You Oughta be in Pictures

During my initial forays into the swinging arena, the Internet wasn't even a whisper on the lips of the public. Digital cameras? The only things digital in that archaic Stone Age were alarm clocks, and microwave oven displays.

We're talkin' VCRs, and cassette tapes. Ozzy was still perceived as some dove-devouring, Satanic psychopath, as opposed to the pablum-eating shell of a marketing ploy he's become.

Even in those prehistoric times, it behooved a single, swingin' dude to possess what would be the equivalent of a head shot for an actor.

Polaroids, man! In the early '90s, they were imperative. Back then, you got 10 shots for 10 bucks. Hence, takin' a decent picture of your huevos and all-beef sausage was an expensive endeavor, financially magnified when heroically attempted alone.

Slick, glossy-paged copies of Hustler in your left hand, a one-shot camera — coated in baby oil — in your right, it was damned near impossible to capture your special purpose in frame. Still, one had to try. How else were you gonna answer ads in local swing rags, without a pic to verify your assertions?

Keep in mind, a guy was workin' with completely different photos for each response, since making duplicates of Polaroids was as easy as running a two minute mile, underwater. I'm certain you can see how costly this endeavor was for somebody like myself, who is the antithesis of Ansel Adams.

Combine all this with the fact you were responding via snail mail, and things became even more complex. When you consider the time it took for those who placed the ad to answer your reply, you may be looking at weeks in the waiting.

Of course, one also ran the risk of flakes, and no shows. There were instances in which I shelled out 40 bucks in Polaroids, six greenbacks in lubricant, and a few dollars in mailing fees, only to discover the couple in question were filing for divorce.

Thankfully, most of this is behind the single swinger. The annulment drama is ubiquitous, but through the advent of the Internet, you can now instantly send a two-dimensional image of your dong, anywhere on Earth.

Take advantage of this exponential improvement in technology. Obtain some shots of your prized possession, so you can text or E-mail them to prospective sexual partners. Such a weapon in one's arsenal is essential in a swinging environment.

Keep the following tips in mind:

Since computer monitors only read images at 72 dots per inch, and pics need not be high resolution, to be viewable on cells, it isn't necessary to invest in an expensive digital camera. Grab a shit 16 megapixel point-and-shoot for 40 bucks, and fire away!

Better yet, just take the photos with your cell phone.

The recipients of your magnum opuses couldn't give two oily farts about composition, nor three-point lighting. Still, should you have a copy of Photoshop layin' around — don't go out and buy one, because it's more expensive than a DUI — study a handful of free tutorials on YouTube.

If you become proficient enough with said program, you can improve the quality of your photos: remove blemishes, lighten areas that aren't as visible as you'd like, etc.

Some folks may even go so far as to erase unwanted pounds, or add bogus length. This risks misrepresentation.

Even if, via Photoshop — or some app on your phone — you engage in a rapid weight loss program, and transform yourself into Long Dong Silver, you're eventually gonna have to strip down in front of your potential sex partners.

Showing up with a two inch gherkin, dwarfed between thighs possessing more cottage cheese than a dairy processing plant — after you've described yourself as "fit and hung" — isn't going to get you laid.

If you've got an erection that curves downward, photograph it from above. It'll make your fun factory look larger. If you've got an upward-curving dong, shoot your pornographic pictures from below.

Close-up shots can be advantageous, as they fill your recipient's computer monitor, so that nothing else seems to matter.

Such stated, numerous swingers on the Web will ask for full body shots. As such, have those at the ready, as well.

Experiment with various angles.

By following these suggestions, you can make seven inches look like eight, eight like nine, nine like 10, and so on.

When it comes to nude photographs, regard 'em the way some cretinous corporate cocksucker would a business card.

In modern society, public nudity is frowned upon. Ironically, your greatest physical attributes may get you arrested, should you openly exhibit them. Relax. Help has arrived. Photos are your saving grace.

The following are examples of how nude pictures not only assisted in my quest for sex, but made coitus possible.

During a stint in a dilapidated Arizona apartment complex, I propositioned a lovely, Mexican senorita residing next door. Although I only spoke enough Spanish to receive a severe ass kicking, I was able to communicate my necessity for nude photographs, to further my lucrative "modeling" career.

I didn't lie, when it came to said "vocation." I actually did build plastic planes, as a hobby. And since these replicas are referred to as models, I technically engaged in modeling.

That said — at 5' 6" — folks would probably assume if I myself was a model, it had to be for hands or feet. Not quite as scarred and ugly as the soul of a banker, I wasn't gettin' laid, due to my face.

The next thing you know, I'm naked in front of my neighbor, and harder than mating an elephant with a flea. All this for the admission fee of two packs of Polaroid film, and a $3 bottle of baby oil.

"You're in," Vegas Vic asserted, via text.

"What?! I thought she wanted guys 25 and under," I replied to the communique from Las Vegas' premiere group sex Organ-Izer.

"She does, but I showed her your cock pic."

"And?" came my rejoinder. I was another Sin City swinger. That said, I sought sex with a twist: 5,000 women, before I bought a ticket to visit Carlin, Hicks, and Lenny Bruce.

"And now she wants guys 25 and under, as well as you," came his reply.

FAST FORWARD TO:

"Am I—?! Am I squirting?!?" the beleaguered babe flailed atop what had been a pristine, Strip hotel comforter, at the outset of the evening.

Rather than typing "LOL" into our phones, all four nude males in attendance — including Vegas Vic and me — actually laughed out loud. Senorita sperm spraying may balls, cock and chest, I eagerly scraped the woman's labia with my goo gun.

"Holy shit! I am squirting, aren't I—?!?

Two more towering orgasms erupted from the tourist's cunt, as she arched her back, and ground her teeth to the verge of chipping.

Gasping, she returned to the planet's surface, exclaiming, "I— I've been trying to do that for the last two years, and nothing! How'd you—?!?

Soaked in her semen, I stood back and smiled — the way Peter Joseph probably did, upon completing Zeitgeist. I'd done superlative work, which wouldn't have been possible, if it hadn't been for a simple photograph.

"Querido Dios!" the housekeeper raced from the room I'd rented at the Los Angeles Motel Sex. Her eyes aflame, she feared she'd be cast into Hell, for what she'd seen beyond the cracked door.

It was within these caliginous confines I lay nude, oiled, and stroking, atop the bed.

Misfire.

I'd been waiting for the intended targets — who showed up moments later, laughing about the maid they saw racing from my accommodations, genuflecting in fright.

"What the hell did you do to that wom—?! Oh, my God! That's a huge cock!" the taller of the six-foot plus BBWs squeaked, as she and her friend entered the sticky surroundings.

"Jesus!" her compatriot reiterated, making for the mattress, and gripping my gibbous groin. "Mmm..." the shorter lass purred, commandeering my stroking duties.

"Goddamn," the first female sidled up against my leg, manually polishing my three piece set.

A buzz harder than that possible at a 15-for-one happy hour shook the dresser beside the flea-infested mattress.

I glanced at my pager — which was doing its best Mexican jumping bean impression — vibrating off a nightstand with bullet holes in it.

Yeah, this was an era prior cell phones, when pagers reigned supreme.

An urgent message from "work." An urgent message I ignored, as the twin BBWs massaged my manhood.

The faceplate — digital, but just barely, during that epoch — read: 5:34. By the time my captors — a shitty Cuban nightclub in Hollywood — sent me their follow-up "emergency" plea, we were lookin' at: 5:48.

At that point, I was fucking the taller of the women — Butterfly style — atop the adjacent bed, while her friend was on calcified knees, behind me, buffing my balls.

"All this, thanks to photographs!" the tour guide at the Eastman Kodak facility — in Rochester, New York — bellowed forth. Pointing to the enormous flat screen, upon which my scrawny ass pumped away, the man turned and smiled.

In response, a throng of tourists gazed in horror — many projectile vomiting — as they watched the documentary. A documentary delineating the history of the camera. A documentary featuring me pumping away in the aforementioned threesome.

After all, if I hadn't sent the two lusty lasses — with whom I played that day — Polaroids of my grundle bundle, we would've never met.

The power of the picture. Make use of it.

— authored by Hugh Mungus