Prohibir 1

"Any organization created out of fear must create fear to survive."

― Bill Hicks

Being banned from a porn theater, because you're getting laid more than the venue's owner, is like receiving free hot fudge sundaes for life, and losing 12 teeth, due to resultant cavities.

One night I'm humpin' amidst a sea of semen-soaked sofas; the next, I'm out on my ass, like a five year old ― who can't skate ― takin' a body check from an NHL player.

I was getting fucked at this sex cinema to the magnitude of a XXX actress working on commission. Numerous patrons had informed me how much they enjoyed seeing my endowment in action. In fact, some professed to showing up, just to watch me pound the Nine Inch Nail into yet another horny housewife.

To be certain, I'd taken more beatings at this prurient palace than opponents of Muhammed Ali. Not only had I been punched by a male, bra-wearing meth addict, but I'd been threatened by an employee he'd cut my cock off, if he saw me humping another woman in the locale.

Superlative customer service? You'll more likely find a Hermann Goring Jewish Deli.

Another front desk clerk took a different tack, when he asked to hold my danglin' dong, while I peed. Politely declining, it seemed I'd inadvertently made one more enemy.

Because I was getting as much play, at this haunt, as the Number One Billboard Song on a Top 40 radio station, I was ostracized. According to tale, the owner of the jerk joint in question likes to be King Kock at his establishment.

Crashin' hard, like whatever came down in 1947 Roswell, I scrambled for solace. This venue had produced Numbers for me at a mad pace.

Where the hell was I gonna find a replacement for such a productive sex chateau?! I had a goal — 5,000 women — and I was unflagging in my pursuit of it.

My overheating brain scurried for shelter, and a quiet place to reconnoiter.

When the depleted uranium dust settled, I had no choice but to take my travelin' circus show on the raunchy road. As so, I packed up my midgets ― well, only one, in the form of myself ― my elephant, its trunk anyway, and the balls I'd been jugglin' my entire existence.

My spirits were elevated, when I found myself ― thanks to Craigslist ― embedded the depth of a greasy longneck beer bottle, inside Miss White Trash America. Two-toothed hubby videotaped the frenzied fornication.

A rickety screen door creaked on rusted hinges. A thin skin of sand coated everything inside this couples' desolate digs. I slipped on silt beneath my bootheels, as I fought the fractured floor for solid ground.

A sullied mattress — obviously retrieved from a local dumpster — had been hauled inside what appeared to be some militia members' apartment. The desecrated box spring was haphazardly abandoned in the corner, where we were fucking.

Cracked plaster, and oily fingerprints, was the motif about the place. Stained sheet rock was blanketed in Post-It Notes foretelling a coming apocalypse.

'Natty Light was the cocktail of choice in these parts. Hundreds of crushed containers, obliterating the baseboards, served as proof.

Since dawn was on the crest, I hadn't had a chance to crack a can of whatever that fat fuck Chef Boyardee was whippin' up. No problem. The duo with whom I was currently grindin' existed on microwaved fried food. Its scent permeated the walls; the air heavy with its remnants.

Hence, I simply inhaled, and received enough calories to warrant breakfast.

Most important meal of the day.

So as not to blow my load, I focused on a pair of huntsman spiders attacking a moribund rodent in the north corner of the room. When that didn't work, I fixated on the Danzig posters peeling off the plaster.

Necrophagist's Fermented Offal Discharge pounded my eardrums, from the iPod inside my humble head. Festering organ meat. That did the trick. A temporary stay of execution, as I once again accessed my throat chakra, relocated my energy, and was back on track.

Bruising cervix ― as the desert Sun crests the horizon, between silhouetted palm trees ― is a spectacular event, on par with a supernova.

The blonde bombshell squirmed away, when I pounded too deeply, but her significant other kept pushing her back onto me. Eventually, the woman yelled "Uncle!" and collapsed to the bed.

At that point, hubby ― so extensively inked, he was a walking trade paperback of Azzarello's 100 Bullets ― escorted me out the door of the dirty, desert dwelling. Moments later, I found myself standing beside a saguaro as tall as a full-grown giraffe.

Days subsequent, I'd discover a cache of Ebony Goddesses — exuberant to watch me stroke — at yet another club of carnality.

"You got a big dick!" the beautiful black babe at the swing shack promulgated, as I straightened things out between my legs. I'd been reclining nude on a couch, beside a couple offering up a free seminar on the Proper Technique for Administering Fellatio.

Half a dozen of us had been gripped by the plot of no-budget porn, wavering on and off, from a 328 year old Big Screen TV at the ass end of a dusky room.

"Thank you," I responded. "Would you like to touch it?"

The chubby, charcoal cherub nodded, as I sauntered over, and she pounded penis.

Cool, blue light emitted from the "idiot box," now to my left, dimly illuminating cockroaches skittering across the solid clay floor.

My whale meat was already slick with suet — two-for-one, flavored lube I picked up at a porn store, adjacent a crack house — so the woman's chipped and charred hands had no effect on me.

"You like that fucker?" I queried, while her mangled mitts glided over my creamy cock.

On screen, some guy with a tattoo of Jesse Custer — a la Preacher — silently shot a load of nutmustard from his Ball Park Frank. In response, an underpaid ingenue opened wide.

"Mm-hmm," the darkened damsel replied, transfixed on my member. "You come here a lot?" the pretty princess inquired, as she gripped her newfound treasure.

"Once in a while. You?"

"No. This is my first time to a place like this―"

"Damn!" a second Ebony example of perfection entered the room, caught sight of my pulled pork, and sat down with a front row seat. "Can I take a picture of it?"

Out came the smartphone, and yet more storage space was wasted. I'd later learn the pair of onyx onlookers were siblings ― which, of course, fueled my solo fondling fantasies for the remainder of the month.

— authored by Hugh Mungus