Too Hot to Be True?

Okay, let's get one thing nice and sparkling clear (as that inestimable Droog Alex from A Clockwork Orange would say): I'm a pervert.

That might come as a bit of a shock to some of you, but, there it is.

What's more, I'm a porn-a-holic. I'm an inveterate fantasizer, and a confirmed Harry Palmist who likes to wank his undersized pud to a plethora, nay, a cornucopia of fair erotic delights.

Of course, first and foremost, I love girls gobbling ginch; but, that's not to say I don't occasionally like to watch massive hung studs and great, hairy slabs of sweet, hot man-lovin' BEEFCAKE do it to the bitches, as well.

Ass-eating. Crack-snacking. Prolapse-licking. Lesbian orgies--shit man, it's ALL good.

Give me ginches: black, white, Asian, Latina, skinny, fat, old, young (legal!). Give 'em to me kinky, amateur; fucking cum-drunk whores straight from the gutter; nice girls next door. Give me fetish mistresses and eunuch slaves. Give me comely MILFS and virgin derrieres. (You get the idea.)

Just so long as they can fit their pink, snaky tongues into a tight snatch, I'm game. Let's go! As W.S. Burroughs once said, "We are here to go!"

I reckon I've seen millions of foul, yet incredibly arousing sex acts performed in my life. Each of them has seared my unconscious until I am a veritable walking jerk-machine. Didn't the Buzzcocks (cocks?) once have a song called "Orgasm Addict"?

Yeah, pretty much sums up moi.

I'm also a fan of those urban legend water cooler horror and comedy tales traded around now via the World Wide Internet. (Which most people, by the way, just call the "internet." Go figure.)

I've written quite extensively on the subject of SCARY urban legends, the forerunners of today's "Creepypasta" postings on various teen message forums. Back in MY day (when Traci Lords was still technically too young to frolic and fuck on film), such stories were usually passed on word-of-mouth, at the water cooler at work, fer instance; alternately, they were xeroxed and pinned up on office bulletin boards as the "God's Honest Truth" of some imminent, lurking danger that had to be watched out for. Cautionary tales, in other words.

But, that horror shit can get to be a drag, holmes. So here are five triple-x rated tales of love and lust gone, disastrously WRONG. Because there's a pecker and a pervert waiting behind ever BUSH.

So, dress warm.

Here we go:

1. The Accidental Porn Stars

Dig. Ronnie and Johnny are on their honeymoon. Motherfuckers are rangier than a pair of horny polecats in heat. Ronnie has massive Double D knockers with really dark, coffee-colored nipples. Johnnie has a twelve-incher stuffed inside his cargo shorts.

Both of them have GREAT asses, to quote the redoubtable Patrick Bateman.

So they are on their honeymoon, and drinking and eating and partying and balling like mad, every goddamn night. ("At this rate," says Johnnie to himself, "I'll be a daddy in no time. Or, I'll have a heart attack from all the, ah, overexertion.")

The room they book into is, quite naturally, the "honeymoon suite." The "hump house." The "rumpus room."

As if in answer to some dim, erotically-charged psychic call, Ronnie, already dressed in her red devil costume, gets on to her hands and knees; on the bed, of course, which is shaped like a heart, and covered with satin sheets. The pillows, by the way, are pink and heart-shaped, too.

Johnny gets a dollop of lube on one horny, hairy finger, and tells Ronnie it's going up her shit hole. But, the finger, as they say, is the appetizer. Filet of BEEFCAKE cock-n-balls is the main course.

First though, Johnny stops and goes over to the other side of the room. Now, the honeymoon suite at this particular cheap, sleaze-bag hotel is pretty tricked-out: condoms and lube on the nightstand, cheap bottle of hooch and a bucket of ice, and the bed has a place to deposit quarters, so it will shimmy, shammy, and shake, while the love you make.

There's a huge, if rather archaic TUBE television and VCR combo thingie in the corner. Johnnie says, "Hey, let's turn on some of these porno flicks. Get us in the mood!" Which is ridiculous for him to say, because he's hard and stiff as a board, and she's dripping the sweet, hot nectar of feminine desire between her milk-white mama thighs.

So they turn on the XXX, and Johnnie gets into bed. Then, with a holler and a shout, and a "holy Miss Moley!" he grabs that bitch by the ankles and FUCKS HER FROM HELL TO BREAKFAST!

He plows and pumps and pounds pussy until Ronnie, a shrieking, soaking, salivating siren of salacious sauciness, sprays the sheets, grabbing Johnnie's muscular and firm white ass with two handfuls of razor-sharp press-on fingernails, each coated in red polish.

Verily, quoth the wench: "That was the best damn dick that ever deepsixed my derriere! Whoah, Nellie! Let's go again! Straight through till the crack of dawn!"

But Johnnie, breathless and lost in the throes of orgasmic stupefaction, has to save up his tadpoles for a little while.

The following year, these horny futhermuckers are at it AGAIN. Another holiday anniversary trip. Same hotel. Same setup. More balling, no stalling.

Johnnie goes over to the same big, battered, ancient tube TV, and says, "Lets turn on the porno. get us in the mood." Which is mad, because they were both already so ready they might as well have been guzzling Spanish Fly while Johnny chased down handfuls of Viagra.

Johnnie approaches the bed with the rabid but silent but undeniably deadly stealth of the jungle predator. ( I borrow an image from Rimbaud, who was probably terrified of pussy, but who had NO problem plowing Verlaine's asshole. Or maybe Verlaine plowed his asshole. How the fuck should I know?)

At any rate, just then, they notice the dialog of the video.

""That was the best damn dick that ever deepsixed mon derriere! Whoa, Nellie! Let's go again! Straight through till the crack of dawn!"

The unique phraseology strikes a memorable chord. Ronnie and Johnny get up from the bed, creeping over to the television. And what should they see revealed as the video cassette porn program they're watching?

A woman in a red devil costume, with a hunka, hunka burning man on top, fucking her every which way to Sunday.

On a heart-shaped bed.

With heart-shaped pillows.

Their hotel suite.

On the screen, it's Ronnie and Johnny.

2.The Wrong Partner

Blaine and Jane are invited to a costume ball. Jane is certain Blaine is flirting with other women when she's not around. (At the office, social functions she skips; or maybe even after church. Who knows?).

So she can ferret out his knavery, she says to him, she says, "Oh, Blaine I have a headache tonight! Whyncha go to the costume party without me, big boy! Okay?"

Blaine starts to get a little huffy. After all, they've been invited by close friends, already have their costumes.

Jane's, by the way, Blaine hasn't seen yet.

He says, "Well, are you sure honey? I mean, not like they have these every month. (It's right around Halloween time, by the way.)

"Oh, I know. I'll tell you what. You go ahead and go, and have yourself a good time. Socialize. Talk to people. Mingle. Shmooze. Drink some booze. I think I'm just going to stay inside. Catch up on my reading."

Blaine, uncertain what she's got up her devious sleeve, nervously says, "Ah, okay! Whatever you say, dearest dear of my very dear heart!"

And Blaine dons his Red Devil costume, still having no idea what Jane has been planning to go as. And, after a few goodbyes, departs to the party

"Hm," Jane says to herself. "Now, I'll find out just how faithful he really is!"

And Jane slips into her "I Dream of Jeannie" harem girl costume, and follows him out, stealthily, oh so stealthily, to the masquerade ball.

She goes inside. The air is thick with smoke, and drunk people are falling all over each other, trying to get laid. There's a whole lotta booze, a helluva lot of hooch, a surplus of spirits--you get the drift. Everyone is costumed good, and Jane is wearing a mask along with her sexy, sexy harem girl getup. Finally, across the crowded room, she spots a man in a red devil mask and costume.

Blaine, she thinks and she saunters over sexily.

"Hey baby," she says, "I couldn't help but notice you standing over here. My, you seem to be a real horny little devil. Are you a horny little devil? Huh?"

Jane draws the word out saucily, wanton wench that she is. The said "horny little devil" says, "Oh yeah, baby, I'm always ready to go."

And Jane says, "Alright then...Come. Or, I'll make you come. But, you'll come anyway, and be begging me for more."

And the putative Horny Little Devil, knowing, all of a sudden, which side his bread is buttered on, follows the masquerading harem girl into a dark hallway, where they begin getting it on, hot and heavy.

"Oh, you big strong masculine stud you! You horny little devil!"

"Hey babe, who you calling little?"

And the Prince of Dickness plops out a massive, primed tool. Jane the Harem Whore suddenly can't help herself. Getting down on hands and knees, salivating for that superb shlong, she instantly deep throats the kielbasa in question, gobbling crank until she brings her infernal and masked lover to the white-hot point of a ball bursting orgasm.

"Oh God, sweet mama! I'm gonna cum!"

And, sure enough.

His breath ragged, his heart pounding, his gait staggering, the now chastened Evil One whispers, meekly, "Thank you!"

To which Jane replies, man juice still dribbling from her chin, "Don't mention it!"

Cut to the chase:

Jane hurries home, strips off her clothes, crawls into bed, and is ready to pounce on her cheating hubby, who she assumes deigned to get head from a fabulous woman dressed as a harem girl. Which, of course, he didn't know was little old her.

She is so fucking horny she can't keep her fingers out of her snatch--the whole thing has burst forth the erotic floodgates in her warped, wheedling brain. She wonders, busily pleasuring her va-jay-jay, if the marriage will end up in divorce court. Or, maybe one of those judge shows, or sleazy talk shows on cable TV.

She hears the toilet flush. Blaine comes in, frumpy and rumpled. She eyes him warily at first, then, pouncing on him like a cougar in heat, fucks his ever loving brains out.

Blaine lays in bed, looking as if he just got run over by the Nookie Express, feeling like he just mainlined a shot of pure China White.

"THAT...WAS...INCREDIBLE..." he says, barely able to form a coherent sentence. Jane, filing her nails, says, "Well, save up for a little bit, Big Boy, and you can have some more."

And then she adds, a little coyly, "By the way, how was the party?"

To which Blaine replies, "Oh, it was okay, I guess. I was feeling kind of lonely, so I left early. But, the guy I loaned my Red Devil costume to, he told me on the phone a few minutes before I came in here, that, well, HE HAD ONE HELLUVA NIGHT."

3. Naked Birthday Party

No, the title of this story is actually NOT from a lost collaboration between Nick Cave and William S. Burroughs. It's instead a classic of the water cooler, a tragi-comic cautionary tale about jumping (and humping) to conclusions.

It goes:

A businessman, a real, respectable, middle class-type guy, is having a mid-life crisis. What's worse, he gets up on the morning of his forty-second birthday, only to realize his wife HASN'T EVEN REMEMBERED.

Oh, she bustles around the kitchen in curlers, much as usual, pouring coffee, laying out plates of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. But, his birthday? She says nothing, I mean NOTHING about it.

Deflated, Harvey Marvin Muckle chomps his toast, and devours his eggs and nibbles his bacon, and, inside, is crying from lack of...attention? Is that the word we need here?

He kisses the wife goodbye.

"Goodbye, Harv!" she says. "Hope you have a good day!"

Harv wishes Gertrude the same, goes out, gets into the comfortable if forlorn driver's seat of his comfortable yet curiously depressing, yet perfectly sensible car, and drives to work.

At the office, all day, he can barely contain his sense of existential despair. The only thing keeping him from jumping out the window to his death is the occasional glance at his new secretary's ass, which is a tight and utterly delectable duo of biscuits wrapped in a black miniskirt, with long legs appended. And those legs! Mein gott!

Harvey finds himself more and more excited by the close proximity of his new secretary, Miss Pucci. Lucy Pucci, to be precise.

Not even Viagra had excited him this much in recent years. No wonder he hired this bitch. It was something subconscious. Yeah. That was it.

In she came, and out she went; perfect ass, perfect legs, perfect tits. Twenty years younger. A real, true-life hard body in captivity. Carrying folders and files. Her voice was a high-pitched, cunty thing that kind of set his teeth on edge (it was far, far different from Gertrude's gurgling inflection) but, hell, with a can like that, she could sound like a porpoise and no one would give a shit.

At around noontime, just when Harvey thinks he can't take anymore, Lucy Pucci comes in, says, "Oh, by the way, I remembered that it was your birthday today! Guess what? I'm going to take you out to lunch as a present!"

Stunned beyond speechlessness (and sporting a boner so hard it has shocked even himself back into a new awareness of his sublimated libido), he says, "Oh my GOD! You're the only one that remembered! I, I don't know what to say!"

"Just say YES!" shouts Lucy Pucci. And just the way she says it makes Marv/Harv's boner a little more mean.

***

They lock up the office, drive to some chi-chi restaurant, and Harv says, "My Lucy, you don't have to do this you know. Why, this place must cost a fortune!"

Lucy says, "Oh, it's only this one time! And besides, NOTHING'S too good for the greatest boss in the world!"

They order sandwiches and beer, and Lucy keeps up a steady chatter, stories that have Harv's mouth watering way more than anything in front of him on his plate.

"And when I was in college, I guess I was kind of loose, you know. There was a rumor going around that I did the entire football team, basketball team, and cheer leading squad--at once! Almost ruined my life! I mean, people actually believed it! I mean, c'mon: all them sweaty, hairy, muscular men, all coming at me at once? Damn, that's a lot of wear and tear on a girl! Know what I mean?"

Harv has his spoon raised halfway to his mouth. Melting ice cream is dripping from the end, back onto his plate. His eyes are wide as saucers

"And so I had all these guys lining up, just cause they thought they were gonna get a piece of ass. Oh man, I guess I shouldn't be telling tales out of school as they say, but I'm sure you can relate. Anyway, one of them was this guy that made underground porno flicks..."

And on and on. Harv has to excuse himself to go to the men's room and check his shorts. The men's room toilet stalls are too unsanitary to wank in. Luckily for Harv, he had already come in his pants sitting at the table.

(And it was damn hard not to let that show too obviously. But, like all of God's finer primates, Harv had managed.)

After desert, Lucy yawns, lights up a long, skinny cigarette, and says, "Say, why don't we just close up shop for today, huh? You can come back to my place. And we can have a little drinky-poo."

Harv thinks he has died and, potentially, gone to Pussy Heaven. His heart flip-flops around in his chest like a fish, and he worries that he might have to reach for his nitro. He stammers out, "S-sure thing, Lucy! Anything you say. After all, it's my b-birthday!"

Salivating, his tongue hanging out, his eyes popping out of his skull, sweat dribbling down from his chin, his chest heaving (are we laying it on a bit thick?), he follows Lucy out to her car, gets in, can barely keep his eyes off of her, has a smile screwed onto his face--a weird, maniacal, "My God I must be dreaming" smile--the whole way there. Her small talk slows down, but what there is of it all seems to revolve around her past inability to keep her knees in close proximity to one another.

"And well, where was I? Oh yeah, then there was Roger, and it was all just sex, sex, sex, all day. Man never could get enough, even when he started screwing other women on the side."

Finally, she pulls up to a pleasant, if somewhat seedy home, in a slightly run-down neighborhood, where the porches sag and there are toys in the overgrown yards and rusted swing sets abandoned in the back, and a car or two up on blocks.

Lucy turns off the ignition, and says, "Well, here we are. Not a mansion, but, good enough for my tastes! Know what I mean?"

"Sure." agrees Harv. He is sweating. All thoughts of marriage vows and fidelity have seemingly been wiped clean from his memory bank. Gertrude seems like a dim, distant memory of something in a gray bathrobe, with curlers, facial cream, sagging tits, and a beer belly.

They go up the walk, onto the porch, enter. Lucy makes Harv a drink. He slides back on the couch.

"Here, my own specialty. A 'Tea-Martooni," I call it. as in 'Ossifer! I ain't drunk. I only had tea-martoonis!'"

Lucy bursts out laughing.

"See," she says, "It's actually 'two-martinis,' but the dude is drunk, so he confuses the letters! Hah, ain't that some shit? Funny joke. I us to be a bartender, I betcha didn't realize. Worked at this strip club! Oh well, yes, I have to admit: I did some dancing on the side..."

She suddenly gets up, stretches, says, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm just gonna go and slip into....something more comfortable."

So she goes out, and right away, Harv can see her walk through the kitchen. And he can see her shadow on the wall, and he notes that she kicks off first one shoe, and then the other, and then slides out of her little sexy jacket, and oh my! Is she starting to remove her top?

Harv is now rangier than a sex-fiend in a Sunday school. He gets up off the couch, his Little Harvey as rigid as a titanium tent pole, and he does something he can't really account for.

He begins to take off his suit. First he ditches the jacket. Then the tie. Then the shirt. Then the pants. Lastly, the boxers come off, cast into a corner. Harv is now Tiger Man, the Pussy Pounder; fat, yes, bald, yes, but, still, suddenly metamorphosed into a veritable range-rover of randiness and unmitigated, vile, debased LUST.

"Oh, Harvey-poo!" her high, cunt-like, and undeniably erotic wind chime of a come-hither voice intones from the darkness beyond. "Could you COME in here, and give me a HAND? Please..."

Harv he say: "Comin' Luce! Oh, I'M COMIN'!"

And Harv, so stiff in a certain part of his anatomy he can barely walk, sort of crab-walks into the yawning, cut-square doorway of the kitchen beyond, his eyes wide and glaring, drool dribbling down his chin, his hands claw-like pincers waiting to grab. Waiting to squeeze. Waiting to...

"SURPRISE!"

A multitude of voices ring out, and Harv finds his hands flying up to his face as the lights go up; he is temporarily blinded.

A tick later, his vision returns.

His wife and his kids are standing there, and his cousins and golf buddies, and his business partner, and Mildred down the street, and Ethel who plays bridge.

And, they're all wearing little birthday caps. And blowing kazoos. And there are little balloons. What looks to be punch. Ice cream. Of course, the requisite cake.

A banner strung from the ceiling indeed reads: "Happy Birthday, Harv!"

Suddenly, you could have heard a pin drop in there. Harv can hear the beating of his heart in his ears. He's still standing immobilized; naked, stock-still.

But, unsurprisingly, Little Harv has taken his final bow.

4. The Blind Man

Sally Suds is lathering her lovely labia. The shower is warm and wet and wonderful. Just before she stepped in, to clean her bodacious bod, an old man came to the door. He was selling pencils. He was blind.

She bought a whole handful, gave him five bucks on top of it, and wished him well. Good deed for the day, she thinks, then she strips off her clothing to reveal a rack that could make a grown man weep.

Then it is upstairs. Soap, shampoo, body wash, moisturizer. Suds.

Washing the grime away. Letting her cares and worries drain down the faucet. Soon, the water growing a tad cold, she steps out, grabs a towel, towels off, and then, completely naked, goes back downstairs to her boudoir, to get dressed.

Suddenly, the doorbell chimes.

Now who in the hell could that be? she wonders. Still naked, she calls out, "Yes? Who is it?"

A gruff, craggy voice answers, "The blind man."

Still naked, but thinking that a blind man can't see her anyway, she, somewhat annoyed now, goes to the door. She unlocks it, throws the door open wide, and--

"Uh, yeah lady. I'm here to put up your blinds."

This guy wasn't the blind man. He was The Blind Man.

And he could see perfectly well.

5. The Lucky (Grease) Monkey

No, this story isn't about a chimpanzee with blue balls. Its about Cindy Wendy and her husband, Lindy. One day, Cindy comes home after a long, hard, sweat day shopping for low-carb snacks at the local Needlemeyers Supermarket, and she parks the car in the drive way, and she goes into the garage, carrying her bag of groceries. Now, Hubby has the piece-of-shit Buick he's always tinkering with--thing is always breaking down, but, he loves that car for some reason, says it purrs "smoother than a pussy." When, that is, he can get said pussy up and functional.

Cindy goes inside, sets her groceries up on the kitchen counter, and then realizes Hubby, Dear Hubby, is still out in the garage, underneath that damn car, lost in a world of mechanical tinkering. Didn't even acknowledge her when she came is. Sonofabitch.

Well, if he didn't deign to pay her any attention, she'd damn sure make him do so. She'd do so HER way, and she knew, oh yes, after she got done, he'd be absolutely rigid with attention. He'd stand up, salute--at least, a part of him would.

Cindy goes out to the garage. Lindy's long legs are spread out, sticking out from beneath the car. She can hear the clink-clink of his ratchet or whatever on the underside of the vehicle. Her eyes narrow in on his crotch, pinpointing the target like a laser-guided laser targeting thing. (Or some such.)

She gets down on her hands and knees, says, "Hey baby, I see my big man is hard at work. I bet you're all sweaty and stressed-out under there. Here--"

And she slowly unzips his trousers, reaching in with her grasping, cold, yet, undeniably arousing fingers, and bringing out his long, strong trouser python. There is now no more sound coming from the dark underbelly of the Buick; the body beneath it is stock-still, seemingly shocked into surprise.

"Let me give you a little help to relieve all that stress."

And with that, she puts his cock in her mouth, sucking slowly at first, and then faster, hearing the dark figure beneath the car suddenly begin to moan and groan in ecstatic pleasure. She can taste the dribbles of pre-cum seep from his balls, slither down the shaft as she licks and strokes, up and down, with one tight little hand.

"Oh, oh God, sweet mama! I'm gonna cum!"

The hot nectar of his masculine spend discharges in her mouth, a copious, paste-like fluid she slowly swallows before licking the dripping head and balls clean.

Beneath the dark underbelly of the Buick, she can hear the ragged, heavy breathing of the man she has just sucked-off to an ecstatic orgasm. She gets up, dusts herself off, and leaves him to savor the after glow of what she has done by himself.

She goes inside, goes upstairs. She starts stripping off her blouse and skirt on the way to the shower. She walks past her bedroom, where Lindy is propped up in bed, reading a magazine.

She stops. Her mind is not able to process what she is seeing. Lindy is upstairs? Reading? A Magazine? In bed? But Lindy is downstairs. Under the car. Where she had just given him a...

She goes slowly into the bedroom, feeling as if she is going to vomit. Lindy, completely unsuspecting, looks up, smiles, says, "Oh, hi hon! I was feeling a little sick today, so I used up a sick day to stay home, play hookie. Oh, my car is on the fritz again, so I had Bill from next door come over, take a look at it. He's down in the garage right now. Did you see him coming in?"

Cindy rushes to the bathroom, her hand over her mouth. Lindy wonders what in the hell is going on. Bill, for his part, is just happy he showed up for the (blow) job.

***

And that, as they say, is that. I wish there was something further to add, but my trouser-shnauzer is barking mad with insatiable jerk-jelly, and so I must make like a crack and split. Or somesuch. Peace, love, and plentiful poon to you and yours. Ciao!