There's No "E" in Horny 2

There's No Ein 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, af-
ter 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 —
1
— List of Terms —
3
"What the Fuck is This, Rudy?"
9
The Sexual Percentage
11
Mike Damone: Pure Inspiration
15
The Math of Swinging
17
New and Improved
21

Photos — Part II
25
The Porn Years
33
The Lingo
37
Persistence
41
Random Letters From Bob's House of Ass
47
— Bibliography —
127
— About the Author —
129

1
— 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 un-
marked 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 des-
ert casino and not having to pay a dime for
the experience, is just sound financial plan-
ning.
Enter the wild, wonderful world of wife swap-
pin’, and these types of adventures become
commonplace. Buyer beware. Your mundane
9-to-5 existence will no longer hold your in-
terest. Prosaic life becomes unbearable.

There’s No “E” In Horny 2
"No problem," you exclaim.
Of course it's not a dilemma now, but once
you're accustomed to sex with multiple wom-
en, you may never be able to achieve com-
plete satisfaction from monogamy again.
Overcome that minor speed bump, and all
that's required to catapult headfirst into the
world of professional swinging is an inquisi-
tive mind. Why should porn stars partake in
all the fun? You come equipped with the nec-
essary attributes to live like Ron Jeremy. Use
what you inherently possess.
Hugh Mungus

3
— 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 peo-
ple simultaneously gratify each other, orally.
My petitions to make this an Olympic event
have fallen upon deaf ears.
Astroglide: Lubricant commonly used during inti-
mate interludes. This modern miracle was in-
vented 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 I
love my 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 fe-
male and several males. One of many rea-
sons to be happy you’re a woman.
Glory Hole: An opening between abutting rooms,
through which bodily appendages can be in-
serted, 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.”

List of Terms 5
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 com-
parable amount of men and women. In main-
stream 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 wom-
an’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.

List of Terms 7
Swing Club: A specific venue where swingers en-
gage in swinging. Although less common than
a vampire who faints at the sight of blood,
these places do exist.
XXX: Pornographic.

9
“What the Fuck is This, Rudy?"
(Used Cars, 1980)
What you're reading is the second least pop-
ular publication to date. The first is the origi-
nal There's No "E" in Horny.
For those of you wonderin' what the hell set
you back 99¢ this month, allow me to eluci-
date. 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 book 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 call There's No "E" in Horny 2 a
self-help guide, for lack of a better term. This

aggregation of incessant ramblings is equiva-
lent to Neil Strauss' masterpiece The Game
on speed. You're holding 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' excep-
tional 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, sim-
ply take a different approach to women. Al-
though 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' offi-
cial beer. Why? It's $3 a six-pack, tastes fan-
tastic 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 wom-
en, or be humble and hook up with the popu-
lation of a small country. The choice is yours.

11
The Sexual Percentage
Stand at the corner of a busy street in a met-
ropolitan area. Gaze over the throng of indi-
viduals passing by. Attempt to deduce which
has had the most sex.
A) The dread-locked nymph with more pierc-
ings than a pin cushion?
B) The provocatively clad college student en-
gendering 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 be-
neath 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, con-
gratulations! 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.
More far-fetched than the possibility of Hugh
Hefner being gay, the facts remain. Whom-
ever coined the term, "If you've got it, flaunt
it" was an egomaniac. The much more prag-
matic phrase should be, "If you've got it, use
it." The intrinsic 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 re-
sult, I derive foresight from those who have
ventured before me. Pore over pertinent lit-
erature. Understand how to manipulate your
Chakras. Make yourself multi-orgasmic, able

The Sexual Percentage 13
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 nu-
merous more opportunities than those avail-
able a “one pump chump."
Books: they don't just make fantastic paper-
weights, anymore!

15
Mark Ratner: “[…] Well, naturally something hap-
pens. 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 at-
titude.”
(Fast Times at Ridgemont High, 1982)
The sea of simpletons surrounding me cack-
led at Mike Damone's seemingly puerile dis-
position. I couldn't believe it. Fast Times at
Ridgemont High held the secret to the Uni-
verse, and these idiots were laughing at it!
"Could it really be this simple?" I wondered.
Hunkering down in my seat, I hashed out a
plan of attack.
This guy Damone was a luminary! Here I was
encircled by assholes less stable than Califor-

nium — people trapped in relationships more
doomed than the maiden voyage of the Ti-
tanic — yet, in the words of this greasy, high
school thespian, came clarity.
How could one guy in his teens be so god-
damned intuitive?
I glanced at the ignorant audience around
me. "Couldn't anybody else see the genius,
here?!"
When it comes to swingin', it's all about two
things: numbers and timing. The more wom-
en you proposition, the more sex you'll ob-
tain. People are humping every moment of
every day. It's simply your duty to find them.

17
The Math of Swinging
Male: Well, how about them? Look at her nip-
ple 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!
Males new to swinging often believe it's ben-
eficial 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 gor-
geous, men would have nothing to do with
them.
It's a simple equation. Let's say females re-
sembled Jared from Subway. Would you still
treat them like princesses? No. They'd be im-
mense, hairy and possess a pair of balls.
If women looked like men, would you radi-
cally alter your life to accommodate them?

The Math of Swinging 19
If Jared was having his period, would you be
sympathetic?
Nine times out of 10, men wouldn't lust wom-
en, and vice versa, if they didn't find the op-
posite sex physically appealing.
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 par-
ties early. Mood swings? Not unless you pos-
sess 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 compo-
nents — two husbands, two wives. Machines
with fewer working parts have less potential
of breaking down. Eliminate three of the vari-
ables, and you've reduced the probability of
failure. Compatibility between the four ele-
ments of two swinging couples is often diffi-
cult to attain.

Since you're attracted to all women, you sim-
ply have to deal with one factor. Is the wom-
an attracted to you? Period.

21
New and Improved
"I'd rather fuck a million broads, than screw
Kim Kardashian a million times," Jerry mur-
mured, between drags off his unfiltered can-
cer stick.
Even though I had no idea who the fuck Kim
Kardashian was, it was solid rationale. Some-
thing on par with Einstein's theory of relativ-
ity, or perhaps a suitable replacement for the
Lord's Prayer.
As Jerry cackled, causing his upper dentures
to dislodge, I surmised this Kardashian char-
acter 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 unmit-
igated 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 rendez-
vous, 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.

New and Improved 23
“Shit, if I wanted anything more from 'em, I
would've married 'em." Laughing, Jerry par-
tially swallowed his false teeth.
Yeah, the guy was more disturbing than a
Golden Girls remake, featuring topless ac-
tresses. 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 an-
cient 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 sed-
entary, 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.

25
Photos — Part II
When it comes to nude photographs, regard
'em the way a corporate executive would a
business card. In modern society, public nu-
dity is frowned upon. Ironically, your great-
est 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 pic-
tures helped me turn platonic situations into
sexual ones.
During a stint in a dilapidated Arizona apart-
ment complex, I propositioned a lovely, Mex-
ican 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 pho-
tographs 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 Po-
laroid film, and a $3 bottle of baby oil.
Whether in a long-term relationship, or en-
gaging in a one time hook-up, you're gonna
have sex. Small talk is less useful than as-
certaining 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 busi-
ness cards, incorporating nude pictures of

Photos — Part II 27
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 magni-
tude 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 photo-
graph 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 at-
tributes 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 usu-
ally inquire about the connotation of the pre-
ceding term. Nipples protrude. Breathing in-
creases. You exclaim, in a manner suggest-
ing you hadn't planned any of this, “Come to
think of it, I may have a goddamned busi-
ness card here in my wallet.” Once you pro-
duce 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 rela-
tionship. This was difficult, considering she
probably looked better nude than most Play-
boy Bunnies. In the end, hassle was avoided,
and no lives were torn asunder.
The power of the photograph can be an awe-
some 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 ide-
ology, all the while wishing they could suc-
cumb 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 calcu-
lus, 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 con-
form 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 ema-
nates from your antiquated computer moni-
tor. You're clad in fewer clothes than a mini-
mum 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 mo-
ments with which to properly spit shine your
shaft. The numbers speak for themselves.

33
The Porn Years
Five XXX actresses. One man. A bedroom in
a bedraggled Hollywood Hills mansion. Out-
side, a low-budget porn feature was being
videotaped. Wearing my birthday suit, I re-
hearsed with one of the ladies for our pend-
ing 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. Ostensibly, I'd
performed well enough to be cast in immi-
nent skin flicks. Hence, here I was, working
sans clothing for live Internet shows, broad-
cast from the most unkempt bedroom in all
of Los Angeles.
Being lactated upon by a shapely Ebony prin-
cess 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 ac-
tresses. Many thanks to swinging, I'd found
my pathway into the porn industry.
Without an aptitude for wife swappin', I would
never have made the acquaintance of Ron
Jeremy’s ex-girlfriend. An adequate compre-
hension of naughty nakedness allowed me to
have sex with a first-time thespian in a gar-
age, whilst her female companion looked on.
Swinging afforded me the opportunity to ob-
serve two pregnant women using a strap-on
in a Sun-bathed backyard. Whether hookin'
up with a Sunday school teacher in a hotel
room on the Vegas Strip, or meeting a wom-
an 20 years my senior, it was all made possi-
ble by a proficiency for answering adult clas-
sifieds.
Had I not known the protocol for responding
to XXX ads, I would've never found myself at
a hundred porn shoots, or in a seaside Ra-

The Porn Years 35
mada on top of a spread eagle wife. A dex-
terity for Internet surfing afforded me the
opportunity to hang out in the mountains, be-
neath a pair of completely nude strippers. A
handjob from somebody's girlfriend in an X-
rated theater, minutes from the Mexican bor-
der, only came to fruition because of my ap-
titude for online exchanges.
I'm no stud. If I can prosper in this environ-
ment, anyone can. Investigate; learn the lan-
guage; 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?

37
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”
—anactualInternetpost—

The Internet: proof high school English pro-
fessors, no matter how much they complain,
are overpaid.
Even if you do know the definitions of libidi-
nous, licentious and salacious, utilizing these
words, when responding to the above classi-
fied, will only confuse its author.
It's not your fault most Web users have the
mental capacity of Play-Doh, as opposed to
Plato. When seeking online sex, you're unwit-
tingly coerced into dealing with women who
TiVo infomercials. Because of this harsh real-
ity, it's imperative you become adept at re-
sponding to individuals unable to sleep await-
ing the next episode of American Idol.
Retain a smattering of Christopher Hitchens,
polemic-winning words in your cerebral lexi-
con. You never know when you’ll find your-
self replying to a married couple with a com-
bined score of 4,800 on their SATs. Smart

The Lingo 39
people get horny, as well. For the most part,
though, when dealing with potential sex part-
ners via the Internet, folks communicate with
two thumbs…usually whilst driving.

41
Persistence
I was less likely to get laid this week than
Justin Bieber was 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 be-
come, never stop.
The wife swappin' world ebbs and flows. On
certain days, you'll wonder if females still ex-
ist. At other times, you'll swear you’re in pos-
session 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 re-
cently filled my E-mail inbox. Within days,
that list dwindled to none. The Internet af-
fords people the ability to become self-per-
ceived 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 Play-
boy 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 noth-
ing but lipstick at a local porn arcade. Upon
arrival at the destination in question, a help-
ful store clerk informed me the place had
been devoid of women the entire day. Wait-
ing in my truck outside the entrance to the
groin emporium, I devoured a pair of stale
hot dogs from an adjacent gas station. Re-
turning home, I found an E-mail from the
senorita claiming she'd been inside the adult

Persistence 43
theater all along, having sex with the senior
citizen cashier. Unfortunately, the guy work-
ing the counter I’d chatted with was probably
no more than 25 years old. The grey area of
deceit on this one was more ashen than An-
derson Cooper’s hair.
Next came the couple with whom I'd invested
four days of effort. Six hours prior to meet-
ing, 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 advertise-
ment.
Number five was interesting: a couple 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.
Number seven continues to the writing of this
very sentence. Hornier than a herd of rhinos,
she was seeking her inaugural trip to Bob's
House of Ass. 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 sew-
age plant.
As such, I plied my trade with numero ocho,
who was eight months pregnant, and hanker-
ing to participate in her very first gangbang.

Persistence 45
The swinging world is analogous to the Indi-
ana Jones films — each one a new, exciting
adventure! I conducted copious research, en-
suring sex wouldn't burn her little bun in the
oven. After an appointment with her physi-
cian, we taxied onto the runway, and were
cleared for take-off. At this point, she disap-
peared more rapidly than Dr. Phil's hairline.
No worries. With literally billions of women on
the planet, and only one of me, the odds are
in my favor!

47
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 book was recorded
one-handed style. Forty-two words per min-
ute! 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, re-
gional swing club — at one point in time fea-
tured 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 exhibi-
tionist group sex occurs daily, if not hourly.
All names and references featured in the fol-
lowing correspondences have been changed
for the sake of privacy.
Grammatical and spelling errors of verbatim,
Internet classifieds are attributable to those
who posted them.

Random Letters From Bob’s House of Ass 49
E-mail #1
Bob's. 4:30 PM. A newbie couple enter, and
make the mistake of sitting beside me. Na-
ked, I'm compelled to show off my latest dia-
mond cutting implement. From past experi-
ence, I've deduced this approach affords me
a 50% chance of a blowjob, handjob or invi-
tation 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 abun-
dance 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 digit-
al camera.

Including myself, 10 guys enter this den of
iniquity, and proceed to jack-off over our fe-
male emcee, who's enthusiastically producing
milk from her breasts.
I turn to find the blonde from the initial cou-
ple, 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 intimi-
dated by the dozen naked people surround-
ing 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
Seven couples at Bob's, today. Two cavorted
on the bed. One was Nikki and Maurice. Nikki
fears rubbers the way a vampire does sun-
light. As such, I choose to merely grab hand-
fuls of her lovely flesh. The second tandem I
hadn't met prior. These two partied amongst
themselves, but were cool with me workin'
my widget while watching.
Another duo 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 en-
couraging 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 Ja-
cuzzi 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 fourth couple manually gratified each other
in a pair of chairs. After inquiring, I was per-
mitted a front row seat, where I commenced
waxing my wick. She was less interested in
me than the cast of The View is in never eat-
ing again. As such, I sought easier prey.
I could have sworn the female from another
duo had her eyes glued on my Usinger's Fa-
mous. 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 in-
tensely 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
One wrong word, and you've gone from ob-
taining a piece of ass, to settling for the las-
civious lust of your calloused palm.
For the past three weeks, things at Bob's had
been firin' on all 12 cylinders. The influx of
lovely ladies would cause Hugh Hefner's head
to spin. A couple from Louisiana, in town for
a sexual bonanza; a second duo covetous of
accumulating naked time in Room 13.
Any surfer — especially one riding the waves
of the Internet in search of sex — will inform
you these are the crests enjoyed for unpre-
dictable periods of time. With pinnacles come
the seemingly endless dives into nightmares
of baby oil, streaming porn and not a tangi-
ble woman for miles. Following 21 days of
bare bliss, the red carpet to encounters with
horny housewives began to unravel.

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 com-
ponent of said duo was named Ox. With each
consecutive correspondence, the disconcert-
ing theme to Deliverance echoed more loudly
in my head.
Deciding to pass on this invitation, I was con-
tacted 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 — always

a stumbling block. From there, communica-
tion dwindled more quickly than the erection
of a man hit simultaneously with divorce pa-
pers and an $80,000,000 lawsuit.
Our next contestant nearly coerced me into
booking the $49 presidential suite at the Bare
Breasts Bed and Breakfast. After commen-
surate, nude photographs were exchanged,
what follows is a sampling of our actual cor-
respondence:
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."
"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.”
"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 ex-
perience in this"
Actual Internet ads from actual people. Obvi-
ously, 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 pro-
ject, and make a beeline for the water.
The luscious lass eyes my swollen salami like
a $1,000,000 bank error in her favor, blurt-
ing 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 de-
licious 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 septuagenar-
ian 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 pri-
vacy of Room 42.
Upon stepping outside to urinate in the bush-
es, 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 an-
gry when watching anybody touch her wom-
an, the butch expressed extreme enthusiasm
to nuzzle my nuts.
More mixed signals than a ten-way intersec-
tion 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 sty-
mied by a pane of glass.
When the lesbian hookers departed, I ob-
served 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 citi-
zen 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 rip-
ping a present open at Christmas, certain it's
a pair of socks, only to discover naked pho-
tographs of Sherri Shepherd.
This wanton woman orders me behind the
front desk, promising to return after batten-
ing 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 min-
utes, before getting a firm grip on the situa-
tion.
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 purchas-
ing 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 obsta-

cle 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, fol-
lowing a vigorous workout. After achieving a
land speed record, I arrived a mere five min-
utes late. Conferring with the establishment’s
cashier, I was informed the object of my af-
fection 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 post-
ed. 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 ic-
ing atop this salacious sundae was Kelly — a
woman sporting more curves than San Fran-
cisco’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. Unfor-
tunately, this afternoon, she was more inter-

ested in finding what awaited her at the bot-
tom 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 con-
versing, we ascertained this duo weren't op-
posed 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 at-
tained 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 in-
terested but we want to meet them first and
see where it goes but we will keep your in-
fo 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 sen-
tences 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 seri-
ous need of dong!

The preceding comes on the heels of my re-
sponse to an Internet post. As a result, I now
have, in my possession, a picture of incredi-
ble breasts, and no face with which to con-
nect 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 ob-
tain coital comforts. I have to. I can't simply
walk into a room, and expect women to at-
tack 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 inter-
course 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 peo-
ple 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 fel-
low 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 sat-
urday 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 sur-
mising 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 cer-
tainty Oprah will eat again. This week’s fes-
tivities 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 Mor-
mom 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 keep-
ing 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 signa-
ture 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 cello-
phane 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? Eve-
ry woman's got some secret spouse hidden
beneath the bed, wielding a scythe, prepar-
ing to slice your sweaty sack off! Suffice it to
say, I'm fucked more figuratively than liter-
ally, on this one.
In other news, Antonio Sabato, Jr. is expect-
ing a son! Who endures four years of jour-

nalism 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 pabu-
lum,” (Tapeheads, 1988) baby!
Cliff Hangers

E-mail #12
What kind of woman stores an arsenal rival-
ing the military forces of NATO, beneath her
bed?!
2 AM. Desperation. There are only so many
Internet porn flicks one can sit through be-
fore realizing how they're gonna end. Wreak-
ing of uncut sweat, Astroglide and Jif Chunky,
I frantically search sex posts.
Three rapid-fire replies. Two-thirds of the re-
sponses are advertisements. The final, how-
ever, is a legitimate BBW on dong safari. Pic-
tures 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 com-
prehend 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 approxi-
mately 2:30.
3 AM finds me on the doorstep of your aver-
age suburban dwelling.
By 3:10, both the lovely in question, and I,
are naked whilst Kojak plays on a TV screen
behind us.
At 3:30, from a reckless version of the mis-
sionary position, my horny hostess enlight-
ens me she's anything but interested in mon-
ogamy.
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 be-
hind 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 activ-
ities.
5 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 innocu-
ous 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 ca-
nine’s throat of prophylactics, whilst charg-
ing 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 rel-
egated to a mere entry in what Celebrity Sex
Doll magazine is referring to as, "Literary re-
tardation!”
Paige Turner

E-mail #13
What follows is an abbreviated list of the pit-
falls awaiting the single male swinger.
Note the photo below (My original E-mail fea-
tured 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 some-
thin’ crawlin' out of Neil Patrick Harris' fanta-
sies, but in actuality, what Jim dangled was
his girlfriend. He then yanked her away be-
fore she and I could hook up. Certain individ-
uals find it necessary to engage in this activ-
ity. 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, promis-
ing to hook me up with her, and then not de-
livering, 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 gor-
geous 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 posi-
tioned buttocks. Glancing back, I took note of
the dudes awaiting their turn. Ted was sec-
ond 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 origi-
nal 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 your-
self 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 hap-

piness 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 help-
ing 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 per-
fect phone operator for suicide hotline. In his
defense, he does E-mail me more than any-
body I know, but never seems to have any-
thing new to say.
What type of "accident" do you speculate re-
sulted in Tom's predicament? "I was practic-

ing juggling for the first time. For some rea-
son, 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 insur-
ance 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 sex-
ual prowess, your wife no longer wants you.
Is that really the type of information one vol-
unteers in order to attract other women?

As far as Tom not attending the extra-connu-
bial 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 lino-
leum, 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, metal-
lic mare gravitated towards an inconspicuous
pothole I'd passed, sans incident, thousands
of time prior.
The online classified claimed a wanton wom-
an 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
libidinous benefits. On this occasion, how-
ever, I declared I’d be more victorious than
Hannibal and his elephant army in northern
Italy. Unfortunately, two miles into my on-
slaught, 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 shred-
ded 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 prob-
lem. 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 three minutes 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 peo-

ple who believe Oprah's constantly-revolving
hairstyles are natural.
Suffice it to say, I didn't make my appoint-
ment 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 compas-
sion ends. The monetary system, baby! It's
as useful as an appendix.
Obviously, I received less sex from this en-
deavor 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 compa-

triot 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 up-
stairs, 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, since the counter girl is black,
and I lust anything female and Negroid. Of
course, the clerk in question is less enthral-
led 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
the shark-infested waters of the Pacific.
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 com-
pany. Knowing this could change at any mo-
ment, I eavesdrop on what’s transpiring.
These two are watching the feared porn with
a plot. Seventies stuff, from what I can de-
termine. Not good. When folks are earnestly
desirous of humping, they can't be bothered
by storyline. Next comes the couple’s con-
versation, 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 god-
damned packages so difﬁcult to get into —
I may have to take a pay cut, as it is."
“Oh, Tim, you’re not serious?"
It’s akin to searching all 23,000-plus nuclear
weapons on the planet, and finding the one
fuckin' dud. 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 transves-
tite in the history of cross dressing! He 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 afore-
mentioned 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. Mo-
ments 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, cine-
matic heaven, and make for the door. Once
again, my pathway is blocked by a transsex-
ual similar in size to a Ford F-150.
As it turns out, said cross dresser is a regular
at this locale, and a wealth of knowledge. He
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 ac-
quaintance a good night, and make a beeline

for the nearest establishment that offers al-
coholic 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 con-
doms and be ready to fuck!"
Obfuscated by esoteric highway construction
and a blinding snowstorm, I arrived 15 min-
utes 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 un-
warranted 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 eat-
ing breath mints before talking on the phone
— frightened the nude chick, who began get-
ting 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 op-
ted 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 com-
panion, and headed out into the night.
Sal Manila

E-mail #16
"Hi. My name's Hugh. And you are?" Extend-
ing my second most active appendage, I an-
ticipated 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 en-
gaged 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 inap-

propriate 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 despond-
ent dongs had already headed for the hills.
Moments prior to closing, a new duo arrived
on scene. Purportedly, this was their inaugu-
ral trip to Bob's. You wouldn't know it by her
actions. Those of us patient enough to re-
main 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 interchanged. She was black — a
favorite of mine — and looking for dong. Last
I checked, I had one and a half, according to
the national average. Her photographs exhib-
ited her, sans clothing, on all fours.
She bestowed her legitimate phone number.
I called. We chatted. She bequeathed her ad-
dress. 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 my only weakness. 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 ac-
quiring magnificent bedtime stories to tell the
grandkids, this one is more difficult to swal-
low 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 individual an-
swering the front door doesn't look well. He
informs me his wife awaits in the back bed-
room. 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
than a snowwoman’s asshole, I excuse my-
self to the bathroom, and run straight into a
motion-activated assistance toilet. As I step
toward the device, the lid opens automati-
cally. I find myself wanting to offer a finan-
cial stipend, in order to cover the husband's
obvious medical expenses. Unfortunately, by
that time, I'm no longer clothed, and heading
toward this guy's wife, recalling I barely pos-
sess enough money with which to make this
night of upsetting passion occur.
Acclimating to the dungeon-esque surround-
ings, 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 observ-
ing 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 ac-
celerator. 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!” Extend-
ing a hand toward the woman in question, he
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 pres-
sed 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 don-
ned our game faces, and did what slut train-
ers 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!" her Master yelled at me.
Breaking character, the chick turned, retort-
ing, "No fucking way!"

Holding her down, he demanded she shut up.
I was beyond hesitant. He encouraged me to
continue. I tried, but it was like driving a Lin-
coln 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 seri-
ous 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 hand-
ful of rubbers in the motel room. Scoped out
a pair of swing clubs in the area. The first re-
sides adjacent a Korean Karaoke BBQ and a
Latino Christian church. The second sits con-
tiguous 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 cou-
ples in attendance. Akin to a hypnagogic Dis-
neyland 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 on his 65 inch belt.
Observed a suit-clad customer — apparently
buddies with Paul Blart: Mall Cop — ridiculing
my ponytail, whilst he, himself, was continu-
ously rebuffed by women. That'll teach ya' to
hide your undeveloped pee pee beneath your
overpriced Armani slacks. Who wears clothes
to a swing club, anyway?
Met a couple from Idaho, aroused to be in a
city with more than a four digit population.

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 feder-
al agent. Why would such an exquisite erotic
dancer marry a mentally unstable individual?
Perhaps she saw herself in him.
Three additional strippers, all blazing hot, ar-
rived 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 book, 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 ulti-
mate aphrodisiac is a positive attitude. After
all, folks always want what they, themselves,
don’t possess.
Hugh Mungus

127
— Bibliography —
Opening Quote
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

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.

129
— 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 an-
other woman with such a resume-worthy skill
again. Now, with the irate geriatric racing to-
ward 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 grab-
bed 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. Ap-
parently, 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 the 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 in-

About the Author 131
dividuals conspiring to keep me from obtain-
ing 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!

133
— Acknowledgments —
This one goes out to all you lovely online las-
ses. If you're a woman, horney, enjoy com-
ming and dinning at the Y, we were made for
eachother!

There's No "E" in Horny 2

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