THIRTY-SIX
A 36 pack of condoms; a bottle of lube; half a tank of gas. Let the fuckin' games begin!
The couple demand we meet 30 miles away, at 4:00 AM.
Upon arrival, attack dogs snarl at me from behind far too low a fence.
The person answering the front door doesn't look well. He informs me his wife awaits in the back bedroom. I watch as this dude ― who epitomizes the term "pear-shaped" ― labors for at least 60 seconds to traverse the two steps leading into the rest of the house.
My initial thought is to run, though the idea of a wanton woman awaiting somewhere in this Nightmare on Elm Street home is intriguing.
Upon entering the back bedroom, I discover said senorita tucked beneath the covers, in almost complete darkness. Since it's colder outside than a snowwoman's asshole, I excuse myself to the bathroom, and run straight into a motion-activated assistance toilet. As I step toward the device, the lid opens automatically.
I find myself wanting to offer a financial stipend, in order to cover the husband's obvious medical expenses. Fortunately, by that time, I'm no longer clothed, and heading toward this guy's wife, recalling I barely possess enough money with which to make this night of upsetting passion occur.
Acclimating to the dungeon-esque surroundings, I discern this completely nude female is actually hot! We start goin' at it. All is lookin' more promising than a blind guy winning the Indy 500, until I flip this little lady over, and begin suiting up my festive friend.
Since the chick has her ass to me, she can't see what I'm doing. The dude, however ― who's observing from the corner ― vociferates, "We don't use condoms."
I turn, nonplussed. "Well, I, uh―"
"In fact, we hate rubbers!" By this point, the guy is attempting to stand, and his wife has turned away, apparently in disgust.
