"I'd rather fuck a million broads, than screw Kim Kardashian a million times," Harry croaked, between drags off an unfiltered cancer stick.
On the soiled street behind us, a Dumpster Kitty stumbled past, riddled with bruises, crank craters, and herpes.
Less pleasant than shitting out a razorblade, this was definitely not Elysium, when it came to the Mile High City.
Even though I had no idea who the fuck Kim Kardashian was, Harry's rationale was solid. Something on par with Einstein's theory of relativity; definitely a suitable replacement for the Lord's Prayer.
The crumbling cretin cackled, causing his upper dentures to dislodge.
Wincing, I surmised this Kardashian character wouldn't want anything to do with him. Still, I understood his reasoning.
Who the fuck was I? Nobody, but nobody was sitting outside a local swing club — the same way I had, once a week, for the past few years — waiting for the women to arrive.
Who was Harry? Me...just a lot older.
Unlike most, the guy had actually analyzed things. As a result, he was good conversation, during the sluggish periods at our favorite lust locale.
When your screen saver scrolls JPEGS of Giordano Bruno, Lysander Spooner, and Doug Stanhope, you're thinking more than a populace displaying their favorite sports team logo as wallpaper on their cell.
The old man's scrutiny of our current topic seemed valid: Being relegated to humping the same partner for the rest of your existence often results in disaster. Hardcore swingers, Harry and I saw the results of such on a daily basis.
You can remove your wedding ring — hiding it in your pocket — but that resultant lack of tan around your finger says so much.
I surmised the cleaning ladies at this particular screw shanty probably found lost marital bands on a regular basis.
I wouldn't be surprised if management had a collection of 'em. Perhaps even a special lock box for storage.
If you wanna be with one person, more power to ya'. Marriage, on the other hand, is a monster all its own. You'll suffer irrevocably, tryin' to force the square peg into the round hole, especially if those who created the hole are fuckin' nuts.
It was mid-afternoon, and the swing club was slow — not a senorita in sight.
Thus, Harry and I sat on a curb that had seen more piss, barf, and ejaculate than a 20 year old Porta-Potty, located between a porn theater and a dive bar.
Cigarette butts littered the parking lot.
For curiosity's sake, I stood, and wandered over to a permanent metal ashtray. The receptacle housed a nude beach during winter in Maine — not a butt in sight.
The siren of a cop car decapitated any semblance of solace.
A little further away, gunshots and a scream.
Retrieving a tube of Poli-Grip, and a warm beer from his truck, Harry returned. "Say you grabbed 10,000 tits during your life..."
His breath smelled like an untended, public urinal in a crack neighborhood.
"We both know each one felt best that first time you got your mitts on it," the sleazy senior continued.
He was correct. Creepy as hell, but correct. Following one's inaugural rendezvous, subsequent encounters with the same person diminish in zeal, until monotony rears its ugly head.
"That's what keeps me comin' to this sweet shitbox," Harry motioned to the entrance of the sex shack. The leathery truck driver squinted. "Notice how I never fuck the same woman more than three times?"
I couldn't recall seeing Harry fuck a woman, let alone one on separate occasions.
"Shit, if I wanted anything more from 'em, I would've married 'em." Laughing, he partially swallowed his false teeth.
Disturbing as a Golden Girls remake, featuring original actresses, a person was more likely to receive a new transmission at Just Brakes, than Harry was to get laid. Still, I admired this ancient bastard's rationale.
