Out of the Closet

"All governments are liars and murderers."

― Bill Hicks

Following five cancellations, and a time change, the situation went more awry than a KKK parade through South Central Los Angeles.

The scenario was a pair of beautiful testicles; i.e. pretty nuts!

I arrived to find an apartment door left unlocked. Upon entering, I headed for the back bedroom ― as stipulated in the woman's Internet classified. There, a naked, nubile goddess awaited at the edge of the mattress.

Like a movie that starts out with the IRS vanishing into a black hole, it was a great beginning!

As previously specified, I stripped down and entered...not unlike a Dachau prisoner headed to the gas chamber.

It was decreed I refrain from speaking, save for an initial, "I'm here." Bequeathed a 20 minute maximum, I was to gather my belongings and depart, upon completion of this suicide mission.

The rules were as follows:

1) Protection mandatory for penetration. If it weren't for the fact nobody in mainstream society believes a person like me can get laid, I could be the spokesman for some obscure prophylactic company. I'm apologetic for the rate at which I'm consuming rubber plants.

2) I was to receive a cursory handjob, prior to massaging the object of my temporary affection's clit with my cock. There've been worse ideas pitched across the plate. For instance: the tinfoil condom.

3) Shortly thereafter, I was to initiate intercourse.

4) I could indulge in a box lunch, but it had to be a light snack.

The concupiscent queen, with whom I was to copulate, was to remain blindfolded. We weren't talkin' a thin strip of material here, but an opaque, black stocking covering her entire skull ― executioner's style. I felt she may, at any moment, confuse me for a victim of the Inquisition, and brandish a headsman's axe from beneath the box spring.

I followed the rules, as though the dismantling of government depended upon it. Within minutes, I was naked and standing over this suburban sex slave. As designated, I lead her palm to my horny hanger, and a handjob ensued, while I played with her twin dollops of delight.

From there, I eased her back onto the mattress, stating I wanted to taste her, like a home-cooked meal provided a starving man.

She responded that wasn't part of the deal.

Confused like Piers Morgan, when confronted with real journalism, I hesitated.

Able to adapt like Billy Barty in an NBA game, I referred to my mental rulebook, accessing our second statute. Hence, I began stroking clit with the underside of my swollen saber.

My actions were the fissionable fuse that set off a thermonuclear explosion the equivalent of Tsar Bomba.

I immediately noted rustling emanating from a slatted closet to my left.

Springing from the storage space, an acrimonious animal ― in the shape of a monstrous, irate husband ― emerged, prepared to do me damage.

This bastard rivaled Bigfoot! The son of a bitch could've played Chewbacca, without having to wear a costume! Before me was the largest human on the planet!

In actuality, he was probably only 5' 8", but since I missed my true calling as a horse jockey, he looked like Frankenstein's monster in platform shoes.

Beside him was a video camera on a tripod. His pants were around his ankles, and he'd wrapped his hand — tighter than a tourniquet — around his cock.

"You said you'd use a condom!" was the initial exchange, in which Thor and I engaged.

"I― I am," I stammered, shocked like a cow at the end of a beef herder's prod.

"Well then how come you don't have one on, motherfucker?!"

I referred to the 36 pack of Jimmy Hats, at the ready, on the floor beside me. "I haven't put it in her, yet. She told me she wanted me to massage her clit with my cock...By the way, who the hell are you?!"

"Her husband, asshole! You come in here, and try to fuck my wife like a fuckin' stud, without wearing a condom?!"

"Husband?!? Again, I didn't even come close to putting it inside her. I was massaging her clit like she'd asked―"

"We know how many women you've fucked! You think you'll just come in here, and screw my wife without protection?!"

"But I didn't―"

"I'll fuckin' drop you, man!"

At this point, I was gathering my clothes like guilt-ridden converts at a born again Christian meeting. Moments afterward, I was out the door ― manipulating shoes, socks, etc. ― wearing nothing but sweatpants.

Upon racing down the stairwell, I tripped, and my dong flopped out in front of a large black woman, to which I heard her exclaim, "Damn! Nice dick for a white boy!" as I streaked to my truck.

"Thanks!" I yelled behind me, unable to reach my vehicle quickly enough.

The trip home felt like a scene from Colombo, during which fuckin' Falk continuously checks the rear view mirror, to see if he's being tailed.

Upon return to my happy haven, I received the following E-mail from what appeared to be the mammoth man in the closet:

"you had your chance to play with my wife. She asked you to play with her with a condon [sic] you didn't want to. we still want to"

What a wordsmith!

Marvin Hamlisch's now-decayed asshole will be deemed the center of the known Universe, before I reply to the above ill-conceived missive ― which is more confusing than why people still vote.

Having to rationalize this scenario, I'm left to posit this damsel in distress has been married for quite some time, and realizes what a scam the connubial con is. Hence, she's fantasizing, and in search of bizarre bone.

Hubby ain't pleased, regarding the situation, but finds himself coerced to comply. Thus, he's gonna assert his dominance any way he can. In this case, that supremacy took the form of threatening a guy who's short enough to be his 10 year old son, in front of his wife.

In conclusion, I'm steerin' clear of this Battle of the Bulge, like a week-long family vacation for affluent, white folk to Cabrini-Green.

— authored by Hugh Mungus