Hugh Mungus

The day began like every other: I ventured forth to see Alan Greenspan and Wham! in concert, after downing a hearty breakfast of chocolate-flavored lube.

Little did I know I'd end up at a strange place, having sexual relations with not just one, but five bizarre women! My word! That wasn't like me at all!

More akin to my true demeanor, I spent the rest of my week at church, toiling at a needlework quilt, lovingly depicting George Soros sodomizing woodland animals―

In actuality, I'm living out of my truck, banging out these words on my laptop at "work" ― where I sit in a guard shack, in sub-zero temperatures, atop an ice floe. None of the customers with whom I engage have any clue I live a live porn in my off hours.

The paradox is astonishing: I'm barely circumventing homelessness during the day, whilst playing with anywhere from two to 12 women, every Saturday night. I'm like a superhero, minus the muscles, cool cape, and super powers.

Don't look to your author for financial advice. I have none. I've got my eyes on a $21,000, heavily-used mobile home, but I'm short roughly $21,000 on that one.

That said, if you wanna bring your wildest sexual fantasies to fruition, peruse my greasy articles. Pore over the electronic pages, atop the cockroach-infested box spring, in your sleazy motel room.

Rather than relegating yourself to an existence of servitude, make every day an adventure. Hit the achromatic asphalt in search of new, uncharted territory, and create those imperative memories.

After all, when you wax your willingness watching porn, we both know you'd rather be participating, as opposed to observing. The story you're currently pawing, as well as my other articles, will enable you to do just that.

Why study pick-up lines, when the most you can hope to accumulate from such is a glovebox filled with phone numbers, bar tabs rivaling the contents of Warren Buffet's bank accounts, and an occasional lay? Place yourself in the proper environment ― on a regular basis ― comprehend how to conduct yourself, and go to it. It's simple! You don't need to be handsome, nor hung...

Just horny.

Snap, crackle,...pop!

It wasn't the sound of milk cascading over breakfast cereal that wrestled me from slumber. Outside the window of the sleazy motel room, a neon Pabst sign sizzled.

In the darkness beside me, a woman twice my size snored with the cacophony of a thousand lumberjacks working.

Somewhere nearby ― probably in another room ― something was being fried. The entire hellhole wreaked of ash, tar, and nicotine.

Acclimating to the blackness, I discerned the unique shape of a Jack Daniel's bottle. Adjusting against a mattress harder than convincing the populace they're living a lie, I was perfectly positioned in the wet spot.

This was home.

I couldn't be more comfortable than I currently was. Not certain in which city I was holed up, let alone which state, the afterglow of sex, and the accumulation of yet another Number, cradled me like a nurturing mother.

It didn't get any better than this. Unless, of course, two women had been sleeping beside me.

These were the simple pleasures; the stretches of euphoria that didn't cost six months of enslavement to bring to fruition. After all, I recalled going dutch with the lass beside me, and somewhere along the line, seeing a "Single Rooms $40" sign.

As the glow of the full Moon crept through the blinds adjacent a bed older than I was, I focused on tits that would've made the final edit in Playboy. Silken, red hair flowed over a creamy Mulatto body, as somebody broke into a vehicle in the parking lot below, and yet another car alarm went unheeded.

Damn! Whomever was beside me, she had attributes for everyone: crimson locks, cocoa-colored skin, Hugh Hefner-certified breasts, and an ass wider than the impassable gorge between government and freedom.

Her name? Who knew? I'm guessing she did, but such was information on a need-to-know basis, and I didn't need to know.

As I harvested clothes from a floor as sticky as freshly-licked taffy, some indiscernible creature outside ― perhaps human, perhaps not ― shrieked in victory, or abject pain.

From the condensation covering a window greasier than the palms of a politician, I could tell it was below freezing in the parking lot. Not absolute zero, as amorphous forms moved about, but still too cold to step outside in shorts and flip-flops.

I dressed and departed ― a sense of accomplishment accompanying whatever I'd just done. I was constantly scoring on the sport sex playing field. Every night, and most days, were perennial first downs, and I perpetually sprinted for the end zone. I couldn't be more thrilled at the continual adventure I was encountering.

My tenure on planet Earth was ― and is ― one monumental E-ticket ride, and I have an unlimited, all-access pass. I am Hugh. Hugh Mungus.

― authored by Hugh Mungus