Double-Barreled

FIST OF FURY

The jumbo jet to Europe headed out over the sea, as the in-flight intercom sparked to life.

"Afternoon, folks. This is your captain speaking. I just wanted you all to know we're making history, today. I'm actually the first blind pilot to navigate a passenger plane solo over the Atlantic Ocean."

The above scenario was almost as troubling as the extemporaneous conversation I was having with a far-too-naked man in the hallway of a sleazy motel.

"Make a fist, and show it to me!" demanded the half-nude behemoth leaning out the door to his room.

"Huh?"

"Ball that little fist up and let me have a look at it, son."

"Save it for the bathhouse, pal."

"It ain't like that, man," assured the leviathan wrapped in a pool towel five sizes too small.

"Yeah?" I responded. "Then what's it like?"

"I just wanna see how small your fist is, so I know if it'll fit."

This impromptu discourse was falling apart faster than Skylab upon reentry.

"You're not really makin' a convincing case here, Perry Mason," I replied.

The mountain with legs rolled his eyes. "It's not for me. It's for the wife."

"What?"

"Look at the size of this fucker." The goliath produced a fist comparable in circumference to a 16 pound bowling ball. "It don't fit in the missus. It's just too damned big."

Beginning to envision where this was going, I slowed my retreat.

"You're a pretty small guy," the biker stated the obvious. "I bet you've got a pretty small fist, too. Let's take a look at that sucker. If it ain't too big, would you mind fisting―"

Before he could finish his twisted sentence, I was inside his motel room, searching sedulously for a nude woman with a sizable orifice in need of attention.

I speculated to myself, "Do these scenarios happen to everybody?" Of course I knew the answer to that question before I even broached it. Still, it seemed a rational query, since most people become ecstatic over tax loopholes, a network continuation of The Bachelorette, or a new flavor of Doritos.

I understood random strangers approaching others, en route to an orgy the size of the Republican National Convention, asking them to fist their wives, was common in my world. In the June and Ward Cleaver existence of most, though, it was the type of fantasy people only dreamed about, while passing out atop a stack of TPS reports.

And there she was, naked and spread eagle, gracing a tired mattress more worn out than a knock-knock joke. Flanking her were a few nude dudes taking a breather. Adjacent her awaiting aperture was a fresh bottle of lube and a clean towel.

I felt as though I'd been invited to dine at a five-star restaurant. Who knew being short would have its advantages?

After 20 minutes of what seemed like a sparring match with this woman's vagina, "Uncle!" was hollered.

Upon readying to depart, Grizzly Adams' Dan Haggerty once again approached, this time thanking me for offering my services.

"Ever done anything like this before, son?"

He had no clue, did he?

"Once or twice," I replied. "In the past three days," I thought to myself.

Glancing nervously about, he clarified, "This is our first time with anything like this. If you don't mind, I'd appreciate if you kept this on the down low, if you know what I mean."

"No problem."

"I work for the government, and don't want any of this getting out," the massive man whispered in hushed tones.

I would have left just as quickly if he had told me he had plans to give me a battery acid enema. Outside of "I work for the government," the only other five word phrase that would make me run away faster is, "I'll cut your nuts off." It's like informing a werewolf you own the world's largest silver bullet manufacturing plant.

IN THE WEE HOURS

What kind of woman stores an arsenal, rivaling the military forces of NATO, beneath her bed?!

2 AM. Desperation. There are only so many Internet porn flicks one can sit through before realizing how they're gonna end. Wreaking of uncut sweat, Astroglide and Jif Chunky, I frantically search sex posts.

Three rapid-fire replies. Two-thirds of the responses are advertisements. The final, however, is a legitimate BBW on dong safari.

Pictures are exchanged in a non-reciprocal way: I'm sending, she's receiving.

Always one to give, I offer my name. I'm met with a house address, and preferred time of arrival.

I comprehend the desire for privacy. This incognito display, however, does warrant caution. The last thing I need is to be humpin' away, while some jealous husband bursts forth from the linen closet, wielding a pickaxe!

I embark on this latest adventure at approximately 2:30.

Three AM finds me on the doorstep of your average suburban dwelling.

By 3:10, both the lovely in question, and I, are naked, while Kojak plays on a TV screen behind us.

At 3:30, from a reckless version of the missionary position, my horny hostess enlightens me she's anything but interested in monogamy.

Around 4 AM, whilst on all fours, she asks if I'd like to be her boy toy, which ― according to her ― would require complete and total sexual commitment to one another.

By 4:30 ― between multiple, feigned orgasms ― I'm illuminated as to the lovestruck boyfriend who periodically appears in the window behind where I'm currently thrusting.

At 4:45, I'm apprised of the berserk Green Beret sweetheart stationed in Iraq, oblivious to his girlfriend's extracurricular sexual activities.

Five AM rolls around, and my temporary partner stops to take a hit off a bedside bowl.

I make note of a Samurai sword beside her pillow.

Observing my gaze, my nude friend displays a second collection of daggers within arm's length of my genitals. That object she begins toying with may have looked like an innocuous garage door opener, but in reality, it was a Taser.

The chick's dog ― who'd been scratching at the door for the past two hours ― gains entrance to the room, and devours the used condoms I'd thrown on the floor.

I hastily gather my clothes.

The preoccupied woman rids her canine's throat of prophylactics, whilst charging her stun gun. Backing outta that happy household, I'm certain I'll encounter a stalker suitor along the way to my truck.

In the end, the entire thrill ride would be relegated to a mere entry in what Celebrity Sex Doll magazine is referring to as, "Literary retardation!"

― authored by Hugh Mungus