Carajo 1

"When everyone has the same misperception of reality ― when everyone believes something untrue, even something patently absurd ― it doesn't feel untrue or absurd to them. When a false or illogical idea is constantly repeated and reinforced by nearly everyone, it rarely occurs to anyone to even begin to question it.

In fact, most people become literally incapable of questioning it, because over time it becomes solidified in their minds as a given ― an assumption that doesn't need a rational basis and doesn't need to be analyzed or reconsidered, because everyone knows it to be true.

In reality, however, each person simply assumes it to be true, because he cannot imagine that everyone else ― including all the respectable, well-known, educated people on the radio and TV ― could all believe something false. What business does one average individual have doubting something which everyone else seems perfectly comfortable accepting as indisputable truth?"

― The Most Dangerous Superstition

Three AM came more quickly than a porn-addicted virgin locked in a room with nympho XXX actresses, and a bottle of Canola oil. A lion with no teeth, I wandered the promiscuous plains of the swing shack in search of wounded prey. Unfortunately, the herd ― similar to Woody Harrelson's hair, from pre-Cheers to post ― had thinned severely.

Akin to a ninth inning, two out, two strike, 507 run deficit, things weren't lookin' promising. A swimmer traveling upstream, I'd stroked and stroked, and gotten nowhere all night.

The situation had reached such an abject low, I'd received the following response, after hitting on a potential playmate: "No thanks," the one-eyed lass remarked. "I saw you fucking two women here a month ago, and it was disgusting!"

"Yes, but―," had come my sole retort. Thoughts of what I look like, while having sex, spanned my one synapse left firing. I almost puked. The woman was correct: Limp split ends have more body than I do.

Like a cat stuck in an open field during a hail storm, it seemed I would find no refuge this night from the barrage of denigration.

It's funny how simply altering one's direction can lead to extreme change. Turning a corner, and gazing into the hot tub room, I came face-to-pussy with a ravishing redhead caressing her clit. Where the hell'd she been all night?!

Stripping to my skivvies, I breached the threshold, inquiring, "Mind if I join?"

"I'd like that," came the willing woman's response.

In actuality, she probably uttered, "I'd rather be forced into a foursome with Dick Van Dyke, dead Elvis, and Senator Mitch McConnell's infected hemorrhoid," but I heard differently.

Lighting on the edge of the Jacuzzi, I massaged my member through gossamer Target material ― a 10 year old pair of boxer shorts that hadn't seen a waistband since Heath Ledger was breathin'.

"Do you mind if I get naked?" I queried.

"Sure. I'm bulimic anyway, and haven't barfed today, so that would be helpful."

What I heard: "It's all I ever think about, and servicing your cock is my sole reason for existing."

In less time than it takes savage diarrhea ― while stuck in a traffic jam ― to ruin one's day, I was strippin' like a furniture refurbisher on speed.

Getting a hold of myself ― a phrase which assumes a different meaning in a swing club ― I quipped, "I see we have similar interests."

"I love to cum," were the four words I wanted to hear.

"Then you'll want nothing to do with me," I silently ratiocinated. Of course, what emitted from my vocal cords was, "Do you like to suck coc―?"

Her hands were on me like a politician's purloining palms on our paychecks. You'd have thought this woman had just completed a two week hunger strike, and my dong was the first form of sustenance she spied.

It was one of those, "Slow down, or this thing will be over before Oprah has a chance to binge eat!" moments. The head was so incredible, you'd think it would've housed Nikola Tesla's brain.

Thus, I pulled back on the throttle, and dropped things into low gear ― donning a condom, and working my wang into the Happiest Place on Earth. The carnality commenced, as I sloshed around ― less rhythm than a heart flatlining.

This insanity continued for perhaps 15 minutes, before another prurient paramour entered the fray ― probably deducing, from all the thrashing, that someone was drowning. Our three way progressed for half an hour, at which point we migrated to the main video room, where things transformed into an unexpurgated gangbang.

When the fulcrum for fornication departed ― perhaps sobering up, and realizing what she was doing ― I donned my camos, reloaded my gun, and returned to the hunt.

Like a petition to only produce three channel, black-and-white TVs again, my efforts went nowhere.

― authored by Hugh Mungus