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Slippery Id: Chapter Deuce


Indeed it does exist and it's an activity for which the rather lazy term was coined. Bungee Fucking.

"Come on," I said.

"Come on what?" Choad asked, to which I promptly belted him in the face with an oversize dildo that was jiggling atop an active fax machine. The fax was feeding pages to an outside source like Lexington Steele feeding his python to a lanky blonde. The sight of it working its technological grace turned my belly. I seized Choad by his nads and threw a book at him.

"Come on," I repeated. "I pay you good money. Don't jack me off here."

"Usually it's the other way around. Usually if someone's paying me good money they want me to jack them off."

"Enough double talk," I said. "Come real with it."

"I'm dead ass, Bob. It's a bona fide fetish and it's sweeping the sex circuit."

"Bungee fucking."

"The very same," Choad promised. "The very same."

"Look I've seen a lot of kinks. Toenail clippings collected on jerk-off pillows. Crème brulee as a cum-filled custard. Sphincter gymnastics, benwa tennis—an off-shoot of shuttlecock, and a woman who pulled a rabbit out of her box using the sheer command of her kegels. But this sounds a tad extreme."

"Dead ass," Choad repeated. "It's the real deal."

"I've seen bungee jumping followed by fucking on the Brazzers Network," I conceded. "Some athletic dude covered in tattoos railing out some chick named Rachel with a handsome pair of butt-cheeks and an annoying yap on her...after they went bungee jumping. But I've never seen the two running concurrently.

"It doesn't seem plausible or possible. All that blood rushing to your big head. How the fuck is there enough below the waist to support such an activity?"

Choad seemed jar-goggled by this one, but he shook it off and nodded in the affirmative. Indeed it does exist and it's an activity for which the rather lazy term was coined. Bungee Fucking. There it is.

It seemed like something silly a couple of hormonally-frustrated jocks would come up with in fifth period gym, buffing their balls and slapping each other's asses with rolled up wet towels while slinging this wild tale around like it was something real that had happened to one of them. Ya know, "over the weekend," when they were on a day trip in "Canada."

"Who did you do it with?" one would ask.

"Um...well, you don't know her. She's a Canook. Really hot. Like Eva Mendes. Only hotter. Like Eva Mendes and Lindsay Lohan's lovechild."

And the other boys would whoop and hiss and chuckle their fat fucking heads off. "Yeah, I did that once," another would lie. And before you know it the whole school is talking about bungee fucking like it's a common thing. Like getting to second base in the backseat of your father's Chevy Chevette.

Unreal, I thought. But I didn't have any other prospects. It was either this or beg my editor to run a re-print with the addendum, Bob Freville is away from his desk this week with a scorching case of Brazilian cock-toe, the venereal disease spread by paraesthesia resulting from bestial relations with tropical birds. He will return next issue with an in-depth expose on the plight of the Blue-Footed Booby and its multi-chambered vaginal cortex.

A paid vacation in the Galapagos, to study the species, would be a fine frolic. But something told me the Word Slasher wouldn't hear of it. Not least because last issue he received death threats from no less than thirty-two frumpy sexually-repressed housewives from the Rust Belt, harping on him for running my coverage of the Twat Goddess Sightings in Rio De Janeiro. Bungee fucking seemed like the safer bet, even if the act itself sounded risky.

I set about digging for info on this phenomenon straight away. The Web didn't yield much. Instead I found a MySpace page for a gentleman who called himself Bungee Jumping Jesus, the self-proclaimed "inverted saint," an angry lad whose goals were to rip on Jesus and to meet "Eric Cartman and his whore of a mother." His profile's mission statement was to reveal the Son of God as a sham and a phony. How he thought he could accomplish this by bungee jumping totally befuddled me. But I suspected it was just another example of how generations X through Y fail to do anything constructive with their politics besides toss around a hacky sack and smoke bong loads, with the occasional off-trail bicycling jag thrown in for cardio's sake.

When search engines failed to provide any videos or descriptions of this supposedly new trend I tried an alternative; maybe the fact that Choad said they were screwing off the side of a cliff could mean that it was alternately referred to as "off-cliff fucking." When I punched this one in all I found were YouTube responses to David Motari hurling a puppy off a cliff in Iraq. "I'm not here for mutts!" I screamed. I'm here for pussy. Where's the labia locked in G-Force, flapping like a dog's ears out the window of a highway-bound automobile?


Thanks to the wonders of UrbanDictionary.com I eventually scratched the surface. According to one of their posts, by dardaria, "bungee bondage" is the accepted name, and consists of the "common practice" of two individuals being bound together in an awkward position and then taking the plunge together. The resulting sensation is one of fucking while flying, soaring sex, if you will. Consequently the participants return to this form of bondage over and over again, increasing the scale of their precipice point with each subsequent jump.

It was time to take to the back-alleys of some shitty bars and the parking lots of some one-star motels, to track down some actual "bungee bitches," as Joe LaMonte called them on UDC. I knew if I could find a joint with stools that stunk of urine and amyl nitrate I would make a connection.

After tying one on and taking it off at no less than five dives, I staggered into The Wasted Pay Stub, my usual stomping ground, and was surprised to find a girl with a yo-yo dangling from beneath her skirt...sitting in my seat, the one nearest the vomitorium.

"You're in my spot," I told her, my bloodshot blues locked, laser-like, on hers.

"Put your eyeballs back in your head," she exclaimed, "before I get angry."

"Excuse me?"

"Can't even explain you, little man."

It's important to note that I am five foot eleven inches tall and weigh at least two hundred and twenty pounds at any time. How I could be construed as little, without this hellish succubitch ever having glimpsed my manhood before, is mind-boggling.

"Come again?"

"I'll come when I feel like it!" she shouted. "Shit, my legs are still trembling from the base jump in the Catskills."

I had found my connect, the chick who would give me my thread for the article. Now all I had to do was calm her ass down with some hard drink and a couple squirts of lime juice in the eyeballs.

"Simmer down," I said. "That's right. Just pretend we're wrapped together as one with heavy straps."

Once she had rinsed out her sockets and licked her thirst, we got to it.

"Ain't no thang," she said. "It's just like regular bungee jumping. Except that we allow ourselves to be aroused by the straps that secure us. They're our cozy cuffs, if you will."

She polished off a plate of bar nachos— the kind whose cheese is so coagulated as to look like pudding skin— and started in on the jar of pickles Glen kept under the bar. Glen was every stoner-drunk's best friend, a guy who kept enough munchies on stand-by as to sober up the wettest souse.

"You can make your own bondage gear, that makes it more intimate. But the true thrill is the feeling of fucking in the queer pseudo-suspension of gravity. When you are penetrated at the moment of the snap-back, when your body reaches its lowest point, that's like being violated by a laser beam. Full invasion. Like feeling a lightning bolt enter your cervix."

"Uh-huh," I said. And it was then that I was happy not to have been born a woman.

"Exhilirating doesn't begin to cover it."

"So what's in it for the man?" I asked.

"What isn't?" came her reply. Then she launched into a diatribe about why salted pretzels and nuts were the most nefariously deceptive thing anyone ever thought to offer in a bar. "And they're free," she said. "How can they be so shrewd?"

"You're the one with the answers," I said. "Stick to the line of questioning."

That's when she grinned like a Cheshire and drained another white Russian.

"I like your assertiveness," she mused. "You'd be a lot of fun on the free-fall."

I assured her that I would never be up or, rather, down for a bungee fuck, but she poo-pooed this with the wave of her hopelessly trembling palm. "Everybody says that. Until they try it. Once you're on the plummet, with G-force and G-spot merging, crotch-locked in thanatos, you are a lifer." Then she added, "Especially if you die on the way down."

It wasn't a cliff, but my apartment would suffice. She coiled her legs around mine as we crossed the nudie-mag-strewn threshhold and directed me to clutch her right under her ass cheeks. As we lumbered toward the middle of the room she threw her head back, falling freely into the topsy turvy position of a child on the monkey bars. I could smell the electricity of her torso mingling with the musk of her pubic hair as her head tendrils tickled my throw rug.

Guess this is what you would call improvisation, I thought. Even in the mundane milieu of my shitty shanty apartment, this beautiful terrestrial falter-slut finds her groove.

When we reached the sleeping quarters, I swung her onto the bed and she squealed with satisfaction, then immediately sprung back up. She said she wanted me to move the mattress away and plow her on the box spring, arguing that the feel of the metal springs propeling her upwards would act as a nice counter-point to the "downward dog" she was accustomed to.

"Whatever's clever," I figured.

I was pinching my sack in a vain attempt to procrastinate my inevitable climax as she bucked like mad. Even her incessant babbling about carabiners and harnesses couldn't stop me from snapping off. Just as my seed spurted out, half-involuntarily, and my face tingled with the fruit of our efforts, another feeling washed over me, this one on my testicles.

I tucked my chin in my chest and peered down between the falter-slut's legs as she wriggled around and began to recede from my lap. I thought I saw something clammy and robust, a mushroom or a beet, but then she leaned forward and obstructed my view, chewing on my right nipple until she drew blood and I promptly gave up care for what could have easily been a post-coital mirage.

We fell asleep caked in estrus and slept soundly for several hours. Minutes before sunrise I awoke with the blood vessels in my brain so constricted as to scream at my frontal lobe and felt that familiar fire in the tip of my penis, the one that says it's time to empty the pitcher of spirits swollen in my bladder.

As I threw my feet over the edge of the box spring I felt my big toe tap something mushy and dense. With two rolls of the flint wheel on my rusted Zippo, I caught sight of the opaque. The falter-slut was in absencia, but she had left me a golden nugget, one less abstract and far more potent than any of those she had shared in those late hours before.

Looking at it, smeared on the unfinished wood at the food of the bed, I laughed. "Sometimes shit falls down. It ain't something I like, but some just might."

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