A sandstorm outside ate what was left of the paint job on my flesh-colored Ford Fiesta. With zero sense of rhythm, I pumped atop the Native American woman I shared the mattress with. A box spring away, the lass' Latina friend was manually servicing some Vietnamese guy.
And that's when he arrived. Horny to the point of drooling, maneuvering a motorized wheelchair, was Burgess Meredith garbed in a Metallica concert shirt. The ominous figure brought his mobility aid to a stop inches from my head.
"Fuck her," the poster child for Metamucil sharply demanded. "Fuck her hard!"
This wasn't my strong suit. Couldn't the bastard tell I was doing my best?
The prune's caregiver hurried in, wielding a syringe and administering a shot.
"Wh― What's that for?" I asked, out of breath.
"It's so he can attain an erection," the nurse replied.
"Fuck! That's all I need," I thought to myself. It wasn't bad enough Mickey Rooney with a mouth was already oversexed. Now, he'd be able to do something about it. Obviously, this was an era prior to Viagra.
The place didn't resemble a swing venue, so much as a warehouse: empty, save for three mattresses; a half-burnt, lime green couch; a gigantic, wooden Magnavox; and a stuffed javelina over the door. It was my inaugural sojourn into group copulation, so I had little to reference, when determining how a sex shelter should look.
I still found it difficult to believe such a locale existed this close to a major goddamned university. "Close," here, meant 500 feet away! Even more amazing? I was the only college-aged patron in attendance. Had I really uncovered an oasis hiding in the open?
It was at that point I knew I was made for this crap. Akin to Adrian Brody ― regarding cocaine consumption ― I had a nose for it. Some folks excelled at pubic braiding, or tennis. I, however, was skillful at seeking out the nearest sexual celebration.
This wasn't to say I was worth a damn in bed. I wasn't, but I had a knack for talking my way into shindigs where partygoers wore fewer clothes than inhabitants of an aboriginal island.
Realizing the senior above us was more mobile than anticipated, I became nervous. Hot breath wreaking of denture cream filled my nostrils, as the decrepit swing club owner dismounted his chair, and began crawling toward my ad hoc object of affection. Disconcerted, I gathered my clothing, and was more gone than Zima.
Before I could reach the front door, a round, brown housewife stopped me, asserting she liked watching white guys masturbate. Rather than brave the raging desert storm, I abandoned my pants, and headed for the moldy sofa she was occupying. Like active bowels, I had to keep this shit movin'.
Yes, the presence of the old guy was more difficult to swallow than thumbtacks, but this latest proposition appeared to be a chance for redemption.
Twenty minutes ― and millions of wasted sperm ― later, I heard the whine of the ancient's wheelchair again approaching. Grabbing my clothes, I raced for the door, before things could get more uncomfortable than an operating table in Josef Mengele's office. As a coyote howled in the distance, I fled into the night.
You know you're an alcoholic when you work in a hardware store, a customer asks for a screwdriver, and you bust out the vodka and orange juice.
