JUAN CARLOS
"The end move in politics is always to pick up a gun."
― R. Buckminster Fuller
"Put the gloves on," Juan Carlos whispered, as he unbuttoned a shirt six sizes too small, exposing more hair than the clogged drain at a dog washing kennel.
"I don't wanna put the fuckin' gloves on," I thought to myself. "It's bad enough my cock has seen the inside of a condom more than it hasn't; now you want me to cover my hands, too?!"
"Just put them on," the bizarre, little man with the esoteric accent reiterated, while bequeathing me a pair of rubber mitts ― the type proctologists use when exploring butt. Between us, a live Butterball turkey ― JC's stout wife ― basted naked in its juices.
The bed beneath our sordid entourage ― more used than the word "fuck" on tax deadline day ― squealed like Ned Beatty in the throes of passion...Cajun style.
In order to get here, I'd navigated more obstacles than a Tough Mudder course. Now, however, my path was being impeded by this latest obstruction: "Lucia's never been with another man besides me," Juan Carlos elaborated, as my aching erection twitched two inches from his wife's coveted canal.
I was Indiana Jones scaling a sheer glacier, and swimming a piranha-infested river, only to be thwarted from obtaining treasure by a child-proof screw cap. It didn't matter since ― thanks to my liberal criteria ― Lucia was the most recent entry on my list, after she'd stroked for an eagle on my lengthy fairway.
"Put them on," Juan Carlos repeated, forcing the cold, clinical gloves upon me.
Out of options, I reluctantly complied.
What a sad encapsulation of society that one of our last vestiges of escape now has the erotic intrigue of a workplace piss test.
"Feel how wet she is," Juan Carlos instructed.
"Isn't that impossible with the gloves on?" I quietly concluded.
People and their lack of protracted planning: "Well, we've got a myriad of energy sources at our disposal, in unlimited supply, but we'll choose this one called petroleum, that could run out at any time, and not only destroys the environment, but kills us!"
Inserting my fingers into this other man's wife went over as well as inserting the term "cunt-faced whore" into a church sermon about Jesus' mom.
"Not that way," JC admonished, grabbing my wrist. "Like this," the man contorted my hand with a martial arts submission move.
My hard-on disappeared faster than an unlocked, mint-condition Bentley ― with no alarm system ― on inner-city streets.
"I could be having better sex fantasizing about the social security system," I quietly contemplated.
My mind began to wander: "I bet the hair spray industry hates Dr. Phil, and is hatching a plan to destroy him―"
"Are you listening?!" Juan Carlos' words were nuclear-tipped missiles exploding against the tenuous glass house that was my reverie.
"What? Huh?!" I responded, with as much eloquence as Billy Ray Cyrus, when asked to mathematically solve the conundrum of inter-dimensional travel.
"This finger goes here," the diminutive man instructed, "and you make sure your thumb never touches the anus. That's a dirty part, and we don't like dirty."
My digits were being manipulated like the populace, by those at the top of this pyramid scheme erroneously referred to as "democracy." I pondered how many nude women awaited in the main room of the swing club, and what line of bullshit I needed to dispense, in order to escape my current situation, and partake of them.
"Jesus fuck! I took a junkyard of shrapnel in my left ass cheek back in the Mexican-American War, and will never be the same. Sorry, guys, but I suffered to ensure y'all had this freedom thing―"
