Say Cheese!

When it comes to swinging, second only to oxygen, you need pics.

Not many have visited Rollinsville, Colorado ― population 181 ― but even fewer can honestly assert they've fucked there. I, on the other hand, can sincerely proclaim both.

Wikipedia Rollinsville. See the general store in the foreground of the embedded photo? There's a small, wooden shack to the right of that ― off-camera ― in which I did the deed with a BBW I met from the Internet, while her husband watched.

Such would've only been an arcane fantasy, had I not taken ― and forwarded ― pictures of my penis to the couple in question.

Had this duo wandered through Denver ― where I resided, at the time ― they would've passed me like a billionaire passes a penny on the street.

Thanks to the magic of photography, however, I was able to display ― and disseminate ― my dong directly into that scant shack, and onto the pair's laptop.

Wild winds whippin' up a blizzard rivaling an arctic winter. Roads closed, due to snow drifts taller than grandpa's claims of a 22 inch cock. Yet, somehow ― in some fucked-up Universe ― my pics found their way to this quaint cottage in the middle of nowhere.

Once they did, the couple with whom I was conversing became doggedly intrigued, as the female portion of the duo began fantasizing about fucking me. Well, fucking my fuck tool, anyway.

Mind you, reaching Rollinsville in wintertime is no easy feat. The switchbacks, in these parts, are reminiscent of Route 66 from Kingman, Arizona, to Oatman. Combine this with the fact you're operating at higher altitude, snow buries everything, and the road to Rollinsville is thinner than an anorexic on a hunger strike.

Tires balding like Travolta, I traversed the treacherous trail in a rust-ravaged 4-wheel truck, that rolled off the assembly line when breakdancing, Rubik's Cubes, and Hacky Sacks were hot.

I felt like Indiana Jones in the fifth installment of the Raiders of the Lost Ark flicks, fashioning a crude cannon from his asshole, and some paint thinner.

Upon parking, I watched a chick ― from what appeared to be the burg's only bar ― drop her pants, expose a perfectly shaved bush, and piss behind my vehicle. Steam arose from her efforts, like exhaust from a turn of the century locomotive.

Intrigued, I nonetheless chose to remain on course, and beat my knuckles on a dilapidated door, inside an enclosed porch filled with battered Big Wheels, and baseball mitts.

The object of my affection answered in a Valentine's Day pink, fishnet bodysuit, indicating I had the correct residence.

I breathed a halitosis-heavy sigh of relief, since it had taken hours ― and ample anxiety ― to get here.

"Hugh?" the coy cutie coughed, having smoked enough herb to relax.

"Yep," I replied, with wit as dull as being on hold for hours.

After small talk — during which we established the duo were newbies to the sportfucking scene — hubby confessed he'd shadowboxed with jealousy a few rounds. Such stated, he firmly felt he'd kicked its ass. Thus ― through a haze of spent cannabis ― he inquired, "Wanna show Sarah the goods?"

"Most definitely," I replied. "She's gorgeous!"

Atop a ramshackle box spring, the big, beautiful woman's nipples rose like zombies from the dead.

Striding to the bed, I removed my beefy sampson from sweat pants with more holes in 'em than Bill Clinton's testimony regarding Monica Lewinsky.

"Ooo!" Sarah cooed ― an infant eager to play with a new toy. Crawling off a mattress that looked like it'd been broiled on high, she slid toward my slacks snake, and began sucking more than a death sentence for littering.

Gazing about, I took note of how rustic everything appeared. Brown liquid stains leaked down brown walls, in an overall brown motif. I felt as though I'd been transported back into a Wild West daguerreotype, my hair more slimy than an oil pan.

Nature encroached on this forgotten outpost, as dirt seemed to be alive, and propagate, crawling out of every corner.

Was it even the new millennium inside this shanty? Had I somehow been conveyed to an era pre-deodorant and anus bleaching?

The woman removed her bodysuit ― which hadn't left anything to the imagination, anyway. Laying atop a homemade comforter ― that smelled of liniment and moldy wood ― she positioned herself perfectly for just about anything from a nap, to licking lance.

As such, I straddled the bubbly blonde's face, as she played a lengthy tune on my fuck flute.

Hubby eventually sparked up a bourbon-dipped blunt, opened his fly, and allowed his wife to blow a few bars on his meat whistle.

Spreading the beauty's legs, like microwaved Nutella across crusty bread, I bobbed for apples between her gorgeous gams.

Leaking more than Julian Assange, her cunt was primed for big dick, even before I'd arrived. The poor princess probably spent every moment she could ― while her kids slept ― shoving dirty dildos up her hastily-shaven honeypot, watching gay porn.

As such, I was a prep cook with little to do.

Fitting my fuck falcon for flight, I paid homage to whomever invented the condom, and began probing new depths.

"Oh, Jesus, Billy! Oh, Jesus!" the draining dame gripped her man's bony butt, as I pressed on.

A wood stove, and a few dented space heaters, kept the place hotter than a threesome with Michelle Pfeiffer and a Super Head Honcho Masturbator. As such, rivulets of sweat rolled off the babe's belly, and into her horny hole, providing even more natural lube.

"Jesus, Billy! I'm gonna cum!" she flailed, grasping her guy for everything he was worth. Her face turned Fresno Chili red, as she made good on her assertion.

Again, photos! They're imperative! Without 'em, a swinger is more lost than Wilt Chamberlain's virginity, by the time the basketball star had turned 55.

In the event you're more well-hung than a roomful of paintings at the Louvre, a photo exhibiting this attribute will often cause a woman to ask you to take it out, and show it to her.

During a first date, intensify the anticipation with a nude photograph of yourself "inadvertently" left on your phone as wallpaper. Upon discovery, your new female friend may find herself impelled to see the goods. Fuel those sexual fires with more combustibles than a dynamite shack!

Become creative. Back in the '90s, I designed my own business cards, incorporating nude pictures of myself taken by a porn photographer in Hollywood. Distributing these babies, while on first dates, I'd elucidate about my adult film "occupation."

A maneuver of this magnitude catches women off guard. Females in this situation almost always take the bait. You're working in a legitimate industry, and you possess business cards to substantiate such.

Gingerly place the ball in their court, so to speak. Dangle the dong in a movie theater, and you run the risk of facing lewd conduct charges.

Produce a superlatively crafted, nude photograph of yourself, however, asserting you perform in adult films, and you've generated an air of mystery. Most women have never made the acquaintance of a male porn actor, although they've attained Earth-shattering orgasms ― in private ― watching naked, endowed thespians.

"My spirit guide told me the fate of humanity depends on you fucking me," the completely nude woman caressed my balls in the late afternoon Sun, beside the pool.

"Then you obviously need a new spirit guide," I thought.

What I actually uttered was, "For the sake of the species, I'm happy to help!"

Smiling, the cheery chick fondled my slit stretcher beneath pants produced before Jimmy Carter postmarked his letters "1600 Pennsylvania Avenue."

"He saw your pics online, and told me I needed to get fucked by this huge thing," the lass squeezed my slut slayer.

Here in the desert, summer weather was perfect for poolside fucking.

A breeze from the wasteland surrounding us kicked up translucent canopies encircling a pair of cabanas at the swing club.

Beneath the shade of a covered porch, a popcorn maker worked overtime, causing the backyard to smell of cracked corn dredged in liquid butter.

Higher than the ISS, the naked woman gleamed in the brightness of the day. Turning, she pressed definitively on either box spring, testing the mattresses of both bungalows, before making her choice.

"I'm very submissive," she explained. "That's why I have a spirit guide. He tells me what to do, and I follow his commands."

"That's cool," I responded, really puttin' myself out there, and riskin' it all.

Gesticulating like a diffident child, she playfully bit her lower lip. "So, um, you're gonna have to instruct me."

Outside of, "We've abolished government, and we're now all free," they were the only words I wanted to hear. I could deal with domineering women, but doing so was painful, in the same way shitting out a five inch nail would hurt.

"Hop up on the bed, hon," I played Babe Ruth, calling at least one shot.

Acceding, the perfectly-proportionate princess slid her succulent butt cheeks upon the mattress I wanted to be, when I was reincarnated. This bed had seen more ass than a political correspondent.

Dropping to my knees, positioning my head between her thighs, I began eating my second favorite food.

Dicks in hand, the cock zombies converged.

Shining the woman's hood ornament with my tongue, I descended a few inches below her cunt, and feasted on my first favorite food.

The sylph squealed in rapture. It was the reaction I was fishing for. This one would cum hard.

Dancing around her Sean Hannity, I stroked myself beneath chinos thinner than O.J.'s defense. Moments later, I stripped bare, and ― as per my usual modality ― left my socks and fuckboots on.

It was meat and potatoes with me. No frills. Call it banal, but if you get tired of blastin' out orgasms, and wanna hump without cumming, head elsewhere. I'd trained myself to fuck, and fuck for days. How else was I gonna put up 5,000 women?

Stretching a mushroom suit over my shaft, I teased the woman's lower lips for a time, without inserting. Simultaneously, I massaged her clit with my lubed thumb.

In the yard next door, some clueless neighbor ― or one who didn't care ― lost a limb to an out-of-control lawnmower. On the opposite side, a female barbequed her cat, dog, or some other pet. Whatever it had been actually smelled pretty good.

It was business as usual outside the walls. Nobody doing anything memorable ― which was the way this paradigm had been designed. Who's gonna recall screaming at Viking, for the 6,000th time, to stop shitting on the lawn?

"Remember when I pulled Sable out of the tree, just like the 7,435,000 times prior? What a fuckin' hoot that was!"

Such stated, who can forget the time you fucked some sexy senorita, in a Sin City backyard, after her spirit guide commanded she cum on something in excess of nine inches?

When it came to the latter, that would be me.

This has nothing to do with a faulty memory. I'd simply fucked so much, I hadn't been able to keep up with my encounters, when it came to committing them to paper.

Due to the stressful nature of this sick scenario we've created for ourselves, the majority of our time is spent doin' shit we hate. We're constantly racing from one nightmare to the next. Pay this bill; run this pointless errand; race to "work," etc.

Thus, documenting the outstanding portions of our existences ― if there are any ― is overlooked.

A jumbo jet flew above, with perhaps hundreds of passengers aboard it. I wondered if any of them could see me stuffing this beautiful bird with my bawdy baster.

The first few inches went well. As we progressed, however, it became apparent her hole hurt.

I pulled back briefly, before thrusting my entire length inside the woman.

This overt act took her breath away ― which was what I was going for. Unrelenting, I slammed inside repeatedly. She was a late night taxicab ― I took her where I needed to go. This would be her orgasm, but it was all about me.

Increasing speed, while jick balling her with my thumb, I could feel her energy mounting. So much so, I knew this was gonna be the Tsar Bomba of vagi-motor reflexes.

Seconds later, I was proven correct. Arching, the top of her head drilled into the mattress, there were only two paths this could take. Either the chick would contort so far, her spine would split, or―

And that's when it happened! The señorita convulsed. We're talkin' paroxysms that make observers scream hysterically at 9-1-1 operators; spasms that cause EMTs to sprint from their ambulances in a frenzy.

The woman seized without control.

I continued to thrust.

In turn, she flailed, the way one would expect a convicted killer to thrash in the electric chair.

The cock zombies glanced at each other, unsure if they should make that emergency services call, or not.

Moments later, I was ejected, as the lass' spasms became so violent, they thrust me from the bed. At that point, I joined the voyeurs, and simply watched the show, until the frenetic female finally came to rest, gulping at the air around her.

Post-furor, I reclined in the hot tub, trying to find that Man in the Moon folks talk about, but I was never able to see. Amid the glow of Earth's satellite, I contemplated how none of this would've been possible, if I hadn't taken a pic of my cock.

A darkened room.

A waning, neon glow emanates from your Mac LC III.

You're nude.

One lubricant-drenched hand is in constant motion beneath your desk. A second appendage is employed solely for typing.

Although you've achieved 42 one-handed words per minute, you're no match for a well-trained secretary. When entertaining multiple virtual partners, you don't stand a chance.

You frantically hunt and peck, attempting to bring the housewife in Paramus to orgasm, while describing the size of your most affable appendage to the Latina executive in San Jose.

It's an episode that can leave triathletes gasping for breath. If engaged in improperly, you run the risk of straining something.

Keep 'em all busy, staring at your schlong, while affording yourself ample time to stroke.

Become your own porn movie. Retain nude photos of yourself at the ready. This approach frees your hands from incessant typing, allowing them to engage in more pleasurable activity.

A picture is worth a thousand words, isn't it?

Say you type a mere 50 words per minute. Single-handedly, we're talkin' 25 wpm. At that rate, 1,000 words affords you countless extra moments with which to properly spit shine your shaft. The numbers speak for themselves.

― authored by Hugh Mungus