Harry's Harem

"I'd rather fuck a million broads, than screw Kim Kardashian a million times," Harry croaked, between drags off an unfiltered cancer stick.

On the soiled street behind us, a Dumpster Kitty stumbled past, riddled with bruises, crank craters, and herpes.

Less pleasant than shitting out a razorblade, this was definitely not Elysium, when it came to the Mile High City.

Even though I had no idea who the fuck Kim Kardashian was, Harry's rationale was solid. Something on par with Einstein's theory of relativity; definitely a suitable replacement for the Lord's Prayer.

The crumbling cretin cackled, causing his upper dentures to dislodge.

Wincing, I surmised this Kardashian character wouldn't want anything to do with him. Still, I understood his reasoning.

Who the fuck was I? Nobody, but nobody was sitting outside a local swing club — the same way I had, once a week, for the past few years — waiting for the women to arrive.

Who was Harry? Me...just a lot older.

Unlike most, the guy had actually analyzed things. As a result, he was good conversation, during the sluggish periods at our favorite lust locale.

When your screen saver scrolls JPEGS of Giordano Bruno, Lysander Spooner, and Doug Stanhope, you're thinking more than a populace displaying their favorite sports team logo as wallpaper on their cell.

The old man's scrutiny of our current topic seemed valid: Being relegated to humping the same partner for the rest of your existence often results in disaster. Hardcore swingers, Harry and I saw the results of such on a daily basis.

You can remove your wedding ring — hiding it in your pocket — but that resultant lack of tan around your finger says so much.

I surmised the cleaning ladies at this particular screw shanty probably found lost marital bands on a regular basis.

I wouldn't be surprised if management had a collection of 'em. Perhaps even a special lock box for storage.

If you wanna be with one person, more power to ya'. Marriage, on the other hand, is a monster all its own. You'll suffer irrevocably, tryin' to force the square peg into the round hole, especially if those who created the hole are fuckin' nuts.

It was mid-afternoon, and the swing club was slow — not a senorita in sight.

Thus, Harry and I sat on a curb that had seen more piss, barf, and ejaculate than a 20 year old Porta-Potty, located between a porn theater and a dive bar.

Cigarette butts littered the parking lot.

For curiosity's sake, I stood, and wandered over to a permanent metal ashtray. The receptacle housed a nude beach during winter in Maine — not a butt in sight.

The siren of a cop car decapitated any semblance of solace.

A little further away, gunshots and a scream.

Retrieving a tube of Poli-Grip, and a warm beer from his truck, Harry returned. "Say you grabbed 10,000 tits during your life..."

His breath smelled like an untended, public urinal in a crack neighborhood.

"We both know each one felt best that first time you got your mitts on it," the sleazy senior continued.

He was correct. Creepy as hell, but correct. Following one's inaugural rendezvous, subsequent encounters with the same person diminish in zeal, until monotony rears its ugly head.

"That's what keeps me comin' to this sweet shitbox," Harry motioned to the entrance of the sex shack. The leathery truck driver squinted. "Notice how I never fuck the same woman more than three times?"

I couldn't recall seeing Harry fuck a woman, let alone one on separate occasions.

"Shit, if I wanted anything more from 'em, I would've married 'em." Laughing, he partially swallowed his false teeth.

Disturbing as a Golden Girls remake, featuring original actresses, a person was more likely to receive a new transmission at Just Brakes, than Harry was to get laid. Still, I admired this ancient bastard's rationale.

In the ubiquitous pursuit of sex, the single, swingin' male does himself a great service by moving from woman to woman. Remain sedentary, and you're made privy to a surplus of personal information you don't wanna know.

"My uncle raped me during a sleepover."

"I'm quitting my job here in Utah, so I can drive to Hawaii."

"I used to be a man!"

By circumventing Repeaters, as I call 'em, you'll sound more shallow than a puddle. That said, you'll thank yourself for not staying to learn the CEO you just 69ed had been incarcerated for castrating her previous boyfriend.

It's what Metamucil Mouth and I were jawin' about, when he hit me with: "You're packin' some serious firepower there," motioning to my crotch — which was presently covered in freshly-laundered sweatpants.

"So, that's why I've never seen Harry with a woman," I quietly cogitated. Remaining silent, I allowed him to steer this train of thought to whichever destination he desired.

"Betcha' didn't know I have a harem," he promulgated.

This track seemed promising.

"That wouldn't surprise me," I responded obsequiously.

A remote sputtering from above.

Gazing up, I watched skytypers spell out some vapid advertisement: "Local Legal Council," followed by a 1-800 number.

"Fuck, this system is boring," I thought. "How much do you think they'd charge to print: 'I Love Cock!' above a metropolitan mess like this cesspool?" I wondered.

Continuing, Harry bit the sycophantic lure I'd dangled, and ran. "I've always liked your style in there," the freeze dried prune pointed to the swing club. "You do good work."

In my quest to play with 5,000 women, I fucked constantly. I'd fuck at family reunions, if necessary. I had a goal, and I was gonna reach it.

"Thanks, man. I definitely try."

"All four of my ladies do everything I say," dusty nuts elucidated.

Similar to a bus en route to an orgy, I liked where this was goin'.

"If you'd be interested," he continued, "I'd love to watch you fuck 'em...Uh, one at a time, of course. None of 'em know about the others."

Harry had thrown a perfect bulls eye, and I couldn't have been more thrilled, unless he'd informed me his harem consisted of five women.

"So...whaddya' think?" the liver spotted lover asked.

"I'm in!" I screamed, drowning out the car alarm that tore holes through an anomalous nanosecond of silence. Exaggerating my enthusiasm, Harry had to comprehend his dream was my new mission. Goin' lackluster on a score this big might give him the impression I wouldn't follow through.

Excellent!" the dried dude beamed. "Mind if I videotape the action?"

" 'Mind'? I'll provide the camera," I replied.

A child wired on Halloween candy, Harry envisioned the possibilities. "I'm a voyeur at heart, son." Bunion Boy cracked the beer. Tepid, the beverage frothed over.

I watched in amusement.

"Been lookin' for the right guy to approach about this," he continued, suckin' a slug.

Across the street, a store alarm reminded us we were on the wrong side of town.

With no gig, a negative balance in my bank account, and more gas in my intestines than my car, I had nothin' to lose. Leanin' in, I smirked. "When do we start?"

Red. That's what comes to mind, when I recollect the fuckfest that ensued over the next three weeks.

Red was the color of the lighting in the private rooms Harry rented out.

Red was the hue under which the ladies and I fucked.

The accommodations were a heapin' slice of '70s porn pie. Octagonal beds; mirrored ceilings; mirrored walls; deep shag carpets.

Overhead, disco balls spun, as did removable sex swings.

Portable mini-fridges overflowed with strong drink and lager. That was all Harry, since — although I was an alcoholic — I never abused my liver, while on the clock.

When the trucker could afford it, he'd shell out the extra cash for a room with a love chair — a contraption more difficult to maneuver than a car with no steering wheel.

Fake fireplaces produced real heat.

Vintage RCAs — scratched like the ass of a flea-infested hound — spewed porn from semen-soaked screens.

Outside, frost gnawed trees with no leaves. Inside, I mercilessly beat on the pussies of three BBW — one by one, and day by day.

Before reaching her place in the queue, the fourth female left the country. That said, I was definitely content with the triumvirate.

This wasn't a Numbers thing. After all, three women in an evening was a common occurrence for me. Here, we were talking three women in three weeks. Rather, this was the novelty of the harem. Harry's harem.

The beautiful bastard's videos were more poorly shot than a deer with a bazooka. Harry massacred Hi-8 tape, then spliced it together with a nail file, and dried sperm.

You might be of the delusion amateur XXX videos don't require pre-production. That said, if you don't at least turn something on within the room — other than a red light, and the pussy with which you're playing — you're gonna see less than Stevie Wonder.

"Lighting? What the fuck for?!" Harry had obviously concluded.

As such, he successfully captured dim, grainy images of what looked like a blood sausage being thrust repeatedly into three cow hides.

Upon viewing the final product, it was obvious Harry's father had been murdered with a tripod. The same held true for his grandfather. As such, Harry himself had an acute phobia of the contraptions.

Either that, or he'd never heard of 'em, since everything was handheld, and shakier than an Essential Tremor victim.

Every scene looked like it had been shot in the bowels of Hell. Both the women and I were red-faced demons. Akin to correspondence from the IRS, nothing was clear.

Even the audio was chunkier than the child of two morbidly obese parents. Morning breath crammed against the side of the camera, Harry sounded like Mephistopheles, as the tape rolled.

"That's a whole lotta cock to be takin' in such a tight hole," was so garbled, it could've been a foreign sports correspondent covering the extreme ironing finals.

Not one for scripting, Harry's dialogue was always the same, as well: "You like that big dick, baby? You like that big dick?" he'd inquire, as I frantically pounded away.

Outside, snowdrifts piled against the door, but inside, all three of us were saturated in sweat, as the fake fires popped and sizzled.

If one envisioned Hell in analog, this epitomized it.

That said, each night I'd show up, and each night my entrance fee would be paid in full. It was a scenario to which I couldn't say, "No."

Still, I couldn't imagine how watching these zero budget productions could turn anybody on. Such stated, Harry was hooked. He devoured our cinematic shit storms, while deliverin' fish, push-up bras, or whatever the fuck he hauled on the road.

Envisioning the geezer furiously punchin' the meatpie, while kids prayed to the god of consumerism he'd deliver their Giddyup 'n Go Pony, was one fucked-up image.

Anytime I mistake what humanity's doin' on this planet as sane, I simply conjure up that vision, and It solidifies we're as nutty as a PayDay bar.

— authored by Hugh Mungus