"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away."
β Philip K. Dick
He'd fucked so much, he'd worn a hole in his fuck boots. Yes, these were his "fuck boots," as he referred to them.
He only donned the footwear in question at swing clubs, threesomes, foursomes, moresomes, orgies, house parties, glory holes, and porn theaters. Whatever mileage these bastards exhibited was attributable to his attempts to grip tile, or moldy motel room rug, while thrusting hysterically.
The fact these fuckers were six months old, and their treads worn smoother than polished gems, screamed out the business end of a megaphone!
Guys like the fuck junky weren't supposed to get laid, let alone laid like celebrities, kings, and porn stars. Yet, here he was β in a swing club β atop the tenth woman for the evening, grindin' out the frustration of bein' a slave.
All over Sin City, the ignorant flocked to nightclubs, firebombing their livers, pleading with equally inebriated, female patrons to simply provide a phone number. Ten digits: It was the same amount of pussies he'd perforated on this brisk, autumn eve.
What drunken dipshit β droppin' pick-up lines, like V2 rockets on Britain β ever took 10 women home, from a bar, in one night, and fucked 'em?! It hadn't happened; not in the entire history of humanity aboard Spaceship Earth. Like Donald Trump pondering, "Should I pursue a lucrative 'career' as a Wendy's drive-thru cashier?" it never occurred.
Based upon the fact no drunk guy ever brought 10 women home from a pub, in an evening, and had intercourse with 'em, why would anybody believe such would become a trend?
Since innumerable swingers had humped 10 women in a night, didn't it seem anyone desirous of fucking people like multi-level marketing, should become a swinger?
Of course! But we're not dealin' this deck in a logical paradigm. We're tossin' our chips in a pot where people maniacally scramble to collect worthless pieces of paper; i.e. cash. We're lettin' it ride on cagey "commanders" β a group who've ordered us, as well as themselves, nuked into an apocalypse. We're hopin' against hope a bunch of "gods" β for which there's never been a single sign of existence β are gonna save us.
Thus, why singles bars outnumber swing clubs probably 100,000 to one. Because we exist in an ass backwards society.
Amidst it all, the fuck junky emerged from the jangling shackles. Behind him, sparks flew from somebody's nuclear-tipped, gas-powered ass widener.
Beneath a hot desert Moon, tfj stumbled to the outdoor fire pit, at the sex shanty. By adding 10 new Numbers to the list β accomplishing far more than any lunatic president, with their useless decrees β he'd done himself a tremendous service. Now, it was time to reflect.
His efforts had been painstaking. One might incorrectly assume the night's tally was nothing more than a joyous jaunt from one pussy to the next. A velvet portrait of Nancy Pelosi taking black cock, will hang in the Oval Office, before puttin' up 10 Digits is an easy affair.
Less than a flyweight, our hero had heroically battled 250 pound men, in his quest to jockey for position around three open gangbangs. He'd dropped his pants twice, displaying dong for a triumvirate of tarts sizing up suitors. For an hour and a half, he'd reclined nude, maintaining a continual hard-on, showing off for prospective patrons.
In between, he'd been tasked with conjuring up clever comebacks, and jocular opening lines, light-headed from perpetually producing a 9 1/2 inch erection.
None of this broached the dozen denials he'd endured β enough rejection to cause one to swan dive into Caesars' pool...from the top of the Stratosphere.