Laid Like Linoleum

Wanna know what it takes to get laid like shag carpet in the '70s?

Believe it or not, living a live porn has nothing to do with singles bars, big bank accounts, nor dating. Of course you can go that route, but you'll be equally productive creating pie charts to diagram Drew Barrymore's transformation from neophyte, to outrageous Hollywood icon.

Why waste precious time engaging in the superfluous? If you wanna hump thousands of housewives, stop believing the lunacy with which you've been brainwashed.

I did so decades ago, and what follows is a typical day in my life. It can easily be a typical day in yours:

He seemed less thrilled ― while watching his girlfriend suck my cock ― than Playboy is with the proliferation of online porn.

It didn't matter. Like a priest in a foreign land, attempting to convert the indigenous population, I was on a mission.

It was the first day of the year, and I was determined to play with all four women in attendance, at the swing club.

Today happened to be the lovely Pamela's inaugural trip to an intercourse institution, and the pick-up lines effusing from my mouth were as smooth as a baby's ass...

A baby lizard, that is.

My forked tongue was no hindrance to me on this date, as Pamela grabbed my horn, along with her boyfriend's turgid trumpet, and played a tune that rivaled the theme from The Greatest American Hero.

A dirty dozen of us stopped by for the poolside matinee, and — save for my fuck boots — all clothing had been shed by everyone in attendance.

Pounding the back of her throat against the head of my cock, Pamela seemed dedicated to determine whether or not she had a gag reflex. Drool draining from the corners of her mouth, her technique was zealous, and spirited.

The entire time, my sights were set on a petite brunette in a collar, providing her man as much head as a guillotine, during the French Revolution.

Similar to placing the words "mustache" and "woman" together, I realized what I was doing was wrong, but couldn't help myself. Overtly, I removed my cock from Pamela's throat, and dangled for the dark-haired damsel, while she worked hubby. The brunette welcomed me inside her mouth ― which was hotter than a freshly-baked biscuit.

Completely bent over — exposing her brown flower, and the wound that never heals — she slapped both our shafts against her face, emulating countless scenes she'd masturbated to, from countless porns.

I excogitated a catalogue of stupid jokes, so I wouldn't blow my seed faster than Monsanto's patented variety, all over everything in sight.

"Meteor showers," I thought. "Great idea! Those rocks must get filthy flyin' around space."

Minutes later, round, brown babe was downin' different dong, and I was joggin' to the Jacuzzi, where a wild woman soaked.

It seemed I'd be less successful with this one than my dream to make Sherman Hemsley's face — a la George Jefferson — the new KKK logo.

After approaching Chick Numero Tres, I was certain she'd been raised by hyenas and, as a result, couldn't speak. Her penetrating stare burnt holes through me like smoldering cigarettes through battered wife flesh.

She was obviously high on somethin', and couldn't sit still.

My attempts at conversation were less well-received than a Larry the Cable Guy Carnegie Hall concert.

Eventually, though, the situation stabilized...

The same way the whole Fukushima scenario is rock-solid!

Our object of arousal sat on the edge of the hot tub, spread her pussy wider than the gap between a pacifist and Hitler, and beckoned me to place my fingers inside. Stroking my affectionate appendage, she mumbled, "Be gentle with me."

With that, we were off to the orgy bed — a customized box spring that could easily accommodate 15 people, simultaneously. This massive mattress was positioned squarely in the torrid ticker of the hump haven — adjacent a prodigious pool, and two bubbling cauldrons for hot tubs.

A condom was donned; lube applied; I got two inches in, and she squealed, kicking me back against the wall. Like a nurturing wolf mother, I licked any wounds clean ― between her legs ― and went for a second attempt. Minutes into this subsequent try, I was again ejected like a rookie rodeo rider.

Comprehending the possibility of intercourse was less strong than a mild scent, I laid back, and this crazed chiquita commenced a manual massage on my member.

A second suitor entered the ring, as our fearful female began sucking like a Broadway version of TV's Home Improvement.

After several minutes, she removed her head from our stiffened staffs, squirted milk from her nipples, and asked everyone in attendance if they had drugs.

Akin to a Barry Bonds home run, I was outta there, and racing for Contestant Number Four ― who was more drunk than Pepsi, and floating in the deep end, observing guys jack-off around her.

With five minutes left in the afternoon, a suitor shot a disgusting load in the pool, as this little Asian kept her eyes affixed on my hardened happiness.

Another misfire to the side, by some random, out-of-control gunslinger.

Slowly stroking myself, I pulled my chair directly above this gorgeous geisha, as she slurred I was too big for her.

I'd endured countless shutdown responses in the past, but this one left me in tears. Y'know? The kind congressmen would cry, if it became mandatory they receive no more than minimum wage.

At that, sloppy sally left, nearly drowned, and fucked some other dude at the opposite end of the now-cummed-in Sea of Sperm.

Concluding I'd hook-up with four women every day, until 2003, I gathered my clothes, dressed, hit the highway, and headed home.

I've now been celibate the past week. That said, my hands still love me.

Each and every day is a new adventure ― which is the way life should be. Unfortunately, we've been led astray; indoctrinated into believing it's imperative we suffer; told we have to follow the rules. Rules, no less, those we believe are in control have made for us.

We're informed we have to marry, procreate, enslave ourselves, and perish...without ever having lived.

Which path you take is up to you. That said, you'd probably be wise existing for yourself, as opposed to the ideals of others.

So, what is this magical elixir I've discovered that allows me ― a total dork ― to get laid like linoleum?

One word: swinging. Whether you term it wife swappin', group sex, or dissolute debauchery, it all equates to the same thing: experiencing a live porn.

If you met me, you'd have a hard time believing I hadn't been beaten up every day in high school, and voted Least Likely to Accomplish Anything. That said, to date, I've played with over 3,600 women, and am rapidly approaching the 3,700 mark.

Without the advent of swinging ― which I've deemed more important than the alternating current motor ― I'd still be a virgin. I'm living proof anyone, including losers, can squeeze every drop of nectar from their existences.

Whether at a sex club, house party, or in a private setting ― thanks to an online connection ― swing. You'll be thrilled you did. By doing so, you'll have created memories nobody ― neither government, nor any other controlling entity ― can take away from you. It's these fond remembrances that make your existence full and rich.

— authored by Hugh Mungus