A WIGAN HANDSHAKE
The place: Bob's House of Ass ― a local swing shack.
The time: 5 PM. Saturday.
A party of three ― comprised of two women and one guy ― enter the pool area. The dude is somewhere in his late 70s. The chicks are in their early 30s. One senorita is obviously a butch lesbian; the other, sensual white trash. Disrobing, the group head straight for the hot tub.
I drop my insignificant woodworking project, and make a beeline for the water.
The luscious lass eyes my swollen salami like a $1,000,000 bank error in her favor, blurting out, "Am I the only one in the house who loves penis?!"
I deduce she's at least not fully homosexual, and for once, I've got a real shot on this one!
In response, the butch chick pulls the object of everyone's desire as closely to herself as possible.
This is Bob's House of Ass, lady! There's no room for jealousy, here!
Whilst acclimating to the tub, I inform the delicious damsel I'd attended a swing party the week prior at a Motel 6.
"I live at a Motel 6!" she squeals.
I grin, submersing myself.
The septuagenarian turns to me, inquiring, "Do you mind if a guy touches your cock while you're fucking a woman?"
People, I just came to soak...and hump the hottie chick, whilst you turn a blind eye! Is that too much to ask?! I considered returning to my task at hand, but the little lass spread herself out like a kitten basking in the Sun.
On one side, I had an ireful butch lesbian. On the other, Mr. McFeely was sizing me up like Rosie O'Donnell does a six pound burger.
I retaliated by doing the only thing a man in my position could do. I fired up the jets, slid my hands beneath the water, and grabbed as much of the beauty's shaven perfection as possible.
There are obvious perks to bein' a regular at Bob's! One becomes familiar with the terrain. Handfuls of heavenly hairless, and neither Dongmaster, nor Martina Navratilova, were so much the wiser.
More turned on than the lights at Wrigley Field, during an evening doubleheader, the trio departed for the privacy of Room 42.
Upon stepping outside to urinate in the bushes, I ran into the butch chick taking a smoke break. She informed me she was lesbian.
I was more shocked than a guy in the electric chair.
Her fine female friend was her lover.
A conclusion I'd arrived at, as well.
The Colonel Harland Sanders look-a-like was their john.
That one threw me, since the client/prostitute relationship isn't one you encounter at Bob's often. Elucidating she becomes violently angry, when watching anybody touch her woman, the butch expressed extreme enthusiasm to nuzzle my nuts.
More mixed signals than a 10-way intersection with 50 lights.
She asked for my phone number.
I provided erroneous digits, whilst watching her down a pint of Popov. Staring into the window of her truck, I was introduced to her congenial dog, whose efforts to consume my head were stymied by a pane of glass.
