The Prophet 1

The rusted-out, black van had come to rest in the ass end of the swing club parking lot. Who knew how long it had sat there, dormant?

The night was still, and freezing cold. Glistening snow flakes fell — powdered sugar sprinkled by an omnipotent hand.

It was darker out than normal. Everything seemed so distant, and murky.

The van, however, came in crystal clear.

My halitosis condensed into steam, that poured from a mouth perpetually reeking of pussy. Cautiously wandering to the rear of the vehicle — which had been manufactured prior the catalytic converter — I gazed inside.

Amid the winter scene, the guts of this mobile fuck pad simmered hot — heat radiating from its interior.

Carpet-covered walls lined the inside of the ancient van.

Fake fur — the pigment of a cheerleader's bubble gum — wrapped a star-shaped, vibrating bed.

On a television more obsolete than dial-up modems, a white guy with a perm, bent a black chick with straight hair over a kitchen table, while disco music played.

The home-spun recipe of three different bargain basement colognes filled my nostrils, to the point I felt they may bleed.

A greasy, half-drained bottle of sloe gin awaited atop a homemade particle board dresser, lovingly thrown together with wood staples and duct tape. Beside it, an open package of Magnum XLs spilled over the counter.

From the darkened confines of swinger Hell, I discerned the cantaloupe-colored glow of the Prophet's fire stick.

Although I couldn't see his face, I knew he was there, anticipating my arrival. None of my other acquaintances wreaked of a whorehouse, devoured '70s porn, or had a dong the size of a Christmas Yule log.

Once again, I'd come for advice. Like before, the Prophet would convey his particular brand of profligate profundity. As a result, I'd depart wiser and better than I'd been five minutes previous.

Nobody was ever certain the whereabouts of this intangible nomad.

As far as I knew, none had seen the Prophet's face. Many had heard his voice, but what he looked like was an enigma. Rumor had it he'd done a stint in the joint for tearing tags off mattresses, and copying DVDs.

Over the years, I'd battled angry, naked soccer moms to meet with the Prophet. I'd braved blizzards, crashed my alloy steed through guardrails, and stared down impoverishment to be here. In the end, I knew it would be worth it, when I heard the guru croak, "Never discharge your gun within city limits."

At that, the rear doors of the van shut, locking tighter than the legs of a devout nun. In seconds, the vehicle sprung to life, it's headlights carving the void, as it backed out of its parking space, vanishing into the night.

What the fuck—?! That was it?! I'd fended off armies of jealous husbands for that shit?! Legions of lasses, tossing innumerable burning obstacles in my path, all for a mandate I could access from a municipal Website?!

It was more disappointing than climbing Everest, and discovering a Walmart at the summit.

I didn't even own a gun, and if I did, what the hell did shooting it have to do with swinging?!

Despondent, I retreated to my corroded chariot, and limped home.

Folks knew the Prophet spoke in parables. That's why they called him the Prophet.

Still, this latest advice made less sense than the wisdom he'd belched forth the last time I met with him. "Peel the onion. It has many layers."

It wasn't until I found myself amid a gangbang of epic proportion that his words made sense. While other suitors literally came and went, the Prophet's guidance resounded through my bitsy brain.

Watching the mismatched battle around me, it seemed strange the woman on the bed — outnumbered 20 to one — was winning. Men were being slain left and right by this ruthless ribald. Many a male stumbled from the mattress that day, as useless as plates of prime rib at a vegetarian convention.

Witnessing the dead depart, I vowed I wouldn't be among their ranks. "Peel the onion," the Prophet telepathically told me from a trash heap behind a Sears in Nepal.

Heeding his recommendation, I suited up for battle, and dove into the fray. Subsequent 10 minutes of combat, I "peeled the onion" — stepping aside for the next commando, and removing my condom — while stroking myself. Via this modality, I remained harder than petting a rabid Pit Bull.

After three more vanquished conscripts bit the dust, I garbed my gun yet again, and leapt back into the conflict. I rinsed and repeated this process eight times, during the course of the evening, and never received a mortal wound.

Thanks to the Prophet, I stood resilient, prepared for the undersexed female office worker who strode into the swing club an hour later.

The pearl to this latest nugget of knowledge, however, eluded me. "Never discharge your gun within city limits."? How the hell could such asinine advice ever apply to swinging, and the pursuit of Numbers?

"Maybe the Prophet's lost it," I concluded, surmising the poor bastard was succumbing to dementia.

It was only upon observing a swing shanty patron spend himself — shootin' his load, while whackin' it to 2-D porn — 30 minutes into the evening, that I made the connection. Fifteen minutes later — when a group of dong-devouring dames arrived — he was less effective than turning down the volume on a car radio, in order to save gas.

It was then I comprehended a dedicated Numbers Guy saves himself for whatever may come. "Never discharge your gun within city limits." Sound advice I've utilized for decades. Solid guidance that made the following a reality:

A late night sex soiree, amid frosty Denver suburbia.

By day, it was just another nondescript home, carved into the nondescript sprawl. Maple Street — if you will — since the monsters were due on it.

As night fell, the demons in question — throngs of the horny — congregated, their factory-formed vehicles sucking curb.

Inside the perfect dwelling, the perfect neighbors prepared the perfect play party. The couple — perhaps a mailman, and a therapist, while the Sun shined — loved to fuck, and fuck hard, as soon as the Moon took control of the planet's lighting situation.

Four beds had been crammed into a basement room. A disco ball dangled from the ceiling. Fried grub heaped in robust, tinfoil containers, atop fold-out poker tables.

A wet bar was fully-stocked. A bowl the size of a backyard satellite dish brimmed with packaged condoms.

Pink light lit the entire ensemble.

From a CD player — crusty with dried sperm — Andy Gibb never touched the baritone range.

A hundred folks were invited; 47 would show. It didn't matter. For those who attended, the evening was an unrivaled fuckfest.

A starving trout in a heavily-fished stream, I was hooked. I loved these shindigs, and couldn't get enough. They were a constant source of Numbers.

Although most house parties vary, the bashes held in this home were formulaic. Attendees didn't RSVP for conversation's sake. They came to slice and dice the abject pain they'd incurred, due to being enslaved.

As such, I'd approach these groin galas in the same fashion, every time. Posting-up in the bedroom downstairs, I'd wait for the women to stream in, and take 'em down, as they entered.

It was pure Digits, at these fornication festivals. Nothing else. Simply a matter of, "How many women can you fuck before dawn?"

This whitewashed insanity was what most refer to as middle-class America. Everybody pretending they were somethin' they weren't, while gorgin' amid soiled basements, to steal back some of what they'd forfeited, when signin' on for enslavement.

This evening was a split screen straight out of the late Billy Mays' wettest dream. Does Brand A sop up grandpa's errant cumloads quicker from shag carpet, or does Brand B? Let's put it to the test, shall we?

On one side of the screen, Carl — a swingin' buddy I'd invited — awaited zealously for the women to arrive. On the opposite end of the monitor, I geared up for what I'd hoped would be an onslaught.

In the upper right hand corners of each, respectively, were the tallies of Product A, and its competitor.

Some sick-ass shit. I mean, when did sex lose its loving, intimate quality, and become no more than a goddamned game? The answer to that question was less important to me than what brand of dildo Bill Gates prefers, when fucking the masses.

Once the women began arriving, it wasn't long before the blitzkrieg commenced.

Yes, chicks get horny, too. Just as much, if not more, than dudes.

The deluge was swift, as passionate pussy poured into the room.

Carl and I began takin' 'em down like duck hunters armed with machine guns — sometimes two at a time.

Trouble was, Brand A — Carl — stopped soaking up grandma's monthly discharge, from your finest linen, moments after he began. In less than 10 minutes, he'd dropped Little Boy, and sat still, on his side of the mattress.

I, however, remained extremely busy — doubly so, after the lasses with whom Carl had been playing sought stiffened schlong. Since mine was the only adamantine apparatus in the room, they converged on me.

This tsunami of sex continued for roughly four hours, until the cuties in question:

A) tapped out

B) became hungry

C) spiraled into abject boredom

D) were completely sexually unsatisfied, or

E) turned lesbian.

In any event, I was rackin' up the Numbers on this particular night.

When the gates to the amusement park closed, Brand A had logged a mere two, while I'd knocked back 10, and was glowing with energy, as a result.

Heeding the Prophet's timeless wisdom, I'd refrained from discharging my gun within city limits. Thus, I'd played with more women in one evening than most men do in an entire year.

In a group sex environment, if your dong is softer than Marshmallow Fluff, you'll be less sought after than a dentist with rotten teeth. Being perpetually prepared could mean the difference between sex with one woman, as opposed to 10.

— authored by Hugh Mungus