Cyberjacker

The cunt juice was fresh. I could tell by the taste.

This wasn't the concentrated crap you find in the butt end of the freezer section, adjacent expired ass pudding.

Combining the spiciness with saliva, I set my mouth on the spin cycle, as my eyes opened to an unfamiliar motel room.

Looking right, I surmised I'd run dry of alcohol during the evening, and had chugged Listerine and Coke, as a cheap substitute. What remained in the transparent, plastic cup on the dresser was damning evidence.

Sunlight pierced begrimed blinds covering a window that had obviously been farted on, every day, since 1934.

Soiled Victorian wallpaper hastily covered unfinished concrete.

Thick sweat drained from every crack, including the one between my ass cheeks.

A ceiling fan, with broken blades, sputtered.

Dust, half an inch thick, blanketed everything.

Was some fat guy in the adjacent room, gruntin' out the crescendo to a masturbation session, or was somebody watching a World's Strongest Man competition?

I was alone, save for a pair of lace panties stretched between the rabbit ears of a TV set older than my jokes.

A rat scurried across the wooden floor, a spider the size of a Ding Dong in its bleeding jaws.

Opening the drawer to the nightstand beside me, I pulled out the local phone book.

"Paraguay?!"

Firing up my running laptop, I discovered a myriad of adult sites accessing midget porn.

"Not again," I admonished my drunken, incoherent sojourns.

In windows beside the smut was a Wikipedia entry for cling peaches, a picture of Tony Danza, and a partially-written E-mail I'd been ostensibly composing. I didn't recognize the recipient's online address, but that made sense, since I didn't know where I was.

Searching for clues, I read on:

"I'm attempting to get a condom tester named Peg A. Suss between the sheets. Straightjackets fill Peg's wardrobe closet, but her tits were featured on That's Incredible!

I understand about not being able to meet Lisa and Larry on Friday. I played with Lisa yesterday, during which I bestowed upon her my customary three thrusts, a 'Hallelujah!' and a prayer to the Justice League of America.

How's this for a solution? We convene in the back pew at Our Lady of the Pointless Praise, and hang out with a case of Manischewitz for the meet and greet.

I never comprehended the whole 'getting to know you' scenario. Why not just hit a swing club, get nude, and hump? Do we have to drive cross country, to find we're incompatible for something as trivial as my choice of socks?

As far as the dong pic is concerned, you're as hung as Larry, and Lisa's been married to the dude for years!

People are clueless! At least two billion of 'em believe in a geriatric — who can hear our every thought — floating in an invisible city in the sky! If these fuckers are gullible enough to buy horse shit piled that deep, they'll swallow anything!

Don't let this chick — nor any other — intimidate you.

With your oral abilities, and whatever lame shit I do — before passing out terrified, beneath the bed — we possess a one-two combo that puts Ali to shame! Unless we hire a tranny cow whisperer, with a square asshole, she'll be bequeathed all the variety she needs!

Like Taco Bell fare — an hour after being eaten — I'm out!"

No indication as to what brought me south of the equator, but since all evidence pointed to sex, I was content to drift back to sleep.

You may be of the misconception your best friend is your dog. Then again, you may be under the fallacious impression O.J. was innocent, Oprah isn't greedy, and Ted Danson's hair is real. For the single, swingin' male, your greatest pal is the Internet.

With the creation of the World Wide Web, you can now determine whether an orgy is occurring in Kowloon, China, or if your neighbor's wife is headed to the local Best Western for a nude photo shoot. All one needs is an Internet connection.

Search engines, forums, and Websites give horny, one-handed typists the ability to find parties anywhere.

Social networking sites contain clubs specifically designed for swingers in search of like-minded partners. That's because these online groups are created by other horny folk — usually whilst nude — as exhibited by the photos they post.

For all you know, your realtor could be planning a bash that'll make the latest Tory Lane flick seem G-rated.

That soccer mom at the homeowners' functions might be splayed in front of her computer, nightly, wearing nothing but the look of ecstasy.

Seeking to chat with housewives modeling the finest in birthday suits? Give online, adult picture sharing sites a try.

Adult film thespians were once a rare breed. With the introduction of the Internet, any guy can transform into Ron Jeremy. Instant porn star! Just add Web.

Vegas Vic and I trudged through the lobby of the Red Rock Casino with a purpose. That purpose stood 5' 2", had tits the size of chipped bocce balls, and awaited us in Room 218.

Who were we?

Vegas Vic — V-Squared, in the texts I sent him — was a superhero. His superpower? The ability to coordinate a 20 person orgy, in under two hours, within Sin City limits.

Me? Nobody, including myself, could've given a sandy shit who the hell I was. "Just a really big cock, and a pair of hiking boots," so I'd been told.

Both of us were swingers residing in the Entertainment Capital of the World.

"Ping!" came the text alert from a phone so cheap, I wouldn't be surprised if I pulled it from a Cracker Jack box.

I read the message on a face plate smeared in spit:

"She's nervous about your size. She's never taken anything over 7 inches. Just go slow, ok?"

Apart from "LOL" — when nobody's actually laughing — and a host of smiley face emoticons, it was probably the most widely distributed text on the planet. Talk about misuse of the Internet.

In response, I typed something more stupid than calling to increase your credit limit, while puttin' back an 8 ball, watchin' late night infommercials. What I actually sent, I can't recollect.

Didn't matter. We'd hit the hallway that reminded me of chow mein, sticky rice, and Asian motifs, every time I'd frequented it. For whatever reason, people loved fucking strangers at the Red Rock. I didn't ask questions.

The elevator ride was shorter than bad sex. Second floor.

We could've taken the stairs, but the stairwells in this joint smelled like piss. Too much gratuitous, watered-down hooch, while bangin' out hands of video poker. The next thing you know, you're expelling lemonade in what you thought was a bathroom.

Bam! Doors opened, and we we're in the hallway again. This time one floor higher.

Scanning the rooms, as we walked, Vic inquired, "Condoms, right?"

"Yep," I replied.

"And where can we cum?"

"Anywhere below the neck."

I'd coordinated this one, since the couple in question contacted me, after viewing my pics online.

Three brisk knocks, and the door opened wide.

Hubby was short, squat, and workin' the lumberjack look, while sloshin' a clear cocktail.

Behind him, his wife — hotter than molten graphene — rose from the bed, sporting a skin tight, black bustier, and matching fishnet garters.

"Welcome, guys!" hubby offered up a cheese platter disguised as a warm greeting.

Vic and I entered.

Talk smaller than a period in a pulp publication.

In 17 minutes and 42 seconds, the woman in question was at the edge of the mattress, dumpin' loads on my womb widener. Simultaneously, I worked her peach pit with my thumb.

Up top, V2 received what I can attest was superlative head.

By a fake fireplace, hubby poured himself another Belvedere rocks; his eyes locked on the action.

It was one of those form-fitting pussies you're mesmerized by, while watching your cock slowly stretch it.

In the end, I'd been able to drop the depth charge all but the last couple inches. Any deeper would've been too much; any less would've defeated the reason this couple contacted me.

The woman's orgasms shuddered through her body like aftershocks on the San Andreas.

"Enough! Enough!!" she eventually gasped, pressing an overextended hand into her chest, and squirming away from me.

At that point, Vic announced a one gun salute that left his target's chest glazed like Mongolian beef.

Smiles all around. Everyone who needed to cum, did. Those who didn't were either inebriated, or ridin' an adrenaline high from killer grind-style sex.

More talk smaller than a ladybug in the Amazon, and we we're out like free thinking in a totalitarian state.

During our return stroll through the oriental hallway, Vic and I would chat about upcoming events — all of which would be made possible, thanks to the Internet.

Counting shemales and TGirls, I've played with in excess of 5,000 women. At least 1,000 of those tallies have come — so to speak — thanks to the World Wide Web.

Where else are you gonna find listings of swing clubs? From what other source can you read field reports written by those road tripping to distant porn theaters? How else do you expect to meet new fuck buddies, in 30 minutes, or less?

The Internet: a libidinous library, all at the click of a few buttons.

— authored by Hugh Mungus