When it comes to swinging, second only to oxygen, you need pics.
Not many have visited Rollinsville, Colorado ― population 181 ― but even fewer can honestly assert they've fucked there. I, on the other hand, can sincerely proclaim both.
Wikipedia Rollinsville. See the general store in the foreground of the embedded photo? There's a small, wooden shack to the right of that ― off-camera ― in which I did the deed with a BBW I met from the Internet, while her husband watched.
Such would've only been an arcane fantasy, had I not taken ― and forwarded ― pictures of my penis to the couple in question.
Had this duo wandered through Denver ― where I resided, at the time ― they would've passed me like a billionaire passes a penny on the street.
Thanks to the magic of photography, however, I was able to display ― and disseminate ― my dong directly into that scant shack, and onto the pair's laptop.
Wild winds whippin' up a blizzard rivaling an arctic winter. Roads closed, due to snow drifts taller than grandpa's claims of a 22 inch cock. Yet, somehow ― in some fucked-up Universe ― my pics found their way to this quaint cottage in the middle of nowhere.
Once they did, the couple with whom I was conversing became doggedly intrigued, as the female portion of the duo began fantasizing about fucking me. Well, fucking my fuck tool, anyway.
Mind you, reaching Rollinsville in wintertime is no easy feat. The switchbacks, in these parts, are reminiscent of Route 66 from Kingman, Arizona, to Oatman. Combine this with the fact you're operating at higher altitude, snow buries everything, and the road to Rollinsville is thinner than an anorexic on a hunger strike.
Tires balding like Travolta, I traversed the treacherous trail in a rust-ravaged 4-wheel truck, that rolled off the assembly line when breakdancing, Rubik's Cubes, and Hacky Sacks were hot.
I felt like Indiana Jones in the fifth installment of the Raiders of the Lost Ark flicks, fashioning a crude cannon from his asshole, and some paint thinner.
Upon parking, I watched a chick ― from what appeared to be the burg's only bar ― drop her pants, expose a perfectly shaved bush, and piss behind my vehicle. Steam arose from her efforts, like exhaust from a turn of the century locomotive.
Intrigued, I nonetheless chose to remain on course, and beat my knuckles on a dilapidated door, inside an enclosed porch filled with battered Big Wheels, and baseball mitts.
The object of my affection answered in a Valentine's Day pink, fishnet bodysuit, indicating I had the correct residence.
I breathed a halitosis-heavy sigh of relief, since it had taken hours ― and ample anxiety ― to get here.
"Hugh?" the coy cutie coughed, having smoked enough herb to relax.
"Yep," I replied, with wit as dull as being on hold for hours.
After small talk — during which we established the duo were newbies to the sportfucking scene — hubby confessed he'd shadowboxed with jealousy a few rounds. Such stated, he firmly felt he'd kicked its ass. Thus ― through a haze of spent cannabis ― he inquired, "Wanna show Sarah the goods?"
"Most definitely," I replied. "She's gorgeous!"
Atop a ramshackle box spring, the big, beautiful woman's nipples rose like zombies from the dead.
Striding to the bed, I removed my beefy sampson from sweat pants with more holes in 'em than Bill Clinton's testimony regarding Monica Lewinsky.
"Ooo!" Sarah cooed ― an infant eager to play with a new toy. Crawling off a mattress that looked like it'd been broiled on high, she slid toward my slacks snake, and began sucking more than a death sentence for littering.
Gazing about, I took note of how rustic everything appeared. Brown liquid stains leaked down brown walls, in an overall brown motif. I felt as though I'd been transported back into a Wild West daguerreotype, my hair more slimy than an oil pan.
Nature encroached on this forgotten outpost, as dirt seemed to be alive, and propagate, crawling out of every corner.
Was it even the new millennium inside this shanty? Had I somehow been conveyed to an era pre-deodorant and anus bleaching?
The woman removed her bodysuit ― which hadn't left anything to the imagination, anyway. Laying atop a homemade comforter ― that smelled of liniment and moldy wood ― she positioned herself perfectly for just about anything from a nap, to licking lance.
As such, I straddled the bubbly blonde's face, as she played a lengthy tune on my fuck flute.
Hubby eventually sparked up a bourbon-dipped blunt, opened his fly, and allowed his wife to blow a few bars on his meat whistle.
Spreading the beauty's legs, like microwaved Nutella across crusty bread, I bobbed for apples between her gorgeous gams.
Leaking more than Julian Assange, her cunt was primed for big dick, even before I'd arrived. The poor princess probably spent every moment she could ― while her kids slept ― shoving dirty dildos up her hastily-shaven honeypot, watching gay porn.
As such, I was a prep cook with little to do.
Fitting my fuck falcon for flight, I paid homage to whomever invented the condom, and began probing new depths.
"Oh, Jesus, Billy! Oh, Jesus!" the draining dame gripped her man's bony butt, as I pressed on.
A wood stove, and a few dented space heaters, kept the place hotter than a threesome with Michelle Pfeiffer and a Super Head Honcho Masturbator. As such, rivulets of sweat rolled off the babe's belly, and into her horny hole, providing even more natural lube.
"Jesus, Billy! I'm gonna cum!" she flailed, grasping her guy for everything he was worth. Her face turned Fresno Chili red, as she made good on her assertion.
Again, photos! They're imperative! Without 'em, a swinger is more lost than Wilt Chamberlain's virginity, by the time the basketball star had turned 55.
In the event you're more well-hung than a roomful of paintings at the Louvre, a photo exhibiting this attribute will often cause a woman to ask you to take it out, and show it to her.
During a first date, intensify the anticipation with a nude photograph of yourself "inadvertently" left on your phone as wallpaper. Upon discovery, your new female friend may find herself impelled to see the goods. Fuel those sexual fires with more combustibles than a dynamite shack!
Become creative. Back in the '90s, I designed my own business cards, incorporating nude pictures of myself taken by a porn photographer in Hollywood. Distributing these babies, while on first dates, I'd elucidate about my adult film "occupation."
A maneuver of this magnitude catches women off guard. Females in this situation almost always take the bait. You're working in a legitimate industry, and you possess business cards to substantiate such.
Gingerly place the ball in their court, so to speak. Dangle the dong in a movie theater, and you run the risk of facing lewd conduct charges.
Produce a superlatively crafted, nude photograph of yourself, however, asserting you perform in adult films, and you've generated an air of mystery. Most women have never made the acquaintance of a male porn actor, although they've attained Earth-shattering orgasms ― in private ― watching naked, endowed thespians.
"My spirit guide told me the fate of humanity depends on you fucking me," the completely nude woman caressed my balls in the late afternoon Sun, beside the pool.
"Then you obviously need a new spirit guide," I thought.
What I actually uttered was, "For the sake of the species, I'm happy to help!"
Smiling, the cheery chick fondled my slit stretcher beneath pants produced before Jimmy Carter postmarked his letters "1600 Pennsylvania Avenue."
"He saw your pics online, and told me I needed to get fucked by this huge thing," the lass squeezed my slut slayer.
Here in the desert, summer weather was perfect for poolside fucking.
