The Motel 6 Workout 1

Since you may find yourself traveling, during your erotic exploits, you'll need to make use of what's around you, in order to keep fit. Looking like Mr. Olympia isn't a prerequisite to getting laid at a swing club. Staying in decent shape, though, can sometimes be the difference between a blowjob, and a romantic night with your hand.

After years of boarding at cheap motels — many of which charge by the hour — I've learned to fully utilize whatever my surroundings provide me.

Ever stayed at a Motel 6? If you haven't, it's time!

If the beds could talk in these places, they sure as fuck wouldn't sound like Tom Bodett. Cheap motels are mobile fuck pads. I recommend you crack that piggy bank, and splurge on a standard — they're all standard — room at your friendly, neighborhood Motel Sex. You're in for a rare treat.

"Does that blood stain on the carpet look like Richard Nixon's profile, or it just me?!"

"I have a feeling whatever I ate off the pillow wasn't a mint."

"I hope they don't charge extra for this severed hand under the bed."

And through it all, most Motel 6 accommodations are well-kept, and comfortable. You're not gonna find room service, or even maid service at these venues, but your $39.95 will secure you access to a bed, chair, nightstand, table, and television.

To the untrained eye, these disparate items seem solely like what they were intended to be. To the Motel 6 frequent flier, however, these amenities represent your own, personal workout center.

If one is resourceful, you'll find yourself performing tricep dips with the chair, incline push-ups with the table, and decline push-ups with the nightstand. Rest between sets on the bed, while watching a bikini-clad Gabrielle Anwar in reruns of Burn Notice.

Take advantage of Motel 6's free ice and robust, plastic drinking receptacles — which hold sumptuous adult beverages — to keep you hydrated, during your exercise routine.

Feel the need for a little cardiovascular, but find yourself hesitant to jog the ominous, pitch black field adjacent almost every Motel 6? No worries. Seems like a majority of these discount accommodations come complete with stairwells to a second, exciting level. Run these bastards for an hour, or so.

Wanna get really fuckin' adventurous? Strap on a backpack full of phone books — said directories can be found in the nightstand of your temporary lodging — and manipulate this instant stair climber.

You'll be astounded at the effectiveness of a Motel 6 Workout.

Home gyms are more worthless than sending Sean Connery a curling iron for Christmas. If you wanna stay fit, you will.

Look around you. See that road out there? There are hundreds of thousands just like it all over the planet. Go out and run on it. You'll attain the same results as jogging on your expensive treadmill.

Wishin' you had more upper body strength, but can't afford gym fees? What's that beneath your Doc Martens? Twenty square feet of floor? Bust out a thousand push-ups.

Why waste money on useless fitness center memberships, when you could be spending that cash on trips to swing clubs, or nude motel parties? Your home gym is all around you. Feel free to use it anytime you'd like. You'll never have to wait in line for a machine, nor conform to business hours.

Before government stole my house, I had a set of weights in my basement I'd used regularly, since high school. As a matter of fact, I do resemble Arnold in his prime — Arnold Palmer, of course. I didn't work out for health purposes, so much as the pair of warm beers I put back, during each session in my cellar's soiled surroundings.

Aside from making your trips to swing clubs more productive, you'll be able to climb that flight of stairs without becoming winded, or lift that box of Playboys without feeling like somebody shoved a red, hot poker up your ass.

What follows is a sojourn into the swinging scene, during which my regular exercise routine came in handy:

The hinges exploded off the door.

The old man launched from the rear of the decrepit house. Stumbling forth on a left foot minus toes, he pushed his hip replacement to its limits.

I hadn't been laid in a week, and this arthritic bastard — wielding his cane like a broadsword — wasn't gonna make my quest for copulation any easier.

"Get the hell off my property, you son of a bitch!" the decaying geezer shrieked.

Southern California palm trees danced with their regular partner — a warm breeze. The Sun lulled tomcats to sleep, on heated curbs, that were the perfect temperature for snoozing. All around had been peace, and serenity—

And then, the fossilized fucker had to ruin everything.

Gazing between my legs, I was still in shock over the fact Tracy was swallowing the entire thing. It had only happened once in the past, and I'd been certain I would never find another woman with such a resume-worthy skill again.

Now, with the irate geriatric tripping toward us, it looked like I wouldn't get to enjoy this aberrant occurrence.

Amid gentle ocean gusts, the blanched pages of gay porn rags — left in the elements for years — had been fluttering, making delicious rippling sounds. The White Trash backyard — replete with a swimming pool filled with opaque water — was littered in 'em.

That was the antiquated asshole's thing: guys with cocks that could be seen from six states away. Gray groin liked his men more hung than wet laundry from a clothesline.

And that's where I came in. The debilitated dude loved watching my nine iron drive deep into whichever chiseled chiquita he could score from an afternoon's Internet safari.

Like targets in an arcade, he'd line 'em up, and I'd knock 'em down. I'd get my minimum dose of sex for the day; he'd receive the eyeful he craved; and we'd part ways.

Every six months, the old man would ring me up. We'd coordinate a time, and I'd drive to his Hud home, to put on a display.

His house was filthy, just like the women he provided. Dirty dames were my target demographic. Thus, we worked well together...for a while, anyway.

Whether fucking in one of two bedrooms — which reeked of things made prior 1900 — or in the backyard, the ladies and I put on a presentation that seemed to please.

Mind you, we're talkin' an era when AOL was cutting edge, and dial-up modems were the rage. As such, securing sex online was more difficult, back then, than playing dodge ball with a hand grenade. Thus, what the old man was doing was definitely impressive.

On this particular afternoon, however, things went more sour than milk, years after its expiration date.

Tracy was the latest trailer tart my elderly friend had hogtied.

"Gary says you got a huge cock," the tiny blonde brashly asserted, immediately following the obligatory, "Hi." "I know I can deepthroat it. I ain't got no gag reflex," the food stamp filly proclaimed, with a southern accent.

Stripping bare, she dunked herself in a vat of baby oil, and headed to the Sun-strafed backyard, to sizzle like Buffalo Wild Wings.

Moments later, I joined her.

Trouble reared its fucked-up face, when Tracy wandered back inside, heading for the bathroom.

It was at that point Gary made his affections known, apparently taking a strong liking to this one.

Akin to steak being offered a vegan, the woman denied him. In the eyes of our host, I'd suddenly donned a black hat.

When Tracy returned to the backyard, the pot boiled over. Watching the trailer tart suck my cock — from a mildewed window at the rear of the house — the old man blasted out the back door, in a fireball of fury.

Gathering the piece of yarn that doubled as her bikini, Tracy scrambled across the Sun-drenched backyard, in a frenzy to reach the last Ford Pinto on the road.

With my clothes trapped inside the house, I grabbed a tarp on the way, wrapped it around my waist, and made for my truck.

"You're a dead man, you bastard!" the senior citizen screamed, in lukewarm pursuit.

It wasn't my fault Tracy had denied him. Apparently, though, if he wasn't gonna get any, nobody was.

Shocked by the abrupt ending to an extremely interesting day of backyard, nude sunbathing, the woman and I were unable to coordinate our retreat. As a result, I became lost in a rat maze of suburban dead ends, and couldn't find my way back to her loving mouth.

It was to be the first, and last, time I would see her.

Not to worry, though. Since I've accumulated more stories than a thousand Sears Towers, you've plenty of my articles to read.

In summation, this latest chapter — and all others subsequent it — might never have been written, had I not engaged in my regular workout routine.

Although Gary was less mobile than a car with no wheels, if I hadn't kept myself in some semblance of shape, I probably would've pulled a muscle, and the old man would've eventually pounced on me.

— authored by Hugh Mungus