mom was right about fresh underwear (which of course requires a clean buttcrack to remain skidmark-free) . . . U just never know when U will end up in a car wreck . . . or the Pig Pit after some resourceful analinguist has imported new furniture.

here's the drill: at the beach, i often rely on what my father described as a "whore's bath" when we moved to France and i asked what is that funny looking thing in the bathroom that looks kinda like a geyser in the toilet? . . . it turns out that that sex pigs and whores aren't so different tho there aren't any bidets in the Pines that i know of . . . a quick dip in the ocean or pool between tricks will take care of any sticky body fluids after a little soap & water have been applied to your arm pits, cock and ass before U leave the house in the morning . . . ooh, gross cry my housemates who, like most Americans, take hygiene to an absurd level . . . they do their best to eliminate the ripe odors that make men unmistakably men by showering as frequently as they change their morning, afternoon and evening outfits.

it's unlikely that brown skid marks would show up on my black Speedo anyway but having a shit-free ass made me a lot more comfortable as i lowered myself onto the makeshift rim chair that had suddenly appeared in the Pig Pit . . . i wouldn't even have known that it was a rim chair if some guy weren't lying flat on his back underneath it, with his head positioned directly below the horizontal rubber slats . . . as soon as i pulled down my bathing suit and sat down he spread the slats as far apart as they would go and dug in with the gusto of a gastronome.

now for the embarrassing part . . . he definitely wanted some nipple play because he had his shirt pulled up but when i tried to unbuckle his belt he pushed my hands away . . . what exactly did he want? . . . in my book, rimming generally falls into the foreplay category but after 10 minutes of having my ass swabbed and tickled by his square-cut goatee, i grew a little bored and looked around for some reading material . . . he, however, seemed as content as a Holstein chewing her cud . . . i suppose the obvious thing to have done would have been to jerk off and leave . . . post-ejaculation small talk would have required rearranging the furniture and therefore did not seem entirely appropriate . . . instead, i overthought the situation and wondered if he wanted what i understand is known as "a little sugar."

believe me, i thought i was accommodating my sex partner when i began to push my empty bowels like a pregnant woman in a Lamaze class . . . he rewarded my effort with even more vigorous probing of my rosebud . . . i pushed and pushed until suddenly he sputtered loudly and drew the back of his hand across his mouth . . . had i gone too far? did my pantry have some sugar after all? did he get more than he ordered? am i out of my fucking mind?

undeterred, he continued after spitting . . . i quickly shot a load on his chest . . . as he got up, brushing the leaves, dirt and god knows what else from the back of his clothing, i avoided eye contact and beat a hasty retreat to the ocean . . . and as soon as i got home i took a long hot shower, finally adding shame to my list of meatrack acquaintances.