A Sex Center Soliloquy

"The further a society drifts from truth, the more it will hate those who speak it."

— George Orwell

Humanity was crumbling faster than a 1,000 year old saltine.

"Most people are so brainless," I pondered, "you could decapitate 'em, and they wouldn't weigh any less."

Nude, staring at my computer screen, it was one of those moments you question if you'd been dropped off on the wrong planet.

Look, I'm not intelligent. It took 12 viewings of Star Wars before I realized the iconic blockbuster wasn't based on a true story.

That said, I can spell, and take pride in having mastered this skill, to limited extunt— exttent— ex—

Aw, fuck it!

It was like viewing Dr. Phil deepfakes on YouTube for the first time. You're not certain if what you're seeing is real.

Amid the clutter of dystopian fiction novels, stacks of Target receipts for condoms, and Triumph CDs, I stared at my E-mail inbox.

Breaking out the Caesar cipher, I began to decode the following:

"hi hugh this is mike we met at the swing club awhile ago and you answered our ad so its all good she is definitely interested in playing with you we just need to get the rest of it figured out

we do have a couple other couples interested but we want to meet them first and see where it goes but we will keep your info and if we get it set up we definitely will get in contact with you here is a pic of her tits for you"

Encryption wasn't so complex I couldn't deduce:

A) Mike is scared shitless of periods, and capital letters.

B) The author of this — the mother of all run-on sentences — isn't aware how common his name is, and how many people by that epithet I've met at the sex shack I frequent.

C) Some poor woman, somewhere, is in serious need of dong!

The preceding came on the heels of my response to an Internet post. As a result, I had a picture of incredible breasts in my possession, and no face with which to connect them.

Without the Internet, the common man will touch his own nipples together before I get laid. Thus, I work sedulously to obtain coital comforts. I have to. I can't simply walk into a room, and expect women to attack me the way Kirstie Alley does a home-cooked meal!

If I weren't so busy procuring sex, I'd take offense at the cursory effort the author of the above response expended.

There are those who approach the quest for copulation with passion. Take, for instance, Antoine, who frequents the local swing shack I visit at least four times a week. This icon of intercourse doesn't even have a "job."

"How can one desperate son of a bitch carry out such death-defying acts of heroism?" you inquire.

Antoine sold his house, in order to visit our favorite screw shanty more often. As a result, he lives in a trailer in the middle of nowhere. My point is, here's a man who addresses his desires with sincerity, and then you have people postin' on the Internet who think "cat" is spelled with a "k."

Further excavation of my electronic letter drop finds me deleting an ad for some invention that would enable me to putt, while taking a shit.

Since the next spam is an advertisement for UroClub, artificial intelligence had obviously torn off down the wrong road, concluding I was a golfer. Look this baby up. We're talkin' a hollow tube, shaped like a five iron, that you piss into, while you're on the green, a mile from the clubhouse.

Delete.

And there it was. I'd discovered this next shameless cry for cash more times than a vegetarian living in Nebraska finds corn in their stool:

"Hi! Thanks for replying to my ad.

My name is Don, and I'm doing this for my wife of 22 years.

I was recently injured in an accident, and can no longer 'be' with my wife the way I used to. Her happiness is of the utmost importance to me. We're in an open relationship now, and she is looking for someone to have 'fun' with.

I won't be there when you come over, so no worries.

We've signed up with an international adult social media site — which only costs $29.95 per month. Please do the same, and send me your profile name, so my wife can chat with you online, prior to meeting, to make sure the terms are okay.

I appreciate you helping her out. I think it will improve the marriage for both of us."

What type of "accident" do you speculate resulted in Don's predicament? "I was practicing juggling for the first time. For some reason, I was nude, drenched in motor oil, and holding 17 razor-sharp cleavers, in a darkened room."

An "open relationship?" C'mon, Don! Sounds like you couldn't satisfy a hummingbird with what you're packin'. Due to your lack of sexual prowess, your wife no longer wants you. Is that really the type of information one volunteers, to attract other women?

As far as Don not attending the extra-connubial escapades of his wife, that's like claimin' people travel to Kansas for its local seafood!

Don't get me wrong. I feel empathy for Don. Who wouldn't? He's as genuine as a $5 Rolex.

At this point, I was abusing myself. Surfing conditions were poor to impossible. Perhaps the waves were too choppy. Maybe the water was teeming with sharks.

Squeezing a bottle of baby oil in desperation, I watched the last drop drip onto my dong in slow motion.

"Oh, fuck," I whispered, flashbacks of me leavin' the grocery store, biting my lip, certain I'd forgotten something.

Racing to the medicine cabinet, I rifled through razors, 423 miles of dental floss, and six sticks of deodorant. Oddly enough, I hadn't shaven in months, and didn't know what was worse: my breath, or body odor.

In regard to what was arguably the best lube on the planet, I came up empty.

The inner mantra emanating from my root chakra — or perhaps my screaming hard-on — was: "Drastic times call for drastic measures."

Without lube, I was in for a world of pain. My solo sessions lasted no less than two hours. If given an open schedule the following day, I'd go all night. At that point, my skin would be more raw than an Andrew Dice Clay monologue, and covered in more blood than a slaughterhouse floor.

Tearing through the vanity drawers, I came up with a used tube of IcyHot, unopened toothpaste, and a pipette of denture cream.

"Denture cream?!" my mind sprinted for cover. Frightened those nightmares of sleeping under an overpass weren't nightmares after all, I tentatively probed my mouth.

"Did I even know what meth tasted like?!" I wondered.

Nope. All 32 were present, and accounted for. More yellow than when they came off the assembly line, but I still had all my Chicklets.

A FLASHBACK:

Adult diapers filled the trash; cans of Metamucil lined the pantry. Before payin' off her Douglas fir duplex in Deadsville, Grandma had visited.

Breathing a sigh of relief, my boner inadvertently jammed against the edge of the sink. I saw stars — other than Ben Affleck, and Emmanuel Lewis.

Gulping for breath, I braced against the counter. Recovering, I analyzed my dilemma.

"There's no way I can use IcyHot," I told myself, "That's a ticket to the emergency room."

I pondered the next option.

"Toothpaste?!"

ANOTHER FLASHBACK:

A buck-toothed teen, standing naked in a bathroom with a locked door. In one hand is a copy of TV Guide — Kate Jackson, from Scarecrow and Mrs. King, on the cover. In the other palm? His cock — bright blue in color.

On the counter, a trail of azure culminated at the business end of a tube of Colgate Blue Minty.

Moments into the poor decision, I was doubled over in agony, as my triple play burnt with the fires of Hell.

Washing the corrosive gel off my dick and balls, I'd envisioned EMTs arriving on scene, laughing hysterically at what I'd done. While the others guffawed, a female paramedic took me aside, of course, and sucked me off.

"Your cock tastes so cool, and refreshing," she asserted, smiling up at me.

Of course, the emergency medical technicians were never called, and the blowjob I received was just a fantasy.

"Fuck it!" I brilliantly surmised. "I've no idea what the hell's in denture cream, but I'm not gonna slather it on my cock, in order to find out."

Returning to my computer, I multi-tasked, accessing BBW porn, while simultaneously keepin' an eye on—

And there it was; the lighthouse in the storm. A classified that read like a Disney script:

"Meet us at Sex Center. Bring plenty of condoms and be ready to fuck!"

A cursory shower, and I hopped in my Detroit casket, heading for a side of town that kept domestic violence lawyers in business.

It was a desperation move, but I was a desperate man.

Nobody wanted to fuck in their bedroom anymore. Romance nowadays was takin' it up the ass on the cold floor of a bathroom stall that had never seen detergent. Your face smashed against a crude rendering of a cock — alongside the clever, written command: "Suck it, bitch!" — was what made folks cum.

Fuck Viagra! Grab yourself a Sharpie, scrawl a hairy cunt on the metal door of a lavatory, and watch your morning sausage plump.

People didn't want solvent with their sex. They demanded semen stains, and grime so thick, you could carve it up, and serve it with a dollop of whipped cream.

Obfuscated by esoteric highway construction, and a blinding snowstorm, I arrived 15 minutes late.

Ricocheting into a parking lot obviously devoid of a trash can, I cut the engine, and counted the number of cars parked around me. This is common practice for single, swingin' dudes visiting a lascivious locale, late night.

Cruise by a porn theater at 3 AM, discover a substantial number of vehicles outside, and you might wanna make a quick stop, to see what's attracted so much attention.

"Fourteen," I whispered. Nearly a full lot, as I tripped over my seat belt, and almost broke my neck.

Entering the jack shack, I followed the sounds of sex.

The place was as brightly lit as a fuckin' WalMart.

Bypassing the retail on the right, I immediately headed down a wheelchair access ramp, toward the theaters.

Sure as Telly Savalas never owned a hair tie, I turned the corner and ran straight into a naked, moaning senorita, spread eagle on a futon. She was blonde, plump, and ready to hump.

Rapidly disrobing, I feared some unwarranted intervention. I was the 1976 Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Coming off an impressive 0-14 stretch at XXX stores, I'd finally collided with an honest Internet couple.

"Theaters" — in this case — were nothing more than hastily-erected shanties, complete with plywood walls that didn't reach the ceiling. Standing on a random chair in the adjacent hallway, a person could gaze over the top of the partitions, and view the action inside.

The rooms, themselves, were actually spacious — able to accommodate a complete futon — in the open position — a nightstand, and perhaps 10 people.

As soon as I became properly fitted for my birthday suit, the clerk reared his modest cranium.

"Time's up! It's 10 bucks for another hour, dammit!"

This disturbance — more pointless than eating breath mints before talking on the phone — frightened the nude chick, who began dressing.

Fistfuls of cash were thrown at the counter curmudgeon, and play resumed.

More oil in his hair than an overloaded deep fat fryer, the guy looked like he was gonna pocket whatever cheddar we tossed into his rat cage.

I was the only one desirous of suiting up, and heading into battle.

Numerous guys watched, but this team of tumescent theatergoers opted to merely hump their fists, instead.

No worries. Like pure hydrogen, the energy was good, and I was happy to hump for the viewing pleasure of others. Hence, that's exactly what I did.

Since this interlude occurred so many years ago, the only thing I can recall — in regard to the sex — was the futon mattress had been green, and the chick was extremely flexible.

I also recollect dressing, and packing up my bottles of lube, once the cutie in question dumped her payload. It was at this juncture, one of the onlookers asserted he and the other guys had more interest in me than the damsel I was with.

Chatting with the slutty sylph — who garbed herself in a simple trench coat — I contemplated lying in wait for other potential pussy. Once the duo departed, however, I felt like the last steak on the menu. As a result, I pretended my luck was a lone button capable of launching the entire nuclear arsenal, and didn't push it.

Bidding the voyeurs in attendance farewell, I headed out into the gelid night.

— authored by Hugh Mungus