"And still life pushes on
With or without you
We've got to carry on
Our will will guide us to
A place where we belong
Know there lies the truth
I am the believer who gives purpose unto you"
― Dream Theater
Conversation at the bar was strained. Darrell sported twin hearing aids, and Betty was less talkative than a Mafia informant given the ultimatum: silence or death. Plying the couple with quadruple Vodka Tonics, I asked enough vapid questions to warrant the opportunity to hump this Titanic-titted lass.
"I'll be in the basement, cleanin' my gun," were Darrell's parting words, before leaving his naked wife between my legs, at the edge of the bed.
"That was a sexual reference," I assured myself. Luckily, I appeared to be scared stiff, as Betty played a tune on my trumpet.
Slurping sounds emanating from my groin, I gazed about the crazed couple's master bedroom. The mammoth bearskin rug over the mattress was unnerving, especially after being informed it was one of Darrell's recent kills.
The trail of spent shotgun shells littering the carpet didn't do much for my anxiety.
Gazing from the door, to Betty's mouth, and back again, I couldn't help but envision Darrell — polishing his corroded cannon — amidst his subterranean arsenal.
Watching the woman's wrinkled lips wrap my rod, I surmised this chick found me more lame than a bird with two broken wings. Still, I beat her alternative: the 853rd consecutive evening with an inflatable love doll, resembling James Garner of The Rockford Files.
The scene definitely trumped my sole substitute: a palm similar to a worn-out catcher's mitt, due to repeated use.
Concluding the framed shooting targets about the room were Darrell's best efforts, I reflected...
I'd had a busy day. Initially less productive than strolling into the next room of your house, to determine if the weather's any different, here I was ― playing with the fourth female in 24 hours.
Strapping as a Mouseketeer, and less attractive than a rotting cadaver, men like me are forced to rely on other attributes, in order to get laid.
Hence, during the afternoon's trip to a local swing club, I'd resorted to strokin' sword in front of a bountiful blonde we'll call Hot Honey. Cresting the water of the venue's Jacuzzi, I'd double-fisted my dong, as H-squared locked radar onto my heat seeking missile.
Noting his wife's interest, an uneasy hubby chimed in, "I— I'd love to watch her take another cock."
And just at that moment, in walked Navajo ― a horny housewife seeking sex. Catching sight of me pulling my taffy, she'd sauntered over. Next I knew, I was performing whatever magic this broken-down Doug Henning has left in his 5' 6" inch frame, atop this newcomer, on the open orgy bed.
Pulling up a pair of dilapidated lawn chairs, H-squared and hubby had observed the proceedings from the front row.
Forty-seven seconds subsequent, I'd gathered my belongings, and headed for the parking lot.
Following me out to my vehicle, hubby had flagged me down.
"Hey, uh, we're pretty new to this," the fidgety man asserted, "but my wife says you have a — well, uh — a huge dick, and she'd like to get to know it a little better."
Sidling up to her man, Hot Honey smiled, as she fondled her tits beneath a pink hoodie that was completely unzipped.
"I'd love to!" I responded. "Does the orgy bed work for you guys?" I queried, motioning to the aquatic area of the swing shack, bad breath condensing in the crisp Fall air.
"Actually, we'd kinda like a bit more privacy, if that's okay," hubby replied.
Squealing, his woman slid her finger down the front of her pants, and began fingering herself, as a wet spot formed between her legs.
"Uh, I can get a room—" I gestured to the private accommodations of the sex shack.
His face souring, hubby nervously glanced about.
Bequeathing my debit card to the coked-out clerk behind the counter, I'd sprung for a moldy hourly at a Motel 5 up the road.
"I— I'm working through some jealousy issues," hubby confessed, standing astride, as a pair of gay truckers entered the lobby, and began swappin' saliva.
