E-mails.
That's how this asinine article began. White wine spritzers at 3 AM cause a man to do things he normally wouldn't. At that hour, you have two choices: jack-off, or write. "Why decide?" I cry. "I'll do both!"
Hence, a good portion of my stories were recorded one-handed style. Forty-two words per minute! A World record? Perhaps, but good luck findin' it in the Guinness Book.
You disseminate late night correspondences to friends, delineating your revolting carnal past. Akin to a noble politician, a benevolent attorney, or a working airplane made of chicken meat and urine, acquaintances assure themselves you don't exist.
Since Bob's House of Ass ― a discounted, regional swing club ― at one point featured considerably in your adventures, you incorporate torrid tales originating from this libertine locale.
Does Bob's exist, or is said screw shack ― akin to Zeus, unicorns, and natural 78-DDD tits ― comprised of more bullshit than a cattle pasture?
Thrown together with putty, electric tape and the finest stolen furniture, swing clubs dot the landscape. Hidden like camouflaged hunters in the dense underbrush, venues of questionable morality ― whether they be churches, or sex sheds ― are ubiquitous.
Rifle through the glossy, substantial pages of your local adult rag, and you're bound to uncover advertisements for a few. Better yet, commence Internet investigation for these nearly invisible prey. Don't be stupefied to discover one three blocks from your house.
You won't find these locations showcased beside the latest from the Nordstrom Rack. Jack Nicholson will pose in Playboy before places like Bob's are accepted in mainstream society.
Forbidden fruit, swing clubs are modern-day oases for the parched traveler succumbing to the arid, lifeless drone of contemporary existence. Hotter than crankin' the heat on a summer day in the desert, screw shacks are fuel for fantasy. Males will woolgather about them in the dark, while strengthening their wrists, but few will enter their inner sanctum.
So, yeah, Bob's exists ― not only down a tenebrous back alley near you, but also in your mind.
Step off the grid. I did long ago, and never looked back. Become a dweller of the fringe. Drink mezcal, and engulf peyote for breakfast. You'll be glad you did.
Bob's is a cryptic alias for an actual location somewhere in the "United States." At said casa de carnality, clothing is optional, and exhibitionist group sex occurs daily, if not hourly.
E-MAIL #1
Bob's. 4:30 PM. A newbie couple enter, and make the mistake of sitting beside me.
Naked, I'm compelled to show off my latest diamond cutting implement.
From past experience, I've deduced this approach affords me a 50% chance of a blowjob, handjob, or invitation to the orgy bed. The other 50% of the time, I'm met with stares of revulsion. Either way, for $20, I'm goin' for it!
Saturday's senorita ― bewildered by the abundance of assorted nuts in attendance ― offered little response.
5 PM. A lascivious librarian enters, dispensing blowjobs. A few of us attain pole position, as she services all able and willing participants. Minutes later, we're invited back to Room 23, where hubby is hard at work hanging a sex swing, and charging the batteries in his digital camera.
Including myself, 10 guys enter this den of iniquity, and proceed to jack-off over our female emcee ― who's enthusiastically producing milk from her breasts.
I turn to find the blonde from the initial couple watching, as the horny host pretends I was born with a lollipop between my legs.
For a moment, I thought this alluring voyeur might reach in and grab some tender rod and nuts, or perhaps dine at the Y. Alas, this little filly chose to solely observe, perhaps intimidated by the dozen naked people surrounding her.
With all this useless crap I keep sending your way, you may wish to call a team of sewage experts.
