show, I disrobed, and merged into the melee.

Due to an immortal aroma rivaling a Porta-Potty, as well as the plausible presence of undercover cops, I took care of business, and was more gone than O.J.'s credibility.

How 'bout that? My road trip actually had a happy ending comparable to a rubdown in a Japanese massage parlor.

— authored by Hugh Mungus