There's No "E" in Horny 2

THERE'S NO "E" IN HORNY 2

by

Hugh Mungus

© 2011. Hugh Mungus

CreateSpace

© 2011. Hugh Mungus

First Edition

All Rights Reserved

ISBN-13: 978-1466402270

ISBN-10: 146640227X

CreateSpace

7290 Investment Drive, Suite B

North Charleston, SC 29418

"You might not think the best way to spend your first day of freedom, after a lengthy incarceration, would be to immediately resume stalking the tranny hooker who knocked out six teeth and had you put away to begin with, but that's how I roll."

— Phil —

(Choke, 2008)

To Zach: more sought after by women than a 14 inch, gold cucumber.

"What Would Jesus Not Do?"

(Choke, 2008)

INTRODUCTION

LIST OF TERMS

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS, RUDY?"

THE SEXUAL PERCENTAGE

MIKE DAMONE: PURE INSPIRATION

THE MATH OF SWINGING

NEW AND IMPROVED

PHOTOS — PART II

THE PORN YEARS

THE LINGO

PERSISTENCE

RANDOM LETTERS FROM BOB'S HOUSE OF ASS

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION

When you're the height of the average horse jockey, and find yourself nude, drenched in baby oil, and receiving handjobs from a pair of six foot tall women at a Hollywood motel, you know you've done something correctly.

Meeting for a first date in the back of an unmarked van, clad in fewer clothes than the moment you were born, causes a man to feel he's somehow transcended mortality.

Making out with a drunken stripper in a desert casino, and not having to pay a dime for the experience, is just sound financial planning.

Enter the wild, wonderful world of wife swappin’, and these types of adventures become commonplace. Buyer beware. Your mundane 9-to-5 existence will no longer hold your interest. Prosaic life becomes unbearable.

"No problem," you exclaim.

Of course it's not a dilemma now, but once you're accustomed to sex with multiple women, you may never be able to achieve complete satisfaction from monogamy again.

Overcome that minor speed bump, and all that's required to catapult headfirst into the world of unbridled sportfucking is an inquisitive mind. Why should porn stars partake in all the fun? You come equipped with the necessary attributes to live like Ron Jeremy. Use what you inherently possess.

Hugh Mungus





LIST OF TERMS

Since swinging terminology can be more confusing than Jessica Alba’s fame, what follows is a list of words you’ll find within this book.

69: A sexual position through which two people simultaneously gratify each other, orally. My petitions to make this an Olympic event have fallen upon deaf ears.

Astroglide: Lubricant commonly used during intimate interludes. This modern miracle was invented amidst work on the Space Shuttle cooling system. Hence its name.

BBW: Big, beautiful woman. For me, the only thing better than sex with a BBW is sex with multiple BBW. I love my women the way most people love their paycheck — large!

BDSM: Fuck if I know. You’re more likely to find an arachnophobic exterminator than I am to understand this one.

Bob’s House of Ass: A local, bargain swing club.

Bukkake: A sexual act in which a group of males climax upon a female. One of many reasons to be happy you’re a man.

Gangbang: Group sex, typically including one female and several males. One of many reasons to be happy you’re a woman.

Glory Hole: An opening between abutting rooms, through which bodily appendages can be inserted, and prurient acts occur. Outside of a priest’s mind in a daycare center, this may be the most disgusting place on the planet.

Jack Shack: An adult arcade where masturbation and sex take place. See: “Pee-wee Herman.”

Lube: Typical abbreviation for lubricant utilized in sexual situations. Besides alcohol, it may be the most precious liquid on the market.

Orgy: Group sex, frequently involving a comparable amount of men and women. In mainstream society, this act is less common than a dyslexic English teacher. In the swinging world, however, it’s ubiquitous.

Pic: Typical Internet abbreviation for “picture.”

Pocket Pussy: If you can’t figure this one out on your own, you’d best head down to your local waterin’ hole for a Grey Goose and Sanka.

Popov: Excellent, discount vodka.

Sex Swing: A harness by which a woman can attach herself to the ceiling and partake in intimate activity. About as easy to operate as a car with square wheels.

Strap-On: A prosthetic penis attached to a woman’s waist. If I had 10 cents to my name, I’d bet this device from Hell was conceived by a chick.

Streaming Porn: Pornographic videos transmitted, and downloadable over the Internet. I’m surprised Tesla didn’t have a hand in this one, since it’s perhaps the greatest invention ever.

Swinger: A person who often engages in casual and group sex. More aberrant and useless than a lifeguard who can’t swim, this would be me. :)

Swinging: The Lifestyle, wife swapping, etc. The activity that swingers participate in. The day this becomes a mandatory college course is the day I return to school.

Swing Club: A specific venue where swingers engage in swinging. Although less common than a vampire who faints at the sight of blood, these places do exist.

XXX: Pornographic.





"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS, RUDY?"
(Used Cars, 1980)

What you're reading is the second least popular publication to date. The first is the original There's No "E" in Horny.

At least half this mayhem was originally inscribed on cocktail napkins in the deepest, darkest corners of the seediest dive bars. To call this a blog would be a stretch more vast than concluding Mel Gibson will become the next spokesperson for Jews Across America.

I'm no Edgar Cayce, but I can safely deduce you're not poring over this sentence in your local Barnes & Noble.

Feel free to refer to There's No "E" in Horny 2 as a self-help guide, for lack of a better term. This aggregation of incessant ramblings is equivalent to Neil Strauss' masterpiece The Game on speed. You're perusin' a single guy's guide to the world of wife swappin', as told by a veteran from inside the trenches.

I mean no disrespect to Mr. Strauss' exceptional work. If you've yet to read The Game, do yourself a huge favor and grab a copy of this epic pick-up artist's quest.

There's No "E" in Horny, and its sequels, simply take a different approach to women.

Although I know the disparity between an ESB, a bacon-smoked Porter, something brewed by Trappist monks and a triple IPA, I'm still gonna drink Big Flats 1901 — Walgreens' official beer.

Why?

It's $3 a six-pack, tastes fantastic, and will get me drunk for the price of a watered-down cocktail at most gin joints.

You can be ostentatious and hump a dozen women, or be humble and hook up with the population of a small country. The choice is yours.





THE SEXUAL PERCENTAGE

Stand at the corner of a busy street in a metropolitan area. Gaze over the throng of folks passing by. Attempt to deduce which has had the most sex.

A) The dread-locked nymph with more piercings than a pin cushion?

B) The provocatively clad college student engendering you to consider reverting back to breast feeding?

C) The soccer mom, so sexually stymied, her ”I Love Cock" T-shirt can be clearly seen beneath her sheer blouse?

D) The bald, middle-aged guy with more hair on his ass than his head?

If you guessed "D," and you're female, congratulations! You’ve just won an all-expense paid trip through my pants. If you're male, and concluded that "D" is the correct answer, good for you!

Any of the above stereotypes can be correct. Quite often, though, those least conspicuous are the ones sucklin' off the tit of life.

Seemingly more far-fetched than the possibility of Hugh Hefner having been gay, the facts remain: Whomever coined the term, "If you've got it, flaunt it" was an egomaniac. The much more pragmatic phrase should be, "If you've got it, use it." The beauty is that, given enough effort, anybody can get it.

Less attractive to women than misogyny, I'm no Johnny Depp. I can read, though. As a result, I derive foresight from those who've ventured before me.

After determining — via research — where the local swing clubs are, I can drive to them on a regular basis. The rest takes care of itself.

If you're a single male entering, or embroiled in, the swing scene, pore over pertinent literature. Understand how to manipulate your Chakras. Make yourself multi-orgasmic, able to hump for days on end, or simply halfway decent in bed.

As outlandish as these topics seem, they are valid, and will afford you numerous more opportunities than those available a “one pump chump."

Books: They don't just make fantastic paperweights, anymore!





MIKE DAMONE: PURE INSPIRATION

Mark Ratner: “[…] Well, naturally something happens. I mean, you put the vibe out to thirty million chicks, something is gonna happen.”

Mike Damone: “That’s the idea, Rat. That's the attitude.”

(Fast Times at Ridgemont High, 1982)

The sea of simpletons surrounding me cackled at Mike Damone's seemingly puerile disposition. I couldn't believe it. Fast Times at Ridgemont High held the secret to this Universe, and these idiots were laughing at it!

"Could it really be this simple?" I wondered. Hunkering down in my streamlined, Syufy theater seat, I hashed out a plan of attack.

This guy Damone was a luminary! Here I was encircled by assholes less stable than Californium — people trapped in relationships more doomed than the maiden voyage of the Titanic. Yet, in the words of this greasy, high school thespian, came clarity.

How could one guy in his teens be so goddamned intuitive?

I glanced at the ignorant audience around me. "Couldn't anybody else see the genius, here?!"

When it comes to accumulating notches on the bedpost, the more women you proposition, the more sex you'll obtain. Period!

People are humping every moment of every day. It's simply your duty to find them.





THE MATH OF SWINGING

Male: "Well, how about them? Look at her nipple rings. She's fuckin' hot."

Female: "Oh, please. He doesn't have any back hair. You'll just have to find someone else."

Male: "Okay. What about those two? They look fun. Plus, the guy's a fuckin' ape."

Female: "You're kidding, right? He's way too fat!"

Male: "Well, back hair and corpulent sort of go together like Merrill Stubing and bald, don't they?"

Female: "What?"

Male: "Never mind. How 'bout those two next to the hot tub? You can braid that shit!"

Female: "Jesus, you're disgusting!"

Numbers Guys new to swinging often believe it's beneficial to pair up with a female, as opposed to entering the sexual arena alone. Here's why they're wrong.

A) Women are physically gorgeous.

B) All people, including women, are insane.

C) Thereby, if women weren't physically gorgeous, men would have nothing to do with them.

It's a simple equation. Let's say females resembled Jared from Subway. Would you still treat them like princesses? No. They'd be immense, hairy, and possess a pair of balls.

If women looked like men, would you radically alter your existence to accommodate them?

If Jared was having his period, would you be sympathetic?

Nine times out of 10, men wouldn't lust women, and vice versa, if they didn't find the opposite sex physically appealing.

When driven by the Numbers, you'll encounter fewer problems if you swing solo, as opposed to being part of a couple:

There won’t be any obligation to leave parties early.

Mood swings?

Not unless you possess multiple personalities, since you'll only have to answer to yourself.

It's basic math. Two couples are desirous of playing. You're looking at four total components — two husbands, two wives.

Machines with fewer working parts have less potential of breaking down. Eliminate three of the variables, and you've reduced the probability of failure. Compatibility between the four elements of two swinging couples is often difficult to attain.

If you're dedicated to the Numbers, you're attracted to all women. At that point, you simply have to deal with one factor: Is the woman attracted to you? Period.





NEW AND IMPROVED

"I'd rather fuck a million broads, than screw Kim Kardashian a million times," Jerry murmured, between drags off his unfiltered cancer stick.

Even though I had no idea who the fuck Kim Kardashian was, it was solid rationale. Something on par with Einstein's theory of relativity, or perhaps a suitable replacement for the Lord's Prayer.

As Jerry cackled, causing his upper dentures to dislodge, I surmised this Kardashian character wouldn't want anything to do with him. Still, I understood his reasoning.

Being relegated to humping the same partner for the rest of your life often results in unmitigated disaster. Don't believe me? Check out the almost 50% divorce rate in the U.S. In addition, these statistics don't address the number of unsatisfied, or beguiling spouses resultant of forcing the proverbial square peg into a round hole.

Retrieving a tube of Poli-Grip from his truck, Jerry returned. “Say you grabbed 10,000 tits during your life. We both know each one felt best that first time you got your mitts on it."

He was correct, of course. Creepy as all 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,” Jerry motioned to the entrance of Bob’s House of Ass — a local swing club. The leathery truck driver squinted, emphasizing his omniscience. “Notice how I never fuck the same woman more than three times?”

I couldn't recall seeing Jerry hook up with a woman, let alone one on separate occasions.

“Shit, if I wanted anything more from 'em, I would've married 'em." Laughing, Jerry partially swallowed his false teeth.

Yeah, the guy was more disturbing than a Golden Girls remake, featuring topless actresses. A person was more likely to receive a new transmission at Just Brakes, than Jerry was to get laid. Still, I had to admire this ancient bastard's rationale.

In the ubiquitous pursuit of sex, the single, swingin' male does himself a great service by moving from woman to woman. Remain sedentary, and you're made privy to a surplus of personal information you shouldn't know.

"My uncle raped me during a sleepover."

"I'm quitting my job here in Nevada, so I can drive to Hawaii."

"I used to be a man!"

Of course you’ll sound more shallow than a puddle. When all is said and done, though, you'll thank yourself for not staying to learn the CEO you just 69ed had been incarcerated for castrating her previous boyfriend.





PHOTOS — PART II

When it comes to nude photographs, regard 'em the way a corporate executive would a business card.

In modern society, public nudity is frowned upon. Ironically, your greatest physical attributes may get you arrested, should you openly exhibit them. Relax. Help has arrived. Photos are your saving grace.

The following are examples of how nude pictures helped me turn platonic situations into sexual ones.

During a stint in a dilapidated Arizona apartment complex, I propositioned a lovely, Mexican senorita living next door. Although I only spoke enough Spanish to receive a severe ass kicking, or a frosty cold beer, I was able to communicate my necessity for nude photographs to further my lucrative ”modeling” career.

The next thing you know, I'm naked in front of my neighbor, and harder than mating an elephant with a flea. All this for the discounted admission fee of two packs of Polaroid film, and a $3 bottle of baby oil.

Whether in a long-term relationship, or engaging in a one time hook-up, you're gonna have sex. Small talk is less useful than ascertaining whether or not you're wearing a parachute after jumping from a plane.

In the event you’re more well-hung than a roomful of paintings at the Louvre, a photo exhibiting this attribute will often cause a woman to ask you to take it out, and show it to her.

During a first date, intensify the anticipation with a nude photograph of yourself “inadvertently” left on your coffee table or countertop. Upon discovery, your new female friend may find herself impelled to see the goods. Fuel those sexual fires with more combustibles than a dynamite shack!

Become creative. I designed my own business cards, incorporating nude pictures of myself taken by a female porn photographer in Hollywood. Distributing these babies whilst on first dates, I'd elucidate about my adult film occupation.

A maneuver of this magnitude catches women off guard. Females in this situation almost always take the bait. You're working in a legitimate industry, and you possess business cards to substantiate this fact.

Gingerly place the ball in their court, so to speak. Dangle the dong in a movie theater, and you run the risk of facing lewd conduct charges. Produce a professional, nude photograph of yourself, asserting you perform in adult films, and you've generated an air of mystery. Most women have never made the acquaintance of a male porn actor, although they've attained Earth-shattering orgasms, in private, watching naked, endowed thespians.

Take the gorgeous counter girl at the local pizza shop down the road from my house.

Unbeknownst to her, she worked a mere two miles from an apartment in which porn was being produced daily.

I made Theresa's acquaintance over a slice of anchovy and olive, after completing work on a BBW video. More cute than puppies, she naturally came complete with a pair of attributes most women pay thousands to obtain via artificial means.

I informed her I was an adult movie actor.

At this point, the female in question will usually inquire about the connotation of the preceding term.

Nipples protrude. Breathing increases.

You exclaim, in a manner suggesting you hadn't planned any of this, “Come to think of it, I may have a goddamned business card here in my wallet.” Once you produce a nude photo of yourself, packing more sausage than diligent employees in a Jimmy Dean plant, there's no going back.

During this stage with Theresa, I explained I was in need of a more recent picture, as the one she was currently gawking at had been taken some time ago. I asked if she'd care to act as cameraperson.

"Yes," was her immediate response.

Plans were made. Times were set. It wasn't until she casually mentioned a boyfriend, and how it was necessary to adjust her schedule with him, that I realized our activity would be covert.

As a result, I extracted myself from the equation, not wishing to affect her relationship. This was difficult, considering she probably looked better nude than most Playboy Bunnies. In the end, hassle was avoided, and no lives were torn asunder.

The power of the photograph can be an awesome thing. The most composed women lose control when viewing nude pics of someone they know. I'd surmise it has to do with our subjugated societal structure. People work incredible hours, enslaved to a fictional ideology, all the while wishing they could succumb to their inner desires.

When a female friend — who happens to be using your computer — discovers a photo of you naked, and harder than advanced calculus, it's always an amusing scenario. Things escalate, after the lass is unable to refrain from talking about how turned on she was by the picture.

Restrained beauty, forced to conform to suburban standards. Appeal to that caged tigress. You're her conduit for escape.

Small towns — far off the beaten path — are a breeding ground for abandoned fantasies. These burgs are often chock full of delicious women seeking liberation. Upon viewing your nude photographs via E-mail, a 50 year old mother, and her daughter, invite you to their trailer somewhere in the desert to perform a live strip show.

Well-executed pictures are imperative, when it comes to online photo exchanges, naughty instant messaging and real-time meetings.

A darkened room. A waning neon glow emanates from your antiquated computer monitor. You're clad in fewer clothes than a minimum wage stripper tryin' to make rent. One lubricant-drenched hand is in constant motion beneath your desk. A second appendage is employed solely for typing.

Although you've achieved 42 one-handed words per minute, you're no match for a well-trained secretary. When entertaining multiple virtual partners, you don't stand a chance. You frantically hunt and peck, attempting to bring the housewife in Paramus to orgasm, whilst describing the size of your most affable appendage to the Latina executive in San Jose.

It's an episode that can leave triathletes gasping for breath. If engaged in improperly, you run the risk of straining something.

Do yourself a favor. Become your own porn movie. Keep nude photos of yourself at the ready. This approach frees your hands from incessant typing, allowing them to engage in more pleasurable activity.

A picture is worth a thousand words, isn't it? Say you type a mere 50 words per minute. Single-handedly, that's 25 wpm. At that rate, 1,000 words affords you countless extra moments with which to properly spit shine your shaft. The numbers speak for themselves.





THE PORN YEARS

Five XXX actresses.

One man.

A bedroom in a bedraggled Hollywood Hills mansion.

Outside, a low-budget porn feature was being videotaped. Wearing my birthday suit, I rehearsed with one of the ladies for our pending scene.

I harkened back to how I'd arrived here:

An ad answered in a local porno rag.

An audition in an adult actress' apartment — a live Internet feed from the most unkempt bedroom in Los Angeles. Ostensibly, I'd performed well enough to be cast in imminent skin flicks.

Thus, here I was — bathed in succulent sunshine — naked and ready to fuck on screen.

It was all about the lingo.

Being lactated upon by a shapely Ebony princess would have solely been a fantasy, had I not replied to the classified seeking "Big Girls Ready to Get Naked in Front of the Camera." Experienced in responding to swinger ads, I'd deduced those who placed the listing must be in need of actors to perform with their actresses.

Without an aptitude for wife swappin', I would've never found myself at a hundred porn shoots, or in a seaside Ramada on top of a spread eagle wife. An adequate comprehension of naughty nakedness allowed me to have sex with a first-time thespian in a garage, whilst her female companion looked on, and the cameras rolled.

Whether hookin' up with a Sunday school teacher in a hotel room on the Vegas Strip, or fucking a woman 20 years my senior, it was all made possible by a proficiency for answering adult classifieds.

Knowing the protocol for responding to XXX ads afforded me the opportunity to hang out in the mountains, beneath a pair of completely nude strippers.

A handjob from somebody's girlfriend in an X-rated theater — minutes from the Mexican border — only came to fruition because of my aptitude for online exchanges.

I'm no stud. If I can prosper in this environment, anyone can.

Learn the lingo; accumulate confidence; don’t become discouraged.

Peruse my personal examples. Half are hustles gone awry. Stories of failure make the best anecdotes.

Would crashing an interracial orgy, discovering I had the biggest dong in the room, and hooking up twice prior to being thrown out, have tasted as sweet if I hadn't been kicked off a thousand beds?





THE LINGO

Hi im new to dha area i want to xprience new thing n dis new place tho i nevah tried anything with a women b4 but sumthing bout is thus turns meh on….im lowkn fo a freind n a love n a great person i thus be n around oh yeah who cute n have a great personality if that u hit meh pic is required

— an actual Internet post —

The Web: proof high school English teachers are as worthless as a president's pledge.

Even if you do know the definitions of libidinous, licentious and salacious, utilizing these words, when responding to the above classified, will only confuse its author.

It's not your fault most Internet users have the mental capacity of Play-Doh, as opposed to Plato. When seeking online sex, you're unwittingly coerced into dealing with women who TiVo infomercials. Because of this harsh reality, it's imperative you become adept at responding to folks unable to sleep awaiting the next episode of American Idol.

Retain a smattering of Chris Hitchens "zingers" in your cerebral lexicon. You never know when you’ll find yourself replying to a married couple with a combined score of 4,800 on their SATs. For the most part, though, when dealing with potential sex partners via the Internet, folks communicate with two thumbs…usually whilst driving.




PERSISTENCE

I was less likely to get laid this week than Justin Bieber is to spontaneously generate a thick carpet of chest hair. Still, I had to try. This brings us to the battle cry of the single, male swinger: No matter how slow things become, never stop.

The wife swappin' world ebbs and flows. On certain days, you'll wonder if females still exist. At other times, you'll swear you’re in possession of the only penis left on the planet.

Stay the course. Wait out the slow periods, and revel in the prosperous ones. The latter will far outweigh the former.

Persistence is essential.

Eight prospects recently filled my E-mail inbox. Within days, that list dwindled to none.

The Internet affords people the ability to become self-perceived superstars. That girl in high school who popped out more kids than a fertility clinic? Yeah, the stay-at-home mom, livin' off food stamps? Well, guess what? On the Web, she's an amalgamation of the last three Playboy Playmates.

Difficult as it may be to conceive, people on the Internet aren't always who they avow to be. In your noble quest for sex, you have no choice but to deal with it.

Eight prospects, baby. Eight!

Number one asserted she'd be wearing nothing but lipstick at a local porn arcade. Upon arrival at the destination in question, a helpful store clerk informed me the place had been devoid of women the entire day. Waiting for two hours in my truck outside the entrance to the groin emporium, I devoured stale nachos from an adjacent gas station.

Returning home, I found an E-mail from the senorita claiming she'd been inside the adult theater all along, having sex with the senior citizen cashier. Unfortunately, the guy working the counter I’d chatted with was no more than 25 years old. The grey area of deceit on this one was more ashen than Anderson Cooper’s hair.

Next came the couple with whom I'd invested four days of effort. Six hours prior to meeting, I discovered they were bisexual, and he was more desirous of me than his wife. Two down, six to go!

Contestant number three turned out to be a hooker.

Number four, a skillful automatic advertisement.

Number five was interesting: a duo whose classified featured photos normally reserved for Suck and Screw magazine. One electronic mail into our discourse, and they wanted to meet for drinks. Two E-mails, and they were seeking an extravagant dinner, for which I'd grab the check.

Moving on. Number six was a no show at a local motel. Never pay for the room prior, as there’s a definite chance you’ll find yourself sitting in it alone, watching Ed Asner as Hugh Grant on a three channel black-and-white.

Charging forth hornier than a herd of rhinos, number seven professed to be seeking her inaugural trip to Bob's House of Ass — a local swing club. For five consecutive evenings, she'd profess how badly she wanted to wave my magic wand. Each night, upon asking for her phone number, I'd witness her vanishing more rapidly than a lone, soft stool in a sewage plant.

As such, I plied my trade with numero ocho, who was eight months pregnant, and hankering to participate in her very first gangbang.

Swinging is analogous to the Indiana Jones films — each experience is a new, exciting adventure! After an ostensible appointment with her physician — during which she determined sex wouldn't burn her little bun in the oven — we were cleared for take-off. At this point, she disappeared more overtly than Dr. Phil's hairline.

No worries. With billions of women on the planet, and only one of me, the odds are in my favor!





RANDOM LETTERS FROM BOB'S HOUSE OF ASS

E-mails.

That's how this turgid tome began. White wine spritzers at 3 AM cause a man to do things he normally wouldn't. At that hour, you have two choices: jack-off, or write. "Why decide?" I cry. "I'll do both!"

Hence, at least half this blog was recorded one-handed style. Forty-two words per minute! A world record? Perhaps, but good luck findin' it in the Guinness Book.

You disseminate late night E-mails to friends, delineating your revolting carnal past. Akin to a noble politician, a benevolent attorney or a working airplane made of chicken meat and urine, acquaintances assure themselves you don't exist.

Since Bob's House of Ass — a discounted, regional swing club — at one point featured considerably in your adventures, you incorporate torrid tales originating from this libertine locale.

Bob's is a cryptic alias for an actual location somewhere in the "United States." At said casa de carnality, clothing is optional, and exhibitionist group sex occurs daily, if not hourly.

All names and references featured in the following correspondences have been changed for the sake of privacy.

Grammatical and spelling errors of verbatim, Internet classifieds are attributable to those who posted them.





E-MAIL #1

Bob's. 4:30 PM. A newbie couple enter, and make the mistake of sitting beside me. Naked, I'm compelled to show off my latest diamond cutting implement.

From past experience, I've deduced this approach affords me a 50% chance of a blowjob, handjob, or invitation to the orgy bed. The other 50% of the time, I'm met with stares of revulsion. Either way, for $20, I'm goin' for it!

Saturday's senorita — bewildered by the abundance of assorted nuts in attendance — offered little response.

5 PM. A lascivious librarian enters, dispensing blowjobs. A few of us attain pole position, as she services all able and willing participants. Minutes later, we're invited back to Room 23, where hubby is hard at work hanging a sex swing, and charging the batteries in his digital camera.

Including myself, 10 guys enter this den of iniquity, and proceed to jack-off over our female emcee — who's enthusiastically producing milk from her breasts.

I turn to find the blonde from the initial couple watching, as the horny host pretends I was born with a lollipop between my legs.

For a moment, I thought this alluring voyeur might reach in and grab some tender rod and nuts, or perhaps dine at the Y. Alas, this little filly chose to solely observe, perhaps intimidated by the dozen naked people surrounding her.

With all this useless crap I keep sending your way, you may wish to call a team of sewage experts.

Buzz Saw




E-MAIL #2

Four couples at Bob's, today. One was Nikki and Maurice. Nikki fears rubbers the way a vampire does sunlight. As such, I choose to merely grab handfuls of her lovely flesh.

The second tandem played in the hot tub, where the woman in question's derriere was poised for penetration. Already rubbing my pencil-thin protrusion against this abundant ass, Nikki — once again of Nikki and Maurice — kept encouraging me to slide inside.

Sex in the hot tub is more difficult than winning the Lottery, if you don't buy a ticket. Because my trusty Trojans were 20 feet away, vacating the Jacuzzi meant losing my optimal place in line. With two additional horny bastards preparing to mount the woman I was grinding against, I merely chose to massage the girl's gorgeous groin with my offensive outgrowth.

A third couple manually gratified each other in a pair of chairs. After inquiring, I was permitted a front row seat, where I commenced waxing my wick. Such said, this latest lass was less interested in me than the cast of The View is in never eating again.

I could've sworn this fine feline had her eyes glued on my Usinger's Famous. Then again, I'm also convinced Corey Feldman is the President of Croatia.

Some bald dude — not tall enough to ride half the attractions at Disneyland — got approached by a gorgeous Latina. This guy was clad in a bow tie, black socks, and dress shoes! The girl in question hauled this fortunate bastard back to Room 29, and fucked him more intensely than the government does taxpayers!

Suffice it to say, I'm headed out to purchase a bow tie, black socks, and dress shoes!

Rick O'Shea




E-MAIL #3

For the past three weeks, things at Bob's had been firin' on all 12 cylinders. An influx of lovely ladies: a couple from Louisiana, in town for a sexual bonanza; a second duo covetous of accumulating naked time in Room 13.

Any surfer riding Internet waves, in search of sex, will inform you these are the crests enjoyed for unpredictable periods of time. With pinnacles come the seemingly endless dives into nightmares of baby oil, streaming porn, and not a tangible woman for miles. Following 21 days of bare bliss, the red carpet to encounters with horny housewives unraveled.

More misguided than the dude who invented the cardboard ocean liner, I'd exchanged E-mails with a couple who "lived in the woods," and were anxious to meet. The male component of said duo was named Ox. With each consecutive correspondence, the disconcerting theme to Deliverance echoed more loudly in my head.

Deciding to pass on this invitation, I was contacted by a woman I deduced was a man.

This exchange was followed by a promising lead that went sour, when the girl in question informed me she was homeless, and wished to charge $60 for 15 minutes.

Today's round of E-mail tag included a pair of women seeking a protuberance with which to satiate their lust. Upon ascertaining what I possessed between my legs was felicitous to their needs, we proceeded further.

The first woman revealed she was married, and planning on cheating — an insurmountable stumbling block. From there, communication dwindled more quickly than the erection of a man hit simultaneously with divorce papers, and an $80,000,000 lawsuit.

Our next contestant and I exchanged commensurate, nude photographs. Communication was frisky and spirited. What follows is a sampling of our actual correspondence:

Woman: Goddamn! Nice! I'm available now. Are you?

Hugh: I'm definitely available! Feel free to send me directions, and I'll head your way!

At that point, my inbox became more empty than a eunuch's undergarments.

The Loin King




E-MAIL #4

Need something warm to suck on? Give me a gum job. Any age or race, as long as you can give me my first gum job. I'm tall, good looking, real and ready to give you what you want."

<End of classified.>

This is sexy simple, really. I have a secret fetish for really sweaty smelly socks. It is super embarrassing so I rarely mention it to guys I'm dating. I am looking for a man who has abnormally sweaty feet/socks. I am talking about the type of stench that comes from wearing the same socks for a week or longer.

Do you work out a lot? Do you have a broken washer? Are you asked NOT to remove your shoes when you visit friends houses?

If you think you have what it takes, send a face PHOTO in your FIRST email along with a little bit about yourself.

<End of classified.>

ok here is the deal we are looking to set a gang bang for this evening at our house for her she wants guys with big dicks and she is for real she cant get enough

she is a size 4 brown hair green eyes no tan lines shaved below very and open minded

the hubby will be watching so be comfy with that and you must be disease free must send pic no pic no response

one more thing she would like a group of guys to dominate her totally as she is very submissive possibly tie her up she is into orgasm control and loves to be choked so please tell us if you have any experience in this

<End of classified.>

Actual Internet ads from actual people. Obviously, the author of the last post isn't paid to punctuate.

Initially, the latest prospect seemed a lot like FedEx: eager to handle my package. Since I haven't heard from her in the past 24 hours, though, I can only hope she's dead.

Saturday night is suddenly more open than my fly in a brothel! I'll bathe in Hai Karate cologne and rev up the Grand Touring Yugo!

Dick Shun





E-MAIL #5

The place: Bob's House of Ass.

The time: 5 PM. Saturday.

A party of three — comprised of two women and one guy — enter the pool area. The dude is somewhere in his late 70s. The chicks are in their early 30s. One senorita is obviously a butch lesbian; the other, sensual white trash. Disrobing, the group head straight for the hot tub. I drop my insignificant woodworking project, and make a beeline for the water.

The luscious lass eyes my swollen salami like a $1,000,000 bank error in her favor, blurting out, "Am I the only one in the house who loves penis?!"

I deduce she's at least not fully homosexual, and for once, I've got a real shot on this one!

In response, the butch chick pulls the object of everyone's desire as closely to herself as possible.

This is Bob's House of Ass, lady! There's no room for jealousy, here!

Whilst acclimating to the tub, I inform the delicious damsel I'd attended a swing party the week prior at a Motel 6.

"I live at a Motel 6!” she squeals.

I grin, submersing myself. The septuagenarian turns to me, inquiring, "Do you mind if a guy touches your cock while you're fucking a woman?"

People, I just came to soak…and hump the hottie chick, whilst you turn a blind eye! Is that too much to ask?! I considered returning to my task at hand, but the little lass spread herself out like a kitten basking in the Sun.

On one side, I had an ireful butch lesbian. On the other, Mr. McFeely was sizing me up like Rosie O'Donnell does a six pound burger.

I retaliated by doing the only thing a man in my position could do. I fired up the jets, slid my hands beneath the water, and grabbed as much of the beauty's shaven perfection as possible.

There are obvious perks to bein' a regular at Bob's! One becomes familiar with the terrain. Handfuls of heavenly hairless and neither Dongmaster, nor Martina Navratilova, were so much the wiser.

More turned on than the lights at Wrigley Field, during an evening double header, the trio departed for the privacy of Room 42.

Upon stepping outside to urinate in the bushes, I ran into the butch chick taking a smoke break. She informed me she was lesbian.

I was more shocked than a guy in the electric chair.

Her fine female friend was her lover.

A conclusion I’d arrived at, as well.

The Colonel Harland Sanders look-a-like was their john.

That one threw me, since the client/prostitute relationship isn't one you encounter at Bob's often. Elucidating she becomes violently angry, when watching anybody touch her woman, the butch expressed extreme enthusiasm to nuzzle my nuts.

More mixed signals than a 10-way intersection with 50 lights.

She asked for my phone number.

I provided erroneous digits, whilst watching her down a pint of Popov. Staring into the window of her truck, I was introduced to her congenial dog, whose efforts to consume my head were stymied by a pane of glass.

When the lesbian hookers departed, I observed Julio — another friend of mine — race after them in his diesel-fueled monster truck.

Even though these women could return and kill me for providing a fake phone number, I knew I was at least temporarily safe. I'd had my hands all over the little one, and wasn't slashed from stem to sternum by the butch, or manhandled by Bob's bisexual, senior citizen contingency.

It was a truly fucked up day, which I'd have to refer to as a success!

Stu Pendus





E-MAIL #6

2 AM. An abandoned expanse of Interstate. I check into the nearest motel, only to make the acquaintance of a delicious, female desk clerk workin' the graveyard shift.

Hopping on the lobby computer, I strike up a discourse. Our conversation veers toward my former line of work — adult video actor.

"Do you like porn movies?" I query.

"Oh, yeah!" she replies, more decisively than Donald Trump does when asked if he adores money and bad hairdos.

Requesting to see my work, I download nude pics from the Internet, and suddenly find her standing beside me. After the third photo of my twig and berries, she states, “Show it to me. I want you to jerk it and cum on me!”

I'm shocked, but in a positive way: like ripping a present open at Christmas, certain it's a pair of socks, only to discover naked photographs of Sherri Shepherd.

This wanton woman orders me behind the front desk, promising to return after battening down the hatches. Being left alone, I strip completely.

When she arrives, I'm already busy working out the wrinkles. She watches for a few minutes, before getting a firm grip on the situation.

Suffice it to say, I was thrilled I'd chosen this particular rest stop at which to "get off."

Dick Tater





E-MAIL #7

I'm a day away from meeting a petite Latina who can cum by having her nipples pinched. Great news for a guy like me, since the last orgasm I gave a woman came after purchasing my ex-girlfriend a copy of Super Dong magazine, and a vibrator.

This latest chick loves havin' her ass licked. Since she can't do it herself, I thought I'd help. She's also a fan of whipped cream and all-female prison movies. Unfortunately, the positive news stops there. Mere hours ago, I was informed she owns a 200 pound dog!

I’m sure she's gonna pull a, "Don't mind the blood dripping from his mouth. He's always like that. Just don't show any fear, and you'll be okay…Would you be a love and remove that severed finger stuck in his teeth?" These women assemble the most fucked-up obstacle courses for a man to traverse, in order to obtain sex.

Case in point. For the third time in the past two months, I just missed hookin' up with a six foot tall black chick I now refer to as the Phantom. She informed me she'd be stopping by Anal Arcade — a regional porn theater — at 2:30 PM.

Being it was already 2, I ran red lights across town, destined for a locale more disgusting than Drew Carey's jockstrap, following a vigorous workout. After achieving a land speed record, I arrived a mere five minutes late. Conferring with the establishment’s cashier, I was informed the object of my affection had departed, with some dude in tow, moments prior.

Bob's House of Ass is pullin' out all the stops for 2011! Martin Landau will be crooning his greatest hit in their new octagonal, space age lounge! Apparently, after several beverages, he ventures into the hot tub area to serenade those fervently fucking.

Karaoke Quarterly is referring to the entire, sordid experience as, "a musical masterpiece!"

Chris Peacock





E-MAIL #8

Hortense — a friend of mine — reserved one of the rooms at Bob's. Online ads were posted. Five couples and three women confirmed. Our backup plan, Debbie — who’s built like twin beach balls attached to an hourglass — was bringing her confidante Melinda. The icing atop this salacious sundae was Kelly — a woman sporting more curves than San Francisco’s Lombard Street.

Not only did the five couples fail to show, but so did the three single respondents. Akin to David Oreck's latest product, this sucked.

No worries. We still had the alternates, right?

As wrong as two plus two equaling five. Debbie gave us a more definitive cold shoulder than Oprah does dietary meals.

We were suddenly relegated to a lass whose fake breasts are, individually, the size of muskmelons. Unfortunately, this afternoon, she was more interested in finding what awaited her at the bottom of a pint of Jack.

Down but not out, I unearthed a wallet filled with phone numbers, and got nowhere faster than a blind bus driver poised at the edge of a cliff.

Just then, a couple entered Bob's. After conversing, we ascertained this duo weren't opposed to frolicking with single dudes, should another tandem be thrown into the mix.

At that moment, the goddesses of gyrating groins smiled upon us. Helen and Mitch — a pair I'd played with previously — arrived on scene.

Photos were taken; the Trojan Company attained it’s yearly quota; we went through an industrial-sized bottle of lube. When all was said and done, I barely made it home, due to an empty gas tank, but the smile on my face was more immense than a politician's greed!

Rex Q. Mission





E-MAIL #9

What the fuck am I supposed to deduce from this:

hi hugh this is mike we met at bobs awhile ago and you answered our ad so its all good she is definitely interested in playing with you we just need to get the rest of it figured out

we do have a couple other couples interested but we want to meet them first and see where it goes but we will keep your info and if we get it set up we definitely will get in contact with you here is a pic of her tits for you

A) Mike is scared shitless of periods.

B) The author of this epitome of run-on sentences isn’t aware of how common his name is, and how many people by that epithet I've met at Bob's House of Ass.

C) Some poor woman, somewhere, is in serious need of dong!

The preceding comes on the heels of my response to an Internet post. As a result, I now have, in my possession, a picture of incredible breasts, and no face with which to connect them.

I'm not intelligent. It took 12 viewings of Star Wars before I realized the iconic blockbuster wasn't based upon a true story. Without the Internet, I'd have less chance of getting laid than the common man does of touching his own nipples together.

The fact remains, I do work sedulously to obtain coital comforts. I have to. I can't simply walk into a room, and expect women to attack me the way Kirstie Alley does a home-cooked meal! If I weren't so busy procuring sex, I'd take offense at the cursory effort the author of the above response expended.

There are those who approach the quest for copulation with passion. Take, for instance, Antoine, who frequents Bob's House of Ass at least four times a week. This icon of intercourse doesn't even have a job.

"How can one desperate son of a bitch carry out such death-defying acts of heroism?" you inquire.

Antoine sold his house, in order to visit Bob's more often. As a result, he lives in a trailer in the middle of nowhere. My point is, here's a man who addresses his desires with sincerity and thoughtfulness, and then you have people postin' on the Internet who think "cat" is spelled with a "k."

Antoine, I raise a glass of charcoal-filtered, discount vodka in your name! May the shitter in your single-wide never clog, and your fellow trailer park patrons be nymphomaniacs!

Morris Code





E-MAIL #10

A senorita sporting a “Slut” tattoo on her face wants to meet Saturday. We both know this one’s bound to fall apart more quickly than Sally Struthers on a hunger strike.

In her own words, she enticed me with this romantic gem:

get ahold of me saturday. we can go from there. Im hoping to suck several cocks saturday night.

How sweet would it be to receive a greeting card with that printed on the front? I bet this chick is a staff writer for Hallmark. I'm surmising this venture will get about as far as a "Warren Jeffs for President!" movement.

Paul E. Graph





E-MAIL #11

She longs for dong: of this we're sure. She'll have dong: a fact more definite than the certainty Oprah will eat again. This week’s festivities found me on a collision course with a train wreck possessing the bountiful body of a porn queen.

She never fucks anything remotely condom-coated. At this point, she's forbidden fruit — of the ethos women are breeding vessels and sperm depositories.

Talk about the exemplary Tony Robbins cash cow! This wet dream from Hell is currently demanding I impregnate her.

To add to the insanity, she's been "with child" countless times in the past. Of course, we're envisioning more kids than The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family and your average Mormom household combined, correct?

More wrong than pink, plaid shorts and black business socks.

This chick has no children.

"Adoption?" you query.

Guess again.

This psycho senorita is single-handedly keeping abortion clinics in business. This whacked woman plans on havin' me knock her up, and then engaging in feticide.

As much as I wanna give this lass my signature two pumps, first-hand experience with premature ejaculation, and 50¢ for bus fare home, gettin' off ain't worth takin' a life.

So, what are my options? I could pursue the bukkake angle, but that plan of attack will quickly become more transparent than cellophane underwear. She's bound to realize I refuse to fuck in less time than it takes the president to lie.

When did sex stop being about sex?!

"Dominate me!" "Shit on the fine, Corinthian leather of my 1976 Chrysler Cordoba, whilst pissing on this photo of Ricardo Montalban!" "Dry hump this lifelike Kathy Bates cardboard cut-out, while I assemble my Wilford Brimley inflatable sex doll!"

Aren’t there any chicks left on the planet who simply wanna screw?! Does there have to be a furtive agenda behind knockin' boots?

Every woman's got some secret spouse hidden beneath the bed, wielding a scythe, preparing to slice your sweaty sack off! Suffice it to say, I'm fucked more figuratively than literally, on this one.

In other news, Antonio Sabato, Jr. is expecting a son! Who endures four years of journalism school, anticipating the day they’ll be able to write about Ellen and Portia dining on whole cucumbers and sausage links?

"Stupid, inane, vapid, mind rot, stench pabulum,” (Tapeheads, 1988) baby!

Cliff Hangers






E-MAIL #12

What kind of woman stores an arsenal, rivaling the military forces of NATO, beneath her bed?!

2 AM. Desperation. There are only so many Internet porn flicks one can sit through before realizing how they're gonna end. Wreaking of uncut sweat, Astroglide and Jif Chunky, I frantically search sex posts.

Three rapid-fire replies. Two-thirds of the responses are advertisements. The final, however, is a legitimate BBW on dong safari.

Pictures are exchanged in a non-reciprocal way: I'm sending, she's receiving.

Always one to give, I offer my name. I'm met with a house address, and preferred time of arrival.

I comprehend the desire for privacy. This incognito display, however, does warrant caution. The last thing I need is to be humpin' away, while some jealous husband bursts forth from the linen closet, wielding a pickaxe!

I embark on this latest adventure at approximately 2:30.

Three AM finds me on the doorstep of your average suburban dwelling.

By 3:10, both the lovely in question, and I, are naked, while Kojak plays on a TV screen behind us.

At 3:30, from a reckless version of the missionary position, my horny hostess enlightens me she's anything but interested in monogamy.

Around 4 AM, whilst on all fours, she asks if I'd like to be her boy toy, which — according to her — would require complete and total sexual commitment to one another.

By 4:30 — between multiple, feigned orgasms — I'm illuminated as to the lovestruck boyfriend who periodically appears in the window behind where I'm currently thrusting.

At 4:45, I’m apprised of the berserk Green Beret sweetheart stationed in Iraq, oblivious to his girlfriend’s extracurricular sexual activities.

Five AM rolls around, and my temporary partner stops to take a hit off a bedside bowl.

I make note of a Samurai sword beside her pillow.

Observing my gaze, my nude friend displays a second collection of daggers within arm's length of my genitals. That object she begins toying with may have looked like an innocuous garage door opener, but in reality, it was a Taser.

The chick's dog — who'd been scratching at the door for the past two hours — gains entrance to the room, and devours the used condoms I'd thrown on the floor.

I hastily gather my clothes.

The preoccupied woman rids her canine’s throat of prophylactics, whilst charging her stun gun. Backing outta that happy household, I'm certain I'll encounter a stalker suitor along the way to my truck.

In the end, the entire thrill ride would be relegated to a mere entry in what Celebrity Sex Doll magazine is referring to as, "Literary retardation!”

Paige Turner





E-MAIL #13

What follows is an abbreviated list of the pitfalls awaiting the single male swinger.

Note the photo below (My original E-mail featured a picture of an inordinately hairy, out of shape man).

This incomparable gem — courtesy of one Ted Weiss — illustrates why guys must be selective when sending above-the-waist, nude pics of themselves to women.

Ted pulled a classic "dangle and yank" on me a few years back. I know. Sounds like somethin’ crawlin' out of Neil Patrick Harris' fantasies, but in actuality, what Ted dangled was his girlfriend. He then yanked her away before she and I could hook up.

Certain people find it necessary to engage in this activity. If it augments their deficient self-esteem, more power to 'em, but due to persistence, I'm gonna get laid no matter what. Sending videos of you humping your woman, promising to hook me up with her, and then not delivering, is about as effective as attaching a Band-Aid to the chest of a coronary victim.

I met Ted at Bob's House of Ass, when a gorgeous secretary — we'll call Crystal — decided she was hungry for beans and franks during her lunch break. As it happened, I ended up first in line behind her naked, strategically positioned buttocks.

Glancing back, I took note of the dudes awaiting their turn. Ted was second in this pecking order from Hell. Being his swing club debut, I graciously stepped aside, bequeathing him a chance at fame and glory.

Upon Crystal's departure, I supplied Ted with the Web address of a local group that would facilitate his noble quest for breast. For some strange reason, he was about as thankful as James Brady is to John Hinkley. You go out of your way to get 'em laid, and they attempt to make you jealous.

In any event, Ted recently posted the original photo in question on the aforementioned online group.

Lesson Number 53 for all you male swingers: unless you're built like a solid Titanium steel cube, don't be uploading nude pics of yourself in a pose imitating a Playboy centerfold.

Moving on to our second pitfall.

A vegetarian living in Nebraska finds corn in their stool fewer times than I've discovered the following in my E-mail inbox:

hi thanks for replying to my ad.

my name is tom and basically i am doing this for my wife of 15 years.

i was recently injured in an accident, and can no longer 'be' with my wife the way we used to. i am in desperate need to do anything to help her out and her happiness is of the utmost importance to me. we are in an open relationship now and she is looking for someone to come over and have 'fun' with weekly. i won't be there when you come over so no worries.

we have enrolled to an online profile so my wife can chat with you online and on the phone prior to meeting with you to make sure the terms are ok. this is for everyone’s safety.

please do the same and email me back with your ID so i can forward it to my wife so she can talk to you. i appreciate you helping her out and i think it will improve the marriage for both of us.

looking forward to hearing from you soon.

This Tom character is a fuckin' blast, isn't he? What a fun motherfucker! Talk about the perfect phone operator for a suicide hotline. In his defense, he does E-mail me more than anybody I know, but never seems to have anything new to say.

What type of "accident" do you speculate resulted in Tom's predicament? "I was practicing juggling for the first time. For some reason, I was nude, drenched in motor oil, and holding 17 razor-sharp knives, in a darkened room.”

If this Tom’s so desperate to do anything for his wife, why not sign a $1,000,000 life insurance policy over to her, cover himself in raw meat, and leap headlong into the lion exhibit at the zoo?

At this point, the chances of him igniting the fires of passion within his woman are as promising as the citizens of Utah and Washington erecting a Ted Bundy memorial statue!

An "open relationship?" C'mon, Tom! Sounds like you couldn't satisfy a hummingbird with what you're packin'. Due to your lack of sexual prowess, your wife no longer wants you. Is that really the type of information one volunteers, in order to attract other women?

As far as Tom not attending the extra-connubial escapades of his wife, that's like claimin' people travel to Kansas for its local seafood!

Don't get me wrong. I feel empathy for Tom. Who wouldn't? He seems about as genuine as a $30 Rolex. Again, though, neither him, nor Ted, can stop a desperate, horny bastard!

Hugh Moore





E-MAIL #14

When you're the height of the average Ewok, and gettin' laid more than Home Depot linoleum, you don't ask questions.

Kinkier than an aged garden hose, she was primed for dong like a virgin on her wedding night. Unfortunately, my trustworthy, metallic mare gravitated towards a pothole I'd passed, sans incident, thousands of time prior.

The online classified claimed a wanton woman awaited me at a glory hole an hour from my house. I'd seen this ad before, but had yet to respond within enough time to reap its benefits.

On this occasion, however, I declared I’d be more victorious than Hannibal and his elephant army in northern Italy. Unfortunately, two miles into my onslaught, the pothole in question clipped my right, front tire.

My truck careened out of control like the late Haim on a coke binger. I came to rest in an adjacent field, possessing a tire more shredded than a steroid-addicted bodybuilder.

My mind raced. I was a mere two miles from the homestead. If I could sprint the distance — most of which was uphill — I might still make my rendezvous with the shapely trailer trash seeking sausage.

A two mile sprint? No problem. I biked 20 miles a day.

Let me begin by stating that normal humans aren't meant to run uphill, at full speed, two miles consecutively. This fact became all too apparent 30 seconds into my shitty fuckin' race for sex!

Was I seriously this desperate?! Of course I was. My life had revolved around bare tit, since the first one I saw in National Geographic. Now, some 25 years later, here I was, risking a massive coronary to obtain a simple blowjob. Anybody who asserts women are the weaker sex are as delusional as people who believe Oprah's constantly-revolving hairstyles are natural.

Suffice it to say, I didn't make my appointment with oral gratification. In fact, I quickly discovered my AAA membership of 10 years had expired the month prior. I also came to realize how little said corporation truly cares about those who pay them tens of thousands of dollars over the course of a decade. One missed installment, and the feigned compassion ends.

The monetary system, baby! It's as useful as an appendix.

Obviously, I received less sex from this endeavor than the head of the chess club does via the prom queen.

Moving on, we find ourselves wandering the lobby of a local porn store. Why am I here for the sixth time? Because I naively believe the claims of a Bob's House of Ass compatriot who asserts this shithole is teeming with horny women.

More credulous than those who followed the Heaven's Gate cult, I take note of the Ebony Princess working the counter. Since I'm on premises to rent a movie, and view it upstairs, where it's possible I'll receive sex, I choose a classic to peruse in my personal viewing booth. Fuck Me, White Boy! appears appropriate.

Of course, the clerk is less enthralled by my selection than Don King is of a pot-bellied, white, one-armed boxer.

Upstairs, things are more dead than a guy in a motor-less rowboat, ringed with meat, in shark-infested waters.

Should this location be devoid of women, yet again, I pledge it will be my last undertaking at this particular venue.

I fire up my cinematic selection.

Folks trickle in. Unfortunately, all in attendance are male.

Without warning, a female ventures upstairs, followed by what appears to be her husband.

Grabbing my bag of stale Fritos, I pursue the duo to the deluxe rooms.

The couple lock the door behind them, clearly not seeking company. Knowing this could change at any moment, I place my ear against the closed entrance, and eavesdrop.

These two are watching the feared porn with a plot. Seventies stuff, from what I can determine. Not good. When folks are earnestly desirous of humping, they can't be bothered by story line. Next comes the couple’s conversation, which goes something like this:

"Do you really think Trish and Dale will sell their house?"

“The market's soft. They'll be lucky if they get half what they put into that place."

“Jesus, I can’t stand watching 'em struggle like this. Isn't there anything we can do?"

“You’re kidding, right? Steve Hendricks is on the fuckin’ warpath at work — help me with this, will, ya’? They make these goddamned packages so difficult to get into — I may have to take a pay cut, as it is."

“Oh, Tim, you’re not serious?"

My ear begins to bleed profusely, as I dry heave uncontrollably. "How did I wander into the least sexual porn shop on Earth?!"

Despondent, I turn, only to find myself face-to-kneecap with the most gigantic transvestite in the history of cross dressing! She spans the dimly-lit hallway, making travel back to my viewing dispensary — which now seems a safe house — impossible.

Eventually, I reach my booth, and decide it’s best I throw in the proverbial towel. Before departure, I observe the girl from the aforementioned couple headed for the bathroom. Redemption! Galvanized with a goal, I pull "it" out for fresh air, and pump my most prized possession with plenary passion.

Moments later, the woman emerges, glaring at me in disgust, on her way back to a dude who’s certain the annual percentage rate is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Admitting defeat, I eat the remainder of my Fritos, come to the end of interracial, cinematic heaven, and make for the door. Once again, my pathway is blocked by a transsexual similar in size to a Ford F-350.

As it turns out, said cross dresser is a regular at this locale, and a wealth of knowledge. She confirms this venue is as easy for a straight guy to get laid in as a gay bathhouse. I stand out in this place like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar at a KKK rally. As a result, I bid my tranny acquaintance a good night, and make a beeline for the nearest establishment that offers alcoholic alleviation.

Just one of a million tales in the Big City, and nothin' I'll recollect five years from now. Still, the experience made me long for the friendly confines of Bob's House of Ass, where the libertine ladies come minus a Y-chromosome.

Sue Nommi





E-MAIL #15

She was blonde, plump and ready to hump.

I was the equivalent of the 1976 Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Coming off an impressive 0-14 stretch at porn stores, I finally collided with an honest Internet couple. The ad read like a Disney script:

Meet us at Sex Center. Bring plenty of condoms and be ready to fuck!

Obfuscated by esoteric highway construction and a blinding snowstorm, I arrived 15 minutes late. Entering the jack shack, I followed the sounds of sex.

Sure as Telly Savalas never owned a hair tie, I turned the corner and ran straight into a naked, moaning senorita, spread eagle on a futon. Hastily, I disrobed, fearing some unwarranted intervention.

As soon as I became properly fitted for my birthday suit, the clerk reared his modest cranium, demanding extra cash.

This disturbance — more pointless than eating breath mints before talking on the phone — frightened the nude chick, who began getting dressed. Fistfuls of $10 bills were thrown at the cashier, and play resumed.

I was the only one desirous of suiting up, and heading into battle. Numerous guys watched, but this team of tumescent theatergoers opted to merely hump their fists, instead. Later, one of the onlookers asserted he and the other guys had more interest in me than the damsel I was with.

Feeling eyed like the last steak on the menu, I dressed, thanked my ad hoc female companion, and headed out into the night.

Sal Manila





E-MAIL #16

"Hi. My name's Hugh. And you are?" Extending my second most active appendage, I anticipated a response.

“Leaving,” the shriveled prune grabbed his wife, evacuating the hot tub more hurriedly than a Taco Bell meal does the bowels of a laxative addict.

I knew this particular evening would be busy at Bob's. I'd prepared by watching a 72 hour Sex In the City marathon. As such, I'd engaged in three days of continuous vomiting, and showed up completely purged of toxins.

Ten couples. I initiated conversation, but was shut down faster than a pacifist at an NRA rally.

The first duo was pleasant, as she dispensed a round of well-needed blowjobs. More inappropriate than a McDonald's serving free food at a Weight Watchers convention, her man abruptly extricated her from the action after 15 minutes.

When the next eight couples refused to play, things spiraled out of control faster than a coked-up Ellen DeGeneres in a topless titty bar. It was lookin' grim. Countless despondent dongs had already headed for the hills.

Moments prior to closing, a new duo arrived on scene. Purportedly, this was their inaugural trip to Bob's. You wouldn't know it by her actions. Those of us patient enough to remain in attendance found ourselves treated to oral gratification, as this little lady took us all on, and won!

Afterwards, I thanked the woman in question profusely. Upon departure, I raised my arms in triumph, realizing I'd just pulled off that elusive "two out, two strikes, bottom of the ninth home run blast!"

More proud than Rosie O'Donnell at an all-you-can-eat buffet, starin' down at a cleaned plate, I hit the nearest waterin' hole to reflect upon another beautiful experience.

Mort Ishen





E-MAIL #17

Pics were exchanged. She was black — a favorite of mine — and looking for dong. Last I checked, I had one and a half, according to the Caucasoid average. Her photographs exhibited her, sans clothing, on all fours.

She bestowed her legitimate phone number. I called. We chatted. She bequeathed her address. I was to enter, strip and service her.

I showed, only to discover a gated community, to which I had no access. Phoning again, I received consecutive voice mails.

It was all over except for the cryin' — which commenced on the way home.

Ebony Princesses are one of my weaknesses. I'm definitely no Superman, but black women are my kryptonite. This was painful.

Had this lass been white, I would've driven away, unfazed. Horny as fuck, but unfazed. Sure as David Hasselhoff is drunk while you read this, I'm still lickin' my wounds.

Even though I'm acquiring magnificent bedtime stories to tell the grandkids, this one is more difficult to swallow than a gallon of sawdust.

Must depart, and continue construction on my homemade pocket pussy. It's amazing what one can create using creamed corn, rubber cement and hair gel.

Belle Pepper





E-MAIL #18

A 36 pack of condoms; a bottle of lube; half a tank of gas. Let the fuckin' games begin!

The couple demand we meet 30 miles away, at 4:00 AM.

Upon arrival, attack dogs snarl at me from behind far too low a fence.

The person answering the front door doesn't look well. He informs me his wife awaits in the back bedroom. I watch as this dude — who epitomizes the term “pear-shaped” — labors for at least 60 seconds to traverse the two steps leading into the rest of the house.

My initial thought is to run, though the idea of a wanton woman awaiting somewhere in this Nightmare on Elm Street home is intriguing.

Upon entering the back bedroom, I discover said senorita tucked beneath the covers, in almost complete darkness. Since it's colder outside than a snowwoman’s asshole, I excuse myself to the bathroom, and run straight into a motion-activated assistance toilet. As I step toward the device, the lid opens automatically.

I find myself wanting to offer a financial stipend, in order to cover the husband's obvious medical expenses. Fortunately, by that time, I'm no longer clothed, and heading toward this guy's wife, recalling I barely possess enough money with which to make this night of upsetting passion occur.

Acclimating to the dungeonesque surroundings, I discern this completely nude female is actually hot! We start goin' at it. All is lookin' more promising than a blind guy winning the Indy 500, until I flip this little lady over, and begin suiting up my festive friend.

Since the chick has her ass to me, she can't see what I'm doing. The dude, however — who’s observing from the corner — vociferates, "We don't use condoms."

I turn, nonplussed. "Well, I, uh—“

"In fact, we hate rubbers!" By this point, the guy is attempting to stand, and his wife has turned away, apparently in disgust.

"Rubbers turn us off!" the behemoth bellows.

I'm dressed in less time than it takes Charlie Sheen to pick up hookers. In mere seconds, I'm out the door, and runnin' for my truck.

Behind me, the attack dogs howl.

Certain the Hell Hounds will be released, I lunge for my vehicle, fire up the ignition, and punch the accelerator. Hobbling home, I give praise to Hal Holbrook — the Patron Saint of Sex — for saving me from the evening's nightmarish trek into the bowels of Hades.

Al Bino





E-MAIL #19

May sluts seek us out with as much intensity as David Hasselhoff does bad career moves, cheap booze, and discount facelifts.

As prompted by the online classified, I asked her name.

"I'm the whore of my Master," she replied.

It was all I could do to refrain from laughing. And then, the quintessential Asian guy made his appearance.

"Hey, everybody! I'm Steve! I’m not certain I have the correct hotel — Oh, damn!” Extending a hand toward the woman in question, ol' Esteban did everything the classified stipulated not to. “Are you the whore from the online ad?”

It was my inaugural slut training session, and I couldn't have been more thrilled!

Four of us showed; a moderate turn out. She sat in the motel lobby. We approached, and started groping her. Drunks at the bar pressed their faces against the glass, not certain if what they were witnessing was attributable to alcohol.

Once we reached the room, she was stripped naked, and collared. One suitor had a change of heart, and fled. The remainder of us donned our game faces, and did what slut trainers do, I suppose.

Her Master drove her face-first into the bed.

I flipped her over, and attempted kissing her. She pulled away faster than a kid bein' force-fed liver.

"Fuck her ass!" the bossy beau yelled at me.

Breaking character, the chick turned, retorting, "No fucking way!"

Holding her down, El Maestro demanded she shut up.

I was beyond hesitant.

Sergeant Hulka encouraged me to continue.

I tried, but it was like driving a Lincoln Town Car into a thimble.

She screamed.

I stopped. "Sorry, man, but this isn't gonna fit,” I proclaimed in an apparent violation of protocol. As a result, I wisely chose Door #2, and spent the evening giving my hips a serious workout, while the Master barked orders.

I have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to BDSM. I don't even know what the hell the acronym means. Still, I had a great time! I'm guessin' I fucked up somewhere — which is par for most courses I play — as I haven’t heard from the couple since.

Patty O. Furniture





E-MAIL #20

This E-mail has somehow found you from an undisclosed location in the desert.

Got an 18 pack of warm Tecate, and a handful of rubbers in the motel room. Scoped out a pair of swing clubs in the area. The first resides adjacent a Korean Karaoke BBQ and a Latino Christian church. The second sits contiguous a stripper training camp.

I'm torn. Which locale should I grace with my haven't-showered-in-a-week presence?

The last six women I've hooked up with had a full mouth of teeth between 'em. I'm fairly certain, as of late, I've been sleeping with an all-female hockey team.

Rick, with a silent "P"





E-MAIL #21

Monday night. I obviously chose the correct venue, as there were at least a dozen couples in attendance. Akin to a hypnagogic Disneyland of porn, the establishment boasted perhaps 30 rooms!

Had a security guard — yearning to be a police officer — pull a, “Hell no! Back away from the couch, motherfucker!" on me, as he reached for a nonexistent gun attached to his 65 inch belt.

I observed a suit-clad customer — apparently buddies with Paul Blart: Mall Cop — ridiculing my ponytail, whilst he, himself, was continuously rebuffed by women. That'll teach ya' to hide your undeveloped pee pee beneath your overpriced Armani slacks.

Met a couple from Idaho, aroused to be in a city with more than a four digit population.

I made the acquaintance of a female I deduced was a stripper, after witnessing her perform naked splits atop my groin. More creepy than Michael Jackson's sex life, her husband told jokes nobody could understand, and wouldn't stop pretending he was an undercover federal agent.

Why would such an exquisite erotic dancer marry somebody so mentally unstable? Perhaps she saw herself in him.

Three additional strippers, all blazing hot, arrived with a guy older than written language.

The black husband giving his white wife away is always a welcomed twist on the interracial theme. When it occurs, I never question. I'm the red-headed, pint-sized antithesis of Jared Leto, so I take what will have me.

Although these protracted E-mails are longer than Oprah's Favorite Food List, I'm hopeful they provide heartwarming entertainment for the entire family, this holiday season.

Let’s face it. When it comes to the particulars of swinging, most people are so far off base, a blind umpire would know when they’re out.

I don’t have a monopoly on all the answers. I realize that statement — especially so far into this blog — is about as comforting as a bed of acid, broken glass and nails. If you’ve taken anything from the words herein, I hope you’ll understand wife swappin’, as with life, is to be enjoyed. Delight in it, and you’ll have no option but to smile.

Believe it or not, the ultimate aphrodisiac is a positive attitude. After all, folks always want what they, themselves, don’t possess.

Hugh Mungus





BIBLIOGRAPHY

"You might not [...]"

Gregg, C. (Director), Gregg, C., & Palahniuk, C. (Writers). (2008). Choke [Motion Picture]. United States: Fox Searchlight Pictures.

“What Would Jesus Not Do?”

Gregg, C. (Director), Gregg, C., & Palahniuk, C. (Writers). (2008). Choke [Motion Picture]. United States: Fox Searchlight Pictures.

“What the Fuck is This, Rudy?"

Zemeckis, R. (Director), Zemeckis, R., & Gale, B. (Writers). (1980). Used Cars [Motion Picture]. United States: Columbia Pictures.

Strauss, Neil. (2005). The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. ReganBooks. ISBN: 0060554738

Mike Damone: Pure Inspiration

Heckerling, A (Director), & Crowe, C. (Writer). (1982). Fast Times at Ridgemont High [Motion Picture]. United States: Universal Pictures.

E-MAIL #11

Fishman, B. (Director), Fishman, B., Herzfeld, J., McCarthy, P., & Rowe, R. (Writers). (1988). Tapeheads [Motion Picture]. United States: De Laurentiis Entertainment Group.






ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The hinges exploded off the door, as the old man launched from the rear of the decrepit house.

I hadn't been laid in a week. This arthritic bastard, wielding his cane like a broadsword, wasn't gonna make my quest for copulation any easier.

"Get the hell off my property, you son of a bitch!" the decaying geezer shrieked.

Gazing between my legs, I was still in shock over the fact Tracy was swallowing the entire thing. It had only happened once in the past, and I'd been certain I would never find another woman with such a resume-worthy skill again. Now, with the irate geriatric racing toward us, it looked like I wouldn't get to enjoy this aberrant occurrence.

Gathering the piece of yarn that doubled as her bikini, Tracy scrambled across the Sun-drenched backyard, in a frenzied attempt to reach the last Ford Pinto on the road. With my clothes trapped inside the house, I grabbed a tarp on the way, wrapped it around my waist, and made for my truck.

"You're a dead man, you bastard!" the senior citizen screamed, in lukewarm pursuit.

It wasn't my fault Tracy had denied him. Apparently, though, if he wasn't gonna get any, nobody was.

Shocked by the abrupt ending to an extremely interesting day of backyard, nude sunbathing, Tracy and I were unable to coordinate our retreat. As a result, I became lost in a rat maze of suburban dead ends, and couldn't find my way back to her loving mouth.

It was to be the first, and last time I would see her. It wasn't, however, the only instance in which I'd encounter nefarious forces conspiring to keep me from obtaining sex.

Drier than a 100 year old hooker's crotch in the Atacama Desert, that's Hugh's life. The more he assists others in finding fornication, the more they attempt to keep him from it.

Since Mungus has accumulated more stories than a thousand Sears Towers, there may a third volume of There's No "E" in Horny.

Hugh Mungus, baby! Less effective than bunk Viagra, he's keepin' the common man from becoming extinct!





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This one goes out to all you lovely online lasses. If you're a woman, horney, enjoy comming and dinning at the Y, we were made for eachother!