Hinterlands Humpin 1

"We're so self-important. [...]

Everybody's gonna save somethin', now. Save the trees; save the bees; save the whales; save those snails.

And the greatest arrogance of all; save the planet.

What?! Are these fucking people kidding me? Save the planet? We don't even know how to take care of ourselves, yet. We haven't learned how to care for one another. We're gonna save the fuckin' planet?!

I'm gettin' tired of that shit!"

― George Carlin

Road trippin' swing venues in the Midwest, I lighted upon a locale deep in the woods. What resulted was a 13 hour magnum opus of sexual torment, as well as a piercing preview into swingin' down-home-style.

Upon arrival at said locale, before 3 PM, I proceeded to watch a looping lineup of XXX features, continually headlining an actor resembling a disabled Matthew Perry from Friends. Following three hours of this cinematic low ― without a tactile female in sight ― I realized I was in for a long haul.

I alternated walking the parking lot, counting the hair follicles on my satchel, and observing our struggling post-sitcom actor pound away at delicious dames.

By 8 o'clock, things were progressing as rapidly as a peanut butter speed eating contest.

By 9, I was pulling fire ants off a giant, struggling worm, along the grass lining the establishment.

At 10, people began arriving. Unfortunately, they were dudes seeking the same thing I was ― women.

By 10:30, we had our first female in attendance. Said senorita sallied up to the bar with her boyfriend, and extracted cream-colored tits from her blouse, whilst downing Buttery Nipple shots.

A smooth talker ― we'll refer to as Dong Juan ― approached, plying his product. Seconds later, he was rejected like a 12 ounce porterhouse down a vegan's throat. In the ensuing tete-a-tete, I heard the woman's paramour utter the always clever, "Fuck off!" and, "Get the hell outta' here!"

Smoldering, Juan retreated to his table. Being consoled by Lou ― a second regular ― DJ applied the obvious ego Band-Aid, promulgating his wondrous attributes, of which the woman would now be unable to enjoy. "I work out two times a week! Bitch don't know what the fuck she's missin'!"

I scrambled for a cocktail napkin and pen on that one, so the above is a direct quote from Dong.

By 11, a second duo arrived, securing a seat contiguous the first couple. Once again, more breasts were bared, as an impromptu handjob took place, though partners were not traded.

Discouraged, Dong departed. Seeking a front row seat, I grabbed his abandoned chair, and witnessed four bouncing boobs, and a flaccid penis being stroked.

By 11:10, Juan returned, at which point I offered him back his seat. Furious, he declined, and refused to shake my hand, as I introduced myself.

By 11:15, the show was over, but three more couples had arrived. I worked as much action as I could. However, being shorter than true tales, found myself denied like a 10 year old ordering a Martini at a bar.

Similar to a pinball against a rubber bumper, I bounced across the dance floor, and was rapidly shunned by a second duo.

Being solely guided by sex, and having no ego ― due to the fact I resemble a Mexican game show host ― I finally struck up a decent conversation with Mindy and Raul.

After enduring three hours recounting of said couple's wacky suburban adventures with six cats, three dogs, and four kids, nausea set in. Unfortunately, every time I attempted to disengage from discourse, Mindy committed me to continued confabulation.

Eventually, I was able to excuse myself to the shit box. On returning, I watched in horror, as every woman in the venue migrated to the couples' theater ― no man's land for the single dude.

I took up ephemeral residence in the adjacent cinema, where I could meekly observe the ensuing action through an adjoining window, covered in tinting darker than Seal's asshole. On the sofa behind me was Lou ― who'd previously told me never speak to him; Dong Juan; some gay guy named Jim; and a nameless, yet conversant dude, smokin' bowls, drinkin' PBR, and jackin'-off.

I didn't believe the scene could've been more pathetic, until I discerned none of the duos in the couples theater were swapping. Each pair played solely with their significant other. This creepy-as-A-Clockwork-Orange activity continued until 3 AM, at which point everybody dressed and departed. The scenario was a sequence from the XXX version of The Stepford Wives.

The icing on the cake came when Lou broke the shameful silence, querying if I'd received sex that night.

What the fuck―?! I'd been standing across the room from him for the last two hours, doing my best to observe group copulation ― minus the group ― with bulletproof glass between me and anything female. How did this Heartbreaker of the Hinterlands deduce I'd received anything but a pair of balls bluer than a clear, summer sky?!?

Hence, I informed said Seducer of the Sticks I actually did hook-up that night, fucking six of the 10 women on the other side of the glass.

"Good for you," Louis meagerly proclaimed in forlorn frustration, as he jacked-off against a vacant wall. "I hope your cock falls off."

Surmising Tears for Fears' Roland Orzabal will be named Musician of the Millennium, before single guys engage in heterosexual coitus at this locale, I departed.

On the drive home ― through backcountry resembling L.A.'s Crenshaw Boulevard ― I pondered my prospects. Being flaked on by numerous online hopefuls, it seemed I was down to one: a 67 year old nuclear engineer who ― like so many women in these parts ― expressed interest, but disappeared faster than virginity in a pro bono brothel.

― authored by Hugh Mungus