EVERYONE HAS ONE OF ‘THOSE’ STORIES

(A TRUE STORY)

Ever since I’ve been old enough to hang around people who have had sex, I have been amazed at the wide open and taboo shattering erotic stories I’ve heard others share. Some are very boastful. Some are almost embarrassed. But everyone is always crossing huge lines I would never dream of approaching. It makes me almost want to say something about my own limited experiences just to fit in.

I don’t like to talk about my sex life because I think love-making is something that is very personal between two people who realize sharing their most personal body parts is only a brief path towards joining true soul mates.

But one time I fucked both of the Olsen Twins and I thought I’d tell you about that.

I have been married faithfully for 15 years. My marriage is the most important thing to me when football season is over. Or when the fridge is empty. Or whatever…anyway, yeah, I’m faithful. I wish I could say the same thing for my wife.

Every husband’s worst nightmare happened on dark night a couple of days ago. It was a little after noon and I was coming home for lunch. And I heard the noises, THOSE noises, coming from upstairs. THOSE upstairs. My wife always sings songs from Grease 2 when she reaches orgasm so I knew what was happening. I had heard her sing those very songs to me twice before.

I burst in the bedroom door only to discover they were in the bathroom. So I ran back out and went there instead. There he was, hilt deep in my wife’s Magnavox. I screamed out who the hell are you! He said Jesus. I said Jesus? He said no, Jesus. Spelled like the Savoir but the Mexican’s pronounce it Jesus. I said he better pull his chupacabra from my woman ASAP before I ripped it off. And I would have too! Just like a Tarantino movie based off of some unknown Japanese film only he had seen.

My wife shouted out “Please no! He’s just the pool boy!” and I countered “We have an inflatable kiddy pool! Just let the air out and shake it if it gets dirty!” Then I turned to Jesus and said with horrifying Donald Trump intensity “You are no longer employed here.”

He knew I wasn’t kidding. There would be no severance check.

After Jesus (pronounced Jesus) left, my wife and I knew we had to have a talk. Something was terribly wrong in our marriage to make her go outside for cheap lovings and we had to fix it. I said just be honest with me. Talk to me. We hadn’t made it fifteen years because we didn’t share our very souls with each other. We needed that deep communication now more than ever.

My wife took a deep breath and then unloaded the burdens she had been carrying for far too long. “Greg (pronounced Greg)” she said “You never pay attention to me. I come home from work and it’s like I’m invisible. We eat entire dinners together and you don’t even say a word. I work. You work. We’re always tired. Did you know we haven’t made love in 17 weeks? And yet you become erect every time you watch Cartoon Network! And that’s why I did what I did. I was lonely and desperate for attention and just wanted to be loved!”

I thought about her words and how they rang in the deep recesses of my brain. I knew the truth and was man enough to admit it.

“Nah, that’s not it.” I said as I grabbed my coat. “I’m going to boink some famous young Hollywood star and then we’ll be even.”

I drove to New York City targeting those exclusive hot disco clubs they always show on ET. Knowing I had mentioned earlier in this story that it was lunch time, I used my short range time machine (another of my creative inventions that has made me the millionaire I am today) and turned the hours ahead to night time. And night time in New York City is the right time. Sinatra partied there, you know.

I found Club D’Overhyped. Only the best of the best got in there. I jumped out of my turbo-fuego chartreuse Neon and watched the jealous on-lookers gawk at the expert detailing up the side. Running from bumper to bumper, flames surrounding some Chinese symbol I’m told meant ‘Unleaded Only’. I slapped a fiver in the valet’s hand and strutted up to the velvet rope. The huge bouncer slid his thick torso in front of me and said in a voice that sounded like Michael Jackson doing a Samuel L Jackson impersonation “I don’t know you but I guarantee your name is NOT on this goddamn muther fucking list.”

I leaned forward so cool I could hear folks in the crowd say ‘Is that Fonzie?’ and then whispered into his chin, because he was really tall, “Jesus sent me.”

Not only did he move out of the way but he bought me a drink. Before I hit the door my eyes were already scanning the room. Flashing lights. Rhythmic bass pounding so powerfully literally everyone’s hips moved forward to the beat. I could actually taste the weed in the air and the smell could only be described as a mixture of sweat, Corona and Ryan Seacrest. I was instantly turned on.

I didn’t have to wait long for the chance at celebrity va-jay-jay offerings. The call for smoked beef insertion was out there and my zipper was like a screen door to a Jehovah’s Witness. I felt a tender touch on my shoulder. It was Paris Hilton. She tried to play the innocent ‘teach me’ play thing. She said “Oh you’re so big and strong and I’m such a little girl. I wish I could know love from a real expert. You know, I’ve never really been fucked before…”

I thought of an old classic joke, one of my favorites. So I took her hand, walked her outside and threw her into traffic.

“Now you’re fucked!”

Two speeding cars passed within 4 inches of each other. If it had been anyone else, she might have been smashed in between them. But she turned sideways and was untouched. Paris stormed off shouting out something about my fire crotch.

But I couldn’t pay attention to her any longer. The dance floor called to me. I saw Brad and Angelina rubbing so hard together I thought they were going to make another Third World baby right there. I saw Hillary dancing with Rosie and thought ‘well I never would have guessed’. I saw George W’s daughters dancing with giant purple iguanas and I saw Billy Idol dancing w/ himself and I knew the peyote had kicked in.

That’s when they walked over to me. The Olsen Twins. Mary Kate and the other one. I always felt sorry for Mary Kate. Two names. Never good. Meant she had to work twice as hard for attention. Like Mary Anne with Ginger on Gilligan’s Island. Like Posh Spice w/ Beckham. Like Dr. Phil w/ Oprah. The two name curse.

But that meant Mary Kate would want it more than the other one. So I targeted my bedroom eyes towards her first. Very few women have ever been able to tear themselves away from me when I turn on the raw sensual power of my bedroom eyes. Must be the electrical tape. But that’s a story for another day.

Mary Kate didn’t waste any time. She said “Have you ever had sex with a celebrity before?” I shook my head no, knowing Katie Couric didn’t count.

She and the sister, the other one, grabbed me by my arm and lead me to a backroom. They felt the pure animal strength in my gigantic bicep. They knew instantly that I was the kind of guy who took good care of my body and exercised sometimes quite often if not less than that. I may be 43 years old but I have the body of someone months younger.

They shoved me onto a large cushioned couch and said in unison “I hope you can handle two girls at once. We do everything together. We mean everything…”

“Like those two tiny Japanese women on all the classic Godzilla vs. Mothra movies?”

They said ‘huh?’ and I said ‘goddamned generation gap’ and changed my comparison to Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson.

I have to admit; by this point my desires were getting the best of me. But I always hate in these types of stories when men use terms like cock, penis, dick, manhood. I think it cheapens the quality of the tale and insults the imaginations of the readers.

They were on my swollen pink pulsating billy club of love like ferrets on butter. Their skills were well beyond their teenage years. Their whorish ways reminded me of like a loose woman or something. I knew these girls, despite their ‘protective’ press kits, had taken the fleshy pogo-stick ride to Vulva Town before. No virgins were these. But then again, after 43 years, neither was I after the age of 34.

They ripped their shirts off and began to rub each others rib nubs. One of them, not Mary Kate-the other one, turned sideways and I lost her for a second. I thought next Christmas; somebody ought to buy these girls all 3 dimensions. Then the impossible happened. They looked at my rigid violet thruster sausage and said “Ready for both of us at once?”

Knowing I still outweighed both of them combined by at least 250 pounds I nodded. Oh yeah, I would show them the true meaning of Full House. I motioned them over by motioning to them and Mary Kate straddled me first. She may have had sex before but never with Dr. Python’s bananariffic uvula hammer! I saw her eyes roll back in her head the minute I inserted and I knew she was either overwhelmed by my sheer size or possibly channeling Satan, which would explain their billion dollar empire.

She didn’t have to ride the ole bangers and mash rocket alone for long. Her sister was literally drooling at the sight of our rapid fire hump fest. She must have sensed I like dirty talk because she nibbled on my ear and asked “Wanna try my woo-woo?”

Through ways unable to be described by science or a bad writer, both teenage girls climbed onto my flexible meat wand of joy. Then it hit me…how old are these girls? In my blind lust and desire to get back at my wife, was I breaking the law? I couldn’t risk that! I was directly responsible for 19 Amway salesmen missing from my neighborhood. I panicked for a second and blurted out “Are you two of age yet?”

They giggled and looked at their watches…it was just past midnight. On their birthday. They had just turned 18. Not only was I having incredible love-sloshings with two girls at once but I did it. I had beaten every other sick pervert who had checked into the website that did the countdown to when the Olsen Twins would be legal. I was the winner! I may not ever save my marriage, I may never hold down a job for more than 4 months, my children may never believe I am their true birth father but damn it! I won the Boink the Olsen Twins as Soon as They Turn 18 Raffle! Me! Greg Hall!

The butt-cheek-to-nut-slapping ratio had reached a fever pitch and I knew my endurance was coming to an end. Heehee, I said coming. It didn’t occur to me until I felt my swimmers get the green light, until I released the hounds so to speak, that simple physics dictated disaster. The force of my ejaculatory boomage vs. their 79 lbs of human mass…I barely grabbed Mary Kate’s arm in time. But the other one, Other One, flew off of Mr. Peepis like a Tic Tac in a grenade launcher. Like someone put a Cheerio in a coke bottle and then shook it up. She hit the ceiling full force at about 183 MPH.

I grabbed my sweat pants, girdle and leopard skin pouch and ran out the back door. I could hear staff and club leaches alike screaming as they pulled the dangling Olsen from the ceiling tiles and man putty. I ran not because of the paparazzi. I ran not because I was afraid Paris Hilton had come back.

I ran because, and I’m not ashamed to say this, at the very second I orgasmed I thought of my wife. I could only see her face and her face alone. Because she had followed me and was standing behind the twins with a shotgun.

You won’t see this story in any of the tabloids. The Olsen Twins spin doctors took care of that. But I know this story is true. Ever single word. And that’s good enough for me.

Copyright © Gregory L Hall 2007