The Organ-Izers

"There is no crueler tyranny than that which is perpetrated under the shield of law and in the name of justice."

― Baron de Montesquieu

Nothing green touched Vegas Vic's plate. The fired circle of porcelain was off limits to anything grown in the ground, at one time hanging from a vine, or initially dangling from a tree.

The dinnerware obviously had an invisible barricade around it, keeping that which didn't perish in a slaughterhouse from penetrating its perimeter.

I wondered if V2 ― i.e. The Rocket ― was allergic to vegetables. Not wishing to tread on distressing dirt, I didn't say a word.

Lovingly embraced by a free Palace Station buffet, I stuffed my face full of leaves, roots and stalks, while V-Squared solely engulfed that which had bled.

We couldn't have been more opposite. Twin-V appeared to never miss a meal. I, on the other hand, was a poster child for the undernourished. Swinging adjudicates no one; the only glue necessary being the desire to fuck, and fuck like mad.

As such, we'd just completed yet another gangbang ― this one with a Dungeons & Dragons aficionado, and his cock-craving concubine.

Riding the elevator to the event at the Rio, I'd stared up at an ad for Chippendale's male revue. Six topless torsos, attached to dudes who spent more time in the gym than they did breathing. "Who do you think gets laid more?" motioning to the airbrushed poster of perfect corporeal specimens. "Those guys, or us?" I'd asked.

Vic chuckled. We didn't have a definite answer to that one. The correct rejoinder may have seemed obvious, but it was just another example of what this system offers, and what we decide to take on our own.

"Tough to tell, man. Tough to tell," responded Sin City's premiere Organ-Izer.

At best, we were...grubby. I'd never heard my name mentioned in the same sentence with the phrase "hot stud." Vic, although at least tolerable, wasn't gonna be featured on The Bachelor anytime soon.

Still, here we were, more fucked than the only Fleshlight in a prison.

I was averagin' eight to 10 new women per week, at that time, and I don't think Vic was too far behind.

The LP of my mind skipped a groove, recalling a recent memory.

"You should really work on your career, man," asserted Marcel. Three days later, he died in his sleep. Since that time, I'd fucked another 420 women. That was a year ago.

Marcel had been energetically toiling at his "career," when he exhaled for the last time.

"A 'career.' " I quietly cogitated. "No."

Skipping ahead on the playlist in my brain, I strapped on the headphones, and cranked the volume.

The ambrosia spraying from the smoldering hot blonde's covetous cavern was flowing directly from the Fountain of Youth. "If cocks were cognizant, mine would think it was being water boarded, right about now," I mused.

"Holy fuck!!" the demigoddess squealed. "It's been 10 years since I've sprayed!" At that, another blast released from her heavenly hole, hitting her point blank in the eyes, temporarily blinding her!

Standing between honey-dipped thighs, thrusting like a fencer wielding his blade, I lost traction against a tile floor that had become an oil slick, thanks to pints of womb water. Repositioning the blue raspberry-flavored barmaid ― shaved snatch, and all ― a couple feet to my right, we recommenced our routine.

Her ditch continued to douse, and soon enough, this new portion of the floor was more slippery than a Mike Pence initiative to provide "full transparency."

And so, the migration again transpired. Every 10 minutes, we were forced to move, or incur the pitfalls inherent to the perfidious combo of goddess grease and smooth, swing club tile.

The playful pixie attempted to stand, and slid like a weak foal across arctic ice. Both our naked bodies were soaked in so much señorita semen, it was dripping from our hair.

"Let's see," I ruminated. "This," I mentally continued, "or this?"

Shuddering, I envisioned the dismal interior of some corporate gulag, where exhausted debt slaves decomposed in cubicles that stretched to the horizon. I pondered how many unrealized fantasies that equated to; how many wasted lives I was viewing.

Rotting in a megacorp hoosegow, or perpetually immersing oneself in a live porn? Which door do I choose, Monty "Motherfuckin' " Hall?

Enter guys like Vegas Vic. For whatever fucked-up reason, should you have difficulty deciding between an existence of orgiastic fantasy-made-reality, or shit disguised as creamy nougat, V-Dub will clarify things.

More lost in the crowd than a kernel on the cob, in prosaic society, Vic would never be mistaken for possessing one of the most laid lances in Vegas. Such stated, his balls are more widely used than Spalding.

What's the secret to his magic?

Vegas Vic is what's known as an Organ-Izer. Organ-Izers arrange threesomes, foursomes, moresomes, gangbangs, and orgies.

It doesn't matter if you have one eye, three fingers, and more hair in your nose than atop your head. Can you coordinate? Desire being fucked more than an ignorant prole hitting the ballot box every four years? If you answered, "Yes" to both questions, you're on the path to humping more women than 99% of men on the planet.

Grab a cell phone, and begin your sexual sojourn.

You might have a 14 inch cock. You may be better looking than the prospect of freedom. Perhaps you have five testicles, are able to cum 50 times in 10 minutes, and "own" entire cities. You'll never be able to get laid as much as...

The Organ-Izers.

Are you 75 years old, and physically resemble a character from The Muppet Show? Maybe you're hung like a spider. You might be shorter than the line at a deep fried Cocker Spaniel restaurant.

None of this matters. If you wanna get fucked like the public under government rule, all you need do is possess the desire, and the ability, to organize.

I've seen 65 year old social security recipients, poundin' two and a half inches of rigid rod into 25 year old XXX actresses ― free of charge ― all thanks to the awe-inspiring power of The Organ-Izers.

I've witnessed forgotten high school nerds ― who didn't even make the yearbook, let alone a nomination for "Most Likely to..." anything ― receiving record-breaking head from multiple prom queens.

I've been privy to Laser Tag addicts ass fucking college cheerleaders, and it was all thanks to a proficiency to organize one's medicine cabinet.

Do you have what it takes to clear out the floppy-eared dust bunnies in your garage, and turn that area into an efficient storage shed? Well, then you've all the tools necessary to get fucked like the forerunner for president changing his campaign slogan to "911 Was an Inside Job!"

What's the secret, here? Take 10 seconds to solve this conundrum.

If you organize a gangbang, you'll also be participating in that event. The more you coordinate, the more you'll fuck. Simple.

— authored by Hugh Mungus