Swing Shacks: Inside and Out

Thrown together with putty, electric tape and the finest stolen furniture, swing clubs dot the landscape. Hidden like camouflaged hunters in the dense underbrush, venues of questionable morality — whether they be churches, or sex sheds — are ubiquitous.

Rifle through the glossy, substantial pages of your local adult rag, and you're bound to uncover advertisements for a few. Better yet, commence Internet investigation for these nearly invisible prey. Don't be stupefied to discover one three blocks from your house.

You won't find these locales showcased beside the latest from the Nordstrom Rack. Jack Nicholson will pose in Playboy, before screw shacks are accepted in mainstream society.

Forbidden fruit, swing clubs are modern-day oases for the parched traveler succumbing to the arid, lifeless drone of contemporary existence. Hotter than crankin' the heat on a summer day in the desert, play palaces are fuel for fantasy. Males will woolgather about them in the dark, while strengthening their wrists, but few will enter their inner sanctum.

"What does a typical swing shack look like?" you query.

There's no standard answer to that, as all sex shanties are different. Some are private homes, while others are actual places of business. Many allow overt nudity, and a multitude have a dress code. There are sleazy locales in sleazy parts of town, and there are upscale venues in opulent areas.

Hence, when it comes to dissolute domiciles, we're talkin' variety.

Most porn palaces will probably have at least a TV or two playing XXX flicks. You're likely to encounter a hot tub, or tubs, and ― on occasion ― a pool. Beds ― either in public rooms, or private ― are a common feature. Some locales have lockers, where customers can store their clothes; others don't.

Dark lighting, and black lights, aren't uncommon. Condom machines, theater screens, and the occasional bar are also amenities you may come across — so to speak.

"So, how do I find swing clubs near me?"

As with so much information these days, details and locations of screw shacks can be uncovered online. I'd bequeath specific Web addresses, but such isn't permissible on Literotica. Should you be interested, though, drop me a message, and I'll impart the cache of resources I've accumulated over the decades.

A thorough Google search will provide you the initial information you need to get started.

Whenever possible, call the location you plan to visit, in order to glean as many details about it as you can. Typical questions solo men should ask would be:

1) Are single males allowed?

2) What's the dress code?

3) May customers wander around nude, and stroke themselves?

Sounds like a bizarre query, but should your best attribute be your erection, that's something you'll wanna show off.

4) What's the entrance fee?

This will often vary from weekdays to weekends; from afternoons to evenings. Perpetually busy times will be more expensive.

5) What days/nights is the venue open, and what are their hours?

Since so many people have weekends off, that's when they tend to play. Mondays at these locales may be far less expensive, but if nobody's present, that does you no good.

This asserted, you don't wanna frequent an establishment that's so overpriced on the weekends it leaves you insolvent.

Steer clear of cum clubs with a dress code. Their entrance fees will be high, and you'll almost invariably be dealing with a singles bar doubling as a fuck facility.

With apparel policies, a pretentious attitude may also be something you encounter. You're not present to compare yearly salaries with folks; you're in attendance because you wanna get laid...a lot!

Before I travel, I conduct fastidious research on the region to which I'm headed. From those who've gone before, you'll learn the best days, nights, and times to frequent various venues. You'll also be privy to insider tips, including erudition regarding regular couples and females, and when they're likely to show up.

Having played with thousands of women at hump havens, what follows is brief retelling of an encounter I engaged in — while in a private room — at a lust lean-to.

Bear in mind, when swinging, each day is a different adventure. Some evenings supersede the hottest orgies oozing from your porn-saturated laptop. Other days will be one-on-one erotic exploits. In addition, prepare for those bouts with dead air that'll leave you feelin' emptier than your your head, after watching 36 non-stop hours of Dancing With the Stars:

Hillary Clinton's tits were huge — far bigger than they appeared on TV.

In shock, I stepped back. Squaring off with the nude Secretary of State — in a fur-lined room — I concluded, "Why shouldn't I fuck her? She constantly fucks us."

Brandishing handcuffs, the demented damsel prepared to strike.

"You bitch!" I thought, diving headfirst into an Alex Jones flashback. "No way your New World Order ass is gonna take me to the FEMA camps!"

As the whip-wielding whore and I cautiously approached each other, I understood this wasn't really Hillary Clinton, but rather her doppelganger.

Dropping my pants, and brandishing my own weapon, I questioned, "Has anyone ever told you look like—?"

"Don't say it," she interrupted. "I abhor that bitch."

"Any halfway sane person would," I replied.

Gripping perhaps the greatest tits I'd ever seen, the bawdy broad challenged, "You really think that cunt has a set like these?"

"No," I responded, grabbing my nuts. "I actually think she has a pair like these."

Meshing like a match and gasoline, we exploded on the waterbed.

Pounding away at this lass — who had the face of Beelzebub, but the body of a Hustler Honey — I felt as though I was rectifying the atrocities Hillary Clinton had perpetrated on us all.

The sex had been more strained than early stage baby food.

True to the Secretary of State's demeanor, this chick was determined to dominate. Her hands became vice grips, crushing my gentle palms, and terminating the circulation to the rest of my body.

Grinding her pelvic bone into my groin, I could tell she wished she'd been born with a dick — and the biggest on the planet.

"Put your hands behind you, and pull that thing outta me," she commanded. "Turn around, so I can tie you up, bitch!"

When I failed to comply — feigning temporary hearing loss — she stabbed my back with razor-fine shark teeth, marginally passing as fingernails.

Gnashing my tusks, I popped a blood vessel in my gums, as I suppressed a scream. Gazing at the mirrored ceiling, I caught sight of the puncture wounds the maniacal maiden's claws had created in my ass cheeks, and the blood spilling from them.

Pounding my sex spike to the hilt inside this psychopath's slit, I forced her to cum — whether she wanted to, or not — simply so she'd calm down.

Her head spun like a meth addict in an unexpurgated overdose. Intertwining our fingers, I bound her hands to the mattress. She'd lost control of the scene, as her energy drained from her cunt.

"Too fuckin' bad!" I thought.

Shrieking, she convulsed, her back bending in a pose that should've caused it to snap.

Scrambling for my pants, I rolled off this demon. Dressing faster than rabbits fuck, I raced from the room.

In the background, the deranged dame seized, before going limp.

Slipping on a sheet of ice outside the accommodations, I slid into a snowbank — replete with innumerable steaming, yellow holes. I didn't care. I'd escaped intact.

The aftermath of my encounter found me shivering in a Waffle House — minus the "W." Scribbling this article on a complimentary paper napkin at 4 AM, I comprehended my existence wasn't "normal."

Sheets of snow danced outside the biscuit bistro — which billowed steam into the frigid winter night. Bay windows covered in condensation exposed the phrase: "Fuck you, Dorita!" — which somebody had written in face grease with their finger.

Obviously, Dorita wasn't scheduled this particular evening, and whomever was didn't give two slimy fucks about their place of enslavement.

My hair coated in senorita semen, my fingers fused with strawberry jam, I realized things were different with me.

As the "scattered all the way" arrived, and I dumped three 50ml bottles of Rumple Minze into my hot cocoa, I understood I was on the fringe of it all. No picket fences. No mortgage. Scrambled grease, and suburban sex were my fuel.

I couldn't look back now, if I wanted to. Too far down the prurient path, I was sportfucking at an unprecedented rate. This was shit on par with Chamberlain.

Everyone I'd graduated with had either prepared for early retirement; been divorced several times; or found themselves fending off killer kids, eager for attention and cash.

Me? I was humpin' more than a Chihuahua hugging a piss-scented leg.

"Come back to us! There's still time!" the cult members cried.

"Not a chance in Hell," I murmured, as I deftly affixed the next condom, and prepared for whatever adventure awaited.

Step off the grid. I did long ago, and never looked back. Become a dweller of the fringe. Drink mezcal, and engulf peyote for breakfast. You'll be glad you did.

— authored by Hugh Mungus