I find myself sitting in an Empanada Explosion — awaiting a tow truck — having stalled en route to a local swing shack, somewhere in the Midwest.
On the lacquered table in front of me, three flies fuck — one atop each other.
I begin wondering if this is a common occurrence, or an anomaly I'm fortunate enough to witness; the only time in history it's ever happened.
"A threesome? In nature?" I ponder. "Is group sex not solely emblematic of the human species?"
Opening four hot sauce packets from the condiment basket — the generic type, that comes standard with each table — I empty the viscous contents onto the slick surface before me. Poking my fingers into the goopy gravy, I get creative, and begin painting.
No Sebastian Kruger, I still manage to hatch out crude renditions of cunts. Allowing 'em to dry, just so the slaves cleaning the booth after I'm gone know what's on my mind, I envision all the sex I'm missing at the screw shack.
Such is the existence of the single male swinger. You take the bruises and bumps in the same stride as the ticker tape parades.
Days ago, I was outnumbered by 12 denuded dames, sliding my sausage between the oiled tits of a woman who made Pamela Anderson appear flat-chested.
A mere 72 hours prior, I was freestyle fornicating an office temp from Nebraska, and an Asian wine saleswoman.
A week before, I was performing my best nursing infant impression on the bare breasts of two wet T-shirt contest competitors.
Today, however, I'm as anonymous as every other person choosing to take up space.
Today, I'm thrust back into the paradigm of the prosaic — reminded, with a roundhouse kick to the twin kiwifruit, of how most subsist.
Today...I'm bored.
Once you've found yourself naked in a motel room with a female church group, in town for one night, there's no going back.
Why would you?
You've escaped. Your life has been irrevocably changed for the better. The shackles society has chosen to bind itself with, have broken. You're Steve McQueen — from Papillon — while most others are Dustin Hoffman.
Let humanity be fatuous, tedious, and devoid of spirit. Why would you allow anybody but you to decide what's best for you?
You've been with yourself every moment of your existence. Unless you're a conjoined twin, not even your closest sibling will be able to make that claim.
You think some 6' 7" freak show — who's never even met you — will have the answers you seek in his generic CDs he sells to everyone?
Some guy we're told transformed his blood into wine, can't come back and perform a useful miracle, like eradicating cancer?
A repugnant, billionaire TV show host — hoarding enough money to feed entire countries — is gonna reveal reality?
People will pretend to believe in the weirdest shit. Let 'em. Have confidence in yourself. It's that simple. You are your own key to escape.
"Would anybody really be surprised if Justin Bieber had the name 'Geraldo' tattooed on his penis?" I asked the stay-at-home mom wearing nothing but well-placed body paint.
Through a concrete coating of eyeliner, she stared back at me, gulped the remainder of her Fuzzy Navel, and stumbled onto the dance floor. Three cowboys wearing ass-less chaps awaited her arrival, and eagerly brought her into the fold.
Hookin' up in this pit was as easy as stealing candy from a baby...Tiger Shark.
"How is this possible?!" I wondered, with 300 horny, barely-clad patrons partying in the conference room around me.
It was my first swingers hotel takeover, and my opening lines were less anticipated than Mr. Popper's Penguins. At this point, starvation was all I could think of, since getting laid in this hellhole was more difficult than chugging vinegar.
I'd been on premises for eight hours, and had nothing to show for my efforts, but an empty stomach reminding me it hadn't been fed all day.
More stupid than following Miley Cyrus on tour, I should've eaten something prior to the event. Then again, how was I to know food wasn't gonna be served at this shindig?
As the crowd around me thinned — like Ron Howard's hair — I became light-headed. Making for a table, I sat, before falling flat on my face.
The mismatched linens before me were either stained with Ranch Sauce, or a bukkake that had occurred in the shadows of the conference room, far from the eyes of security. Either way, I felt like I might be sick.
A few chairs over, a secretary-by-day — who'd refused my advances earlier — was being manually pleasured beneath her sheer dress, by two sweaty, fat guys.
Normally at swing parties, I'm similar to that last drop of piss: No matter how much you try to rid yourself of me, I'm always in someone's pants. This particular bash, though, had a different twist to it I'd never been comfortable with. Because the event was being held in a corporate hotel, attendees were required to remain clothed, until in the confines of their rooms.
