THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY
"You got a hernia," the naked chick slurred beneath breath wreaking of Good Times Cigarillos and cheap tequila.
"A hyena?" I quipped, thrusting uncontrollably between the moistened thighs of her comparably nude friend.
"No, goddamnit. A hernia! A fuckin' hernia!"
What I believed that word meant at once registered within my pint-sized cranium. For a harried moment, I stopped having sex and became despondent.
"How is such a thing possible?" I pondered. I had just horizontally hip-hopped with four senoras, and was currently playing with number five. "Was I superhuman?"
To any woman who's experienced me sexually, nothing could be further from the truth. As potent as a 90 year old eunuch with no tongue, chicks weren't even lightly penciling me into their Little Black Books. Still, I had managed to have sex with five women during a two hour period, and anyone afflicted with a hernia couldn't possibly accomplish such a feat, could they?
"She's full of shit," my provisional physician asserted, checking my lower abdomen on an examining table colder than corporate compassion.
"Who's that?" I queried.
"The woman who informed you you've got a hernia."
"Really?!" I beamed.
"Uh, huh," he probed longer than appeared necessary. "You have two."
"Fuck!" I pictured myself hunchbacked, holding a bulge the size of a watermelon in my pants, while horrified women ran screaming.
"How did this happen?" I harkened back. A gorgeous girl with a clit the size of a big toe was swilling my skewer, whilst a silver-haired sweetheart was taking a break between our sessions. From the bottom of a handle of discount tequila, this second senorita decided it was time to impart the bad news. One of the better days of my life had suddenly become one of the worst.
My bony, white ass cheeks clenched atop the examining table, I queried, "Am I gonna die?"
"Yes," Marcus Welby, M.D., responded, as if he could read my mind. "But not from this, unless you fail to get it treated."
As such, I found myself under the knife and out of commission for two months, before I catapulted back onto the mattresses of horrified honeys everywhere. Call me a breakfast staple because, for eight weeks, I was toast.
BIG BOY
She was a supermodel from France.
I was a dork with a dream.
The only thing that would come between us was my dong. Thirty minutes into our tryst, I was blasted out the motel room door as readily as lies in a campaign speech.
"Next!" the woman's escort announced into the crowd of horny guys awaiting their turn. We were each afforded half an hour to touch any body part above the waist, while the delicious dame lubed our lances. Those were the rules, as decreed by the woman's significant other.
My time being finished, I sped for a separate room where I could use the two remaining condoms in my handy 14 pack.
Normally, the company who makes my brand supplied a dozen raincoats per carton. Along the line, some asshole in advertising realized he could offer two "extra" condoms for "free," and furtively add $3 to the overall pack.
These "gratuitous" sheaths could have easily been trash bags, since they provided as much pleasurable sensation as an IRS audit. I always saved these last two until the end of the carton, bestowing them upon guys seeking to "borrow" a condom.
Who borrows a Johnny Hat, anyway? If I give you a rubber, consider it yours for life. Akin to chickenpox, I don't want it back.
Digging into a rucksack filled with sex supplies, I came to the horrifying realization I'd accidentally imparted these last two prophylactics to some other slob. As I entered this next room, to find a sensual circus occurring ― centered around a female EMT ― I cursed my lack of preparation.
