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From: M1KEHUNT@aol.com
Subject: Women Are Stupid - by M1KE HUNT (Celeste May #9 RP)

It's OK to forward these stories to other people. I mean, as long as
it's OK with the other people. I wouldn't want you to send it to your
9th grade homeroom monitor or anything. Unless she really was fucking
the Science teacher like we all thought.

It's also OK to print the story out and make a copy for a co-worker.
I'd be careful not to leave it on the secretary's desk, especially if
her Rolodex is open to a lawyer's phone number.

Make sure the person you give it to is over 18. Otherwise you could be
in deep shit. I don't know exactly how deep. I'll measure it and get
back to you.


Women Are Stupid - by MIKE HUNT


Yes, I know the title "Women Are Stupid" will cause an uproar. It's
bound to in today's world. And when an author is assailed by critics -
as I am sure to be - he inevitably backs off or tries to weasel his
way out of the controversy or claims he's misunderstood. Or misquoted.
Or something.

Not me. I really believe it. Women ARE Stupid. I'll take it a step
further.  Not just some women, not even most women. All Women. They're
ALL stupid.  I have a story that illustrates it. I don't know how else
to prove it, but I think it's obvious. The story starts below. Spare
me a few sentences for the logic:

Men will do anything for pussy. I mean anything. We'll fly across the
country for an illicit rendezvous; we'll revisit a bar and hope to
meet a girl we saw there last Tuesday and don't even know; we'll even
pretend to like Yanni, or whatever the fuck his name is. Do you think
women behave like that? Shit. You can barely get them to sit down in
front of a porno movie. Even a good one, where the girls have big
tits.

Think about it. Women have all the pussies in the world. 100%. They
*OWN* the market. And yet men have most of the good jobs, big cars,
best toys, political power and prestige. If women just all snapped
their legs shut for a couple of months every man on the planet would
be a whimpering fool, and would happily chuck his power and
possessions for a piece of ass.  It's true.

The funny thing is that every man knows it and women apparently don't.
Now that's a worldwide conspiracy of silence if I ever saw one. I
wonder if Oliver Stone has thought about this?

That's why I say Women Are Stupid. All of them. Well, maybe hookers
have it figured out. But nobody else.


* * * *


I was the luckiest guy in the world. For about a year. When I was 28.

A friend of mine was looking through the front of a major men's
magazine and for some reason was reading the credits. The masthead,
they call it. I never spent much time on that page myself.

Anyway, my buddy called me and said, "I didn't know you worked for
Playboy."

"What??" I barked into the mouthpiece.

He said, "Your name is here on the masthead. Do you have a copy? Take
a look."

I went to my living room and got the latest issue. Sure enough,
someone with my exact name was the Assistant Photo Editor. It was a
funny coincidence, and I pointed out it out to friends over the next
few days. Within a month I was convinced that women are stupid.

Like, I could start up a conversation with a pretty girl in a bar,
confident that she would eventually ask me what I did for a living.
Now my choice was to tell her that I was an accountant for a small CPA
firm or to lie and say that I was a photo editor for a magazine. You
guess. Right. So when she asked which magazine, I would reply
"Playboy."

I was rarely challenged, but if I was it was simple to find a recent
issue and produce my driver's license. Voila! I'm him! I got one of
two responses.  The first was cold, like I was some kind of dirtbag.
That happened maybe 2% of the time. The other 98%, well, that's what
this story is about.

One time, I was hanging around a bar that had girls in T-shirts
serving beers and chicken wings to guys. The bar was called "Jugs," or
something subtle like that. They served their beer in jugs, get it? It
was kind of a slow day, and I was chatting with a couple of the
waitresses. One was cute and one was pretty.  There's a difference.
One was short, one was tall. One big busted, one pretty.  You
understand. It was three minutes of "Where did you go to school?" and
"What movies have you seen?" and stuff like that. Thank god "What's
your sign?" went out in the 70's. And then, "Where do you work?"

I paused. "Playboy. Local office. I handle the northern part of the
state."

"You're kidding," the blonde piped up.

"Nope. I get that a lot. Why doesn't anybody believe it when I tell
them?" I asked.

"I never met anybody who worked for Playboy," the cheerleader said. "I
never even met anybody who *knew* anybody who worked for Playboy." I
could have written cue cards last October for this conversation.

The other girl looked up at me and asked "What do you do there?"

"I'm Assistant Photo Editor. I scout talent, go on shoots, stuff like
that."

"You scout for talent? You mean..." she said with wonder.

"Girls. I find models for the magazine. Centerfolds, pictorials, other
stuff. you know." I shrugged. She was fascinated. Pretty girls usually
are when they think about the fame and fortune that can come from
being photographed in a classy men's magazine. I mean, she'll happily
take off her clothes in front of a stranger with a camera. But do you
think she'll let you unbutton her blouse in the back of a Ford? Not
likely. Well, not without a fight, anyway. Women are stupid.

The second waitress was taller and had dark hair. She was more of a
classic beauty, either Italian or Greek, I decided. Her deep tanned
"look" didn't seem to jibe with the hot pants and the T-shirt tied
under her tits. Still, given a little direction she could be a real
piece of talent herself. She was quieter, surveying me, deciding
whether this was just a line or something.

"How do you do that?" the sis-boom-bah girl asked. She was doing most
of the talking. "I mean, I guess I know how you do that, but how do
you decide?"

"Usually just a quick test shoot. I send 'em in to headquarters with
my recommendation. Usually they follow it. Sometimes they don't." Hey,
not my fault if you don't show up in the next issue.

"Where do you do the shoots around here?" the European flavor asked.

"Oh anywhere, really. The tests are only of the girls. Just Polaroids,
you know. We spend a lot more time thinking about the composition and
theme of the articles when they're actually going into the magazine."
I'd said this maybe a hundred times before. I was even starting to
think I knew what I was talking about. "You can never tell. Sometimes
you'll find the prettiest girl, but it just doesn't translate through
the lens. And sometimes you'll find a girl who's, well, sort of
average, but the camera loves her." I shrugged again. "You never know
until the test."

I casually looked them both up and down. "You know, either of you
girls could make it. You're both quite pretty, in very different ways
of course.  But actually I'm not working at the moment. I just came in
to get a beer." I smiled a lopsided smile. This is how I always looked
when I lied.

The beauty turned to the cutie and said, "Do you think..." She
restarted.  "Would you, uh..."

The cutie said "Sure. In a minute." In a New York second, I thought.

"Yeah, well, I suppose I would too, come to think about it." The girls
looked at each other and giggled.

"Hey, I suppose we could arrange something," I said with practiced
nonchalance. "What's good for you?"

They haggled with each other. They wanted to be there at the same
time; they were friends or something. But California girl got off
shift in a half-hour.  Dark Hair had to work til 9. Couldn't tomorrow,
had to visit Mom. Dentist appointment Thursday. Date for a ball-game
Friday night. The schedules just wouldn't mesh.

I finally interrupted. "Why don't we just do it when you can each do
it?  Whoever isn't in front of the camera is going to be bored anyway.
And you'll probably just make the other one uptight." They thought it
over. The cute blonde said "I'm off shift in 25 minutes." I took the
cue.

"Fine. I'll just nurse a beer until you're ready to go. We can go
wherever you're comfortable. You'll need a bathing suit or T-shirt or
something."

The bronzed babe looked disappointed, like there was only one lollipop
and I had given it to her friend. I turned to her. "I'm REALLY looking
forward to working with you too," I said with emphasis. "You both have
such totally different looks. Variety is the spice of life, right?
That's what we look for in the magazine. Exotic beauty from all over
the world." Her eyes glazed over. I arranged to call her the next day.
Tall and Tan put her name and phone number on the corner of a napkin.

I figured I'd have my dick in the blonde's snatch in 90 minutes, two
hours tops. You could call Morty in Vegas and make book on it. 

The cheerleader and I left together. She asked if I had a studio but I
explained that I didn't since I traveled all over the state. I knew
how to engineer the conversation into a sophisticated "my place or
yours." I had done it dozens of times. We had to go to my apartment to
get the camera anyway. It usually worked like that.

She didn't have a bathing suit with her, of course. But just telling
the girls that they wouldn't have to undress completely made them
comfortable and then they stripped naked. Stupid. I told her she could
stay in her bra and panties, or even in her T-shirt, although it would
make the pictures pretty useless back at the mansion. For Hef to look
at, I meant.

We walked into my place. I kept it neat, especially the living room.
There was a mass of cameras strewn across one of my shelves. In truth,
I had picked them up, broken and useless, at a couple of photo stores.
Barely good enough for door stops. That's why they cost me a total of
$50. They were just props.

We made small talk, and I showed her the place. It wasn't big but it
was nice, and at least I had put a little effort into decorating. I
also left some open space on one side of the living room for my
modeling sessions. "You can change in there if you want or you can
stay right here. Whatever." I walked over and got my Polaroid. I had
94 film packs in a nearby drawer. I even had another cheap instant
camera handy in case my good one broke. It was just insurance.

The expensive model I used cost me half a week's pay. Top-of-the-line.
Auto- focus, light balance, you name it. It did everything but undress
the girls.  Which was good, because I preferred doing that myself.

"OK, let's lose the T-shirt," I said helpfully. Her hands flew to the
bottom of the material and she prepared to whip it over her head. "No
no, slowly slowly. Reveal yourself to the camera." She slowed down. I
pushed a button.  CLICK. The flash flashed. The mechanism whirred, and
a white cardboard treat was ejected from the front. I took it and set
it on the table.

That's the only trouble with those instant cameras. You can't just
CLICK CLICK CLICK, you know? Every push of the button generates
several separate events. And you have to change film packs much more
often. On the other hand, with those regular cameras you have to take
the pictures down to the corner FotoMat and the girl at the counter
gives you the hairy eyeball when you buy them back from her. Like
you're some kind of sleaze, or something.

"OK, lift the bottom up and let me see your bra. Higher. Higher.
That's good."


CLICK. FLASH. The motor whirred. "OK, let's lose the shirt." She
lifted it over her head. I looked back at her. Her bra was not dainty;
it was built for reinforcement and support. She needed it. She stood
there without grace or poise. That was apparently part of my job.
"Stand up straight.  Shoulders back. Good. Tilt toward me a little.
Good. Pooch your lips." CLICK.  Another one wasted. The first
half-dozen always were, but they were important to help the girls
loosen up. I clicked a couple more as I walked around her and looked
at her from various heights and angles.

"Now reach behind and unclasp your bra." Her arms flew to the task.
"Slowly.  Slowly. That's good. Let the straps fall down your arms.
Don't take it off completely. Tease me. Please me." She was beginning
to understand what I wanted. She let the white material slip down the
slopes a little at a time.  Her tits seemed to get bigger and bigger
the more she let it slide.  Finally a reddened circle began to appear.
CLICK. The camera spit out a picture. She dropped the bra to her
navel. Her breasts hung low but firm.  She was huge; at least a D cup.
And I could tell by their sway that they were real, not like those
plastic tits that stupid women buy.

"Oh my," I said. "You really are pretty." 'Pretty' might have been the
wrong expression. What I meant to say was "FUCK! LOOK AT THOSE
KNOCKERS!"

I clicked my way through two film packs while she followed my
instructions to stand, bend, kneel, sit, roll over. I could have
trained Fido with this routine. Bark! Come on, bark!

She willingly lowered her panties and I took some tasteful shots of
her in the buff, standing behind a chair, holding onto a floor lamp,
that kind of thing.  I said "Do you want to do a couple to Hef's
taste?" I was an insider after all.

"What's...that?" she said slowly. "What does he like?"

"Well, tits, of course," I said. Who didn't know that? She chuckled.
"But he really likes to see women lying back on a couch... I don't get
it myself, but it's his taste, you know?"

"Sure." She walked to the couch. She lay down. I fluffed a pillow.

"Rest your head. That's it." She relaxed.

"This is it?" she said.

"Pretty much," I answered. "Arms in. Hold your, uh, tits up." She did.
As she pulled her arms together the oversize mounds of flesh rose up
like the mountains of Nepal. But where those are capped in white, hers
were topped by rose colored peaks the size of chocolate chip cookies.
"Wow. Terrific," I said. I moved down to the end of the couch. "Open
your legs a little." She did. "A little more." She hesitated. "This is
for Hef, remember." He knees fairly flew apart, blatantly revealing
her womanness to me. I hunched over and snapped a picture.  It would
have her thighs in the foreground, her just revealed cunt in
mid-frame, and her mountainous tits further back. Her face was hidden.
To get it in the picture and over her jugs, her neck would have had to
be two feet long.

I walked back to the front of the couch. I leaned over and snapped a
close-up of her snatch. The camera spit out the cardboard square. I
had the lens pointing down at her and the undeveloped picture fell,
hitting her in the pubic hair. I reached for it. Her hand got there
first.

"Sorry," I said. "I wasn't trying..."

"Well I wouldn't be surprised if you were. Look at you," she said. She
was right. I had an erection inside my pants that Houdini couldn't
have hidden.

"Sorry," I said again.

"It's OK. I'd be insulted if you weren't excited, you know?" she said.
Her hand reached out and touched my pants just below the knee. It
slowly traveled up, kneading and stroking my leg as it worked its way
to its destination. I felt her fingers touch my hardness. I stood
there.

"You're amazing," I said. "So beautiful. So sexy. This is so
unexpected." I had met her an hour-and-forty minutes ago. I still had
20 minutes to my two-hour deadline.

She pulled at the zipper to my pants. I stood and watched her hands at
work. She said to me "No pictures now."

"Of course not," I said. I put the camera down roughly at my feet. For
$200 with an extended warranty it could take a little bouncing.

She reached into my fly and extracted my dick. As her fingers
encircled me I began to help. My hands pulled at my belt buckle and
the pants fell to the floor. I loosened her grip on my member just
long enough to push down my boxer shorts, then guided her back. I
stepped out of my pants as I pulled off my shirt.

I let her stroke me for several moments. The feeling was exquisite.
"Omigod," I blurted.

"What?" she said, concern in her voice.

"I forgot the most important part. Your face. I need some shots of
your face." I grabbed for the camera. She let go of my cock.

"Just lie there," I said. I looked through the viewfinder. Her face
filled the frame. CLICK.

"Got it?" she said.

"Oh no. Got to take several more of these. This is the most important
part." I stood before her with my dick waving in the air. "Look sexy,"
I commanded. "Make yourself feel sexy. Show it to me in your face."
Her eyes went to my erection. "That's good," I said. "Very good."
CLICK.

"Closer now. Closer." I moved toward her. I lifted one leg and stepped
over her. I stood above and over her chest and moved the camera in
even closer.  I clicked the shutter again quickly.

My enraged cock hovered over her breasts. I bent my knees, moving down
for a closer shot. My balls dragged along her stomach. With a small
movement of my hips I positioned my tool exactly between those soft
mounds and rested it on the hard breastbone between. I held the camera
over her face. "Come on.  Look sexy. Feel sexy. Do sexy." She squeezed
her arms together and her tits enveloped my throbbing penis; I was
surrounded above and below, to the right and left. "Hold it right
there," I said. She thought I meant the pose, but I meant my dick, of
course. I clicked the camera.

My puffed up prick sought escape. I moved it forward toward her face.
Couldn't get through. I moved it back, toward her cunt. Again, no way
out. "Your face is glowing," I said. "You must be having wonderfully
sexy thoughts. This will make a great shot." My hips bucked forward
and back again. And again. I aimed the Polaroid at her face and
clicked. She was incandescent. "Look at me. Look right at me," I said.
My hips continued to buck; she continued to hold her tits firmly
together providing a tunnel of passion for my cock.

Oh, did I mention my hobby? I'm a craftsman; I sometimes make jewelry.
I can produce a pearl necklace in 30 seconds flat. I was about to give
one to this girl and even help her try it on. Some talent, huh?

On a side note, it's this exact moment that convinces me Women Are
Stupid.  Like if every secretary who ever did this with her boss
stopped right NOW and demanded a promotion to Vice President of
Marketing or something, do you think she would get it? Of course. But
do they do that? Of course NOT.  They're stupid. Uh, sorry for the
interruption.

Anyway, I continued to buck back and forth, call instructions and snap
pictures until the camera ran out of film. I felt my fuse light on its
way to the explosion that always followed. I bucked ferociously. She
squeezed her tits together harder. Then I was at the flash point, my
dick spurting and ejaculating as glob after glob of sticky, smelly
spunk was ejected under pressure. Again and again. Each exciting
tingle producing another string of white droplets.

It was a pretty piece of jewelry, this necklace. The pearls were
everywhere, tastefully arranged all over her neck and chest. One or
two of my spurts had happened while I was in backstroke, and I had cum
into the tunnel, only to push it out on my next thrust. I had jizz
dripping from my cock and balls. Ummmm.  It was OfuckingK. I glanced
into the kitchen.

"Unbelievable," I said.

"You really think so?" she giggled.

I was talking about the clock, not her. I still had three minutes to
spare.  Like I said, two hours from "Hi" to Pop City. Of course I
hadn't cum in her pussy, so my prediction wasn't totally accurate.
Close enough. "Really unbelievable." What else can you say?

I walked to the kitchen and grabbed the dish towel. I tossed it to her
as I pulled a paper towel from the roll to wipe myself up. The next
part would take five minutes. It always did. She'd ask how long it
would take to know something. I'd explain that I mailed the pictures
to Chicago, and hopefully at the next monthly editorial meeting they'd
be looked at, and then someone would call me. Sometimes those meetings
were real busy, tho, and could slip a month.  Or two.

Occasionally I'd pick up a current Playboy from the coffee table and
show the girl my name on the masthead. Sometimes not, it didn't
matter. The girls always bounded happily out of my place leaving
behind a satisfied impostor.

The next day I called Contestant #2. She was the one with all the
schedule problems, and we made a date for Saturday, three days away.
There was just no way to make it sooner.

She rang the bell at 10AM sharp. I always like punctuality. It shows
interest.

"Hello Rona," I said. "Come in."

She stepped through the door. She looked wonderful. Tanned,
mysterious, a trifle exotic. A nice change. She carried a little gym
bag.

"I brought a bathing suit like you said. Two suits, actually. You can
take your pick."

"Great," I answered. "Can I get you something to drink?" She shook her
head.  "Diet Coke? Fancy water?" She shook her head again. I gave her
the nickel tour. It was a token effort; I only had a three room
apartment. 

When we walked into the bedroom I gave the standard pitch. "You can
change in here, or...out there. Doesn't really matter." Actually to
some girls it does.  Taking off their clothes to the camera is OK, but
just standing and changing in front of that same guy, well, they think
that's weird. Tell me that's not stupid.

She said, "I'll change in here."

"Fine," I said. "You said you had two suits..."

"Oh, yeah." She fished around in the gym bag and brought them out. One
was a loud bikini with big yellow and blue swirls. Well not that big,
since there was so little material. The other was a soft blue
one-piece, just a slight vertical ribbing to the material, no pattern.
She just knew I would choose the bikini. Easy choice. I picked the one
piece.

It was a simple decision, really. The one piece was very low cut with
slits running all the way down the sides. And it had no pattern to
distract the eye. Not that my eye wasn't practiced and all, but I hate
patterns on bathing suits. Why do you think the army paints that green
shit on its tanks and battleships? Cause it makes you crazy and your
eye can't focus. Same thing.  Blue and yellow bikini, camouflage green
Humvee. Same thing. Anyway the one piece was one of those cheeky
models that I thought would be interesting.

I left the room. When she appeared she was holding her T-shirt in
front of her.  "I didn't know if you'd want to have this..." she said,
unsure of herself.

"Yeah, bring it in. I don't know if we'll use it or not," I answered.
I'd played the T-shirt game with her friend; she and I wouldn't need
it. I wondered if beauty and cutie had talked.

She walked over to the open area of the living room. "OK, stand up
tall." I got ready to waste a half-dozen pictures. CLICK. "Shoulders
back, good posture now." CLICK. "Pretty face. Smile." I moved in for a
close-up. CLICK. I took one from a few feet away. She filled the frame
from her covered navel to her dark haired head. She was taller than
I'd remembered, a good 5'8" I guessed.

The suit was quite attractive, if plain. The low cut front gave way on
the sides to daring slits that ran almost to her hips. There was just
a small spaghetti strap under each arm keeping the front and back
panels pulled toward each other. There was a matching strap that
looped behind and over her shoulder, and kept it from falling down. It
was a nice effect.

"OK, what should we do?" I asked rhetorically.

"Well you started with the T-shirt a couple days ago," she said. So!
They had talked. I wondered how much.

"That was a couple of days ago. And, uh, it was different.." I tried
to cover my tracks. "We could have you hold some props, maybe, or do
some exercises, or..."

She interrupted. "I do modern dance. Maybe you have some music I could
dance to and you could take some pictures?"

"Great idea," I said, walking over to the stereo. I punched the button
on the CD player. Yanni's orchestra filled the room.

"Oooo, Yanni," she squealed. "I love him."

"Me too," I said.

She began to move with the soft instrumental. She was lithe and she
slowly twirled in front of me, her body twisting as she leaned against
the couch.  I grabbed the Polaroid. CLICK. Whirrr. Spit. I held a
cardboard memory.  She turned her neck and looked at me. CLICK.
Another.

"OK, let's get a little risque, here," I said to her. She raised her
right arm, as if to conduct the orchestra, and reached around with the
other. She pulled on the little bow that held the side together; the
strings released. Nothing much changed, though; the taut neckline was
still held in place by the shoulder straps. Then she bent forward as
she moved to the music. Now I could peek in the side. Her bare breast
visibly hung from her chest, I could see the small pink tip just
brushing against the inside of the front of the suit. "Now that's
terrific," I said. CLICK. A keeper.

She straightened up, and though she was now facing away from me, said
"I heard you like to be teased." She continued moving. "Is that part
of the job, or just personal predilection?"

"Both," I said. "All men like to be teased. Just not forever."
Actually in my case I'll choose forever, but I'm weird. Not stupid,
though.

"I see. So if I did this.." She pulled the bow on the other side. Her
hand flew to the opening and she pulled the material forward, giving
me a flash of her other breast. CLICK. I already had a mirror shot of
this, but you can never be too careful, right? Then she added, "I was
a little worried, because I'm not built like, uh, well like you're
used to." She spun away again.

It was true; she was maybe a B cup. But her slim figure and height
were perfect for her bust and hips and complimented her off-shore
looks. I saw sultry. I wanted sultry. "What do you mean, like I'm used
to?"

"Like a few days ago. With those big hooters of hers. I know you
*really* liked that." She hit the word 'really' hard. "I even know
that it ended with you, um, having sex on her chest, and you know, I'm
not built like that."

Well. Apparently MIKE HUNT doesn't have any secrets from these two
dolls.  OK, maybe one. The name on the paycheck on Friday says "Harris
Peterwick, CPA" instead of "Playboy Enterprises."

I backpedaled. "Hey, uh, that just happened. I mean that's not usually
how things end at all." Some women get offended if they think all you
want is to fuck them. Most even want a card on Valentine's Day! They
are soooo stupid.

Statistically I was telling the truth. You see tit-fucking was less
than 15% of my trade. Straight fucking was about 44%, blow jobs were
24% (about 39% and 61% swallowing and non-swallowing, respectively),
and I got a hand job about 7% of the time. That was really out of
style, I guess. I kept track because I'm an accountant, remember? It's
not as easy as you think. For instance, how do you classify a tit-fuck
where at the last minute she takes you in her mouth?  These things
take a lot of time to analyze. (The answer to this particular example:
it's a tit-fuck unless she swallows. Then it's a blow job.)

"It's OK. Live and let live, I say. But I knew that this session
wouldn't end like that one for a couple of reasons." Her voice was
firm.

"Oh?" I didn't know what else to say.

"Here are two," she said, hooking her thumbs in the bathing suit and
pulling them to the center. Both tits popped out the sides as she
squeezed the material together between them. My jaw must have dropped,
because she burst out laughing. By the time I had the camera in
position for a shot, she had released the material and the suit sprang
back to its original shape.  CLICK. I got a picture of a pretty girl
in a bathing suit. Swell.

"Obviously, they're not big enough for, you know, what you did."
Obviously.  "And I thought this was a professional shoot." Absolutely.
"And I'm not lying down on the couch for any 'special pictures' for
Mr. Hefner." Of course not.

"I wouldn't think of it," I said. I might not get into this pussy
after all.  It happened occasionally.

She seemed reassured. "Do you think I won't get in the magazine
because I don't have huge, uh, breasts? I mean, I know that tits are
important and everything, but there's more to beauty than just that."

"I agree," I said. "For instance, with you there's your face and your
smile." She grinned. She turned to the music. "And there's your
overall body shape ... Would you pull that material forward again? I'm
afraid I missed it last time. I can't quite see ... That's good ...
CLICK ... Thanks ... You have wonderful legs, I mean look at them,
long, tan, muscular ..." She lifted one of them and swung it at me. A
quick beaver shot to the sounds of Yanni. CLICK. I inserted another
pack of film. "Even nipples are important, believe it or not."

That's true actually. Have you ever noticed how many different kinds
of nipples there are? Small hard ones. The ones where the tip sticks
way out. Nipples that rise like upside down ice-cream cones. Wide
nerps with just a tiny tip in the center. Pointy ones. Even inverted
ones, for heaven's sakes. Don't you love them all? Oop. Sorry. Got a
little carried away.

"We need to get sexier, here," I said. "There's usually no second
chance.  You have to put your best foot ... or whatever part of your
anatomy you choose ... forward." I paused. "How about your ass?"

"How about my ass?" she wanted to know.

"I happen to think it's terrific. Walk to that table and lean over
it." She put her elbows on the table and planted her feet about a foot
apart. Her butt stuck high in the air; her smooth ass cheeks poked
through the strategic cut of the suit. She took a cue from the
increasing tempo of the music and rocked up on her tip toes, then back
down. She moved her feet apart. Well apart. She held the pose. Then
she recentered herself, and stuck one leg out straight behind her, as
though she were a figure skater traveling the rink.

I bent my knees and crouched behind her. I was four, maybe five feet
back contemplating her perfectly round, firm buttocks split by the
smooth, taut, narrow material of her suit when I heard her ask "Is
this good?"

It was very good. "Yeah, uh, sure," I said. It was better than very
good.  It was Ass-mate of the Month. It was Queen Ass. It was Miss Ass
of the Decade, and there were still three years to go! It was a safe
bet. Call Morty!

I focused on the split between her legs, covered as it was by the thin
bathing suit. "Perhaps it's time to lose the suit." Sometimes it's
difficult for me to get through a sentence like that without
interjecting an "Oh please oh please oh please." I can be a whimpering
fool if I'm not careful. But hey, Men, I was strong; I didn't let down
my guard. The conspiracy lives! Solidarity!

To my everlasting gratitude and not a little surprise, she stood up
and yanked at the shoulder straps. They untied like the strings on a
present on Christmas morning, and my statuesque package stood before
me, unwrapped and unashamed.  She stood tall, with her breasts proudly
jutting from her chest. The tiny pink nipples that I had only seen in
flashes were gone. In their place were small hard buttons the size of
quarters, with large taut points at the tip. Their color had deepened
from a primrose to a scarlet ocher.

CLICK. A fantasy captured on cardboard. CLICK. I had to have another.

She turned around, did a graceful pirouette to the sounds in my
speakers, locked her elbows and put her palms flat on the table. She
tossed her head and looked at me over her shoulder. She was just as
beautiful from the back.  CLICK.  Her hands began to slide away from
each other, toward the ends of the table.  Out, out they went. She
bent from the waist. She stopped the slide just before her breasts
brushed the table top. Her tits hung straight down, and gravity helped
increase their dimension. She bent her neck and looked at me under the
arch formed by her arm. She smiled at me. CLICK.

I was uncomfortable. Not because this exquisite sexual creature was
naked and writhing in front of me. Well, actually, *exactly* because
she was naked and writhing in front of me. You see, I had an erection.
A boner. A monster.  About the general shape and size of the state of
Tennessee. And it was in the wrong position inside my pants. You know
the feeling. You should have something like it right now.

As I casually tried to rearrange my firmness, she stepped back from
the table and bent down fully, a complete jackknife, with her head at
her ankles.  Her bottom was just a few insignificant feet from my
face. My knees trembled.  I pulled again at the bunchee in my pants.

She twisted her torso slightly, and her head appeared from behind her
ankles.  She looked straight at me. "Are you trying to touch
yourself?" she asked.

"Oh no," I replied quickly. "I was just sort of, ah, rearranging..."

She cut me off. "Because if you were I would understand." My ears
perked.  "I think it's completely natural, after all."

"Really? You wouldn't mind?"

"Don't be silly."

Now I can take a hint, which this wasn't. This was a sledgehammer. My
free hand came up and found the tab of my zipper. I pulled. I reached
inside. I withdrew my little friend. I wiggled in the open air. I
waggled. She stared.  I brought the camera to my eye. CLICK. I had a
picture of the loveliest ass I had seen in 6 years, 3 months, and 14
days. (I'm an accountant, remember?) And framed by this perfect ass
was a perfect pussy. The lips, while not puffy, had a fierce glow that
reminded me of golden marshmallows over a camp fire.  The target I
aimed to pierce was nestled between a thinner set of perfectly defined
lips which peeked out from behind the marshmallows. And directly above
this stunning cunt was a pretty puckered asshole, small and
symmetrical. I moved in for a close-up. The picture should have been
great but it wasn't, as I only had one hand to hold the Polaroid. You
understand. The way I was shaking, Hollywood's best Steadi-Cam
wouldn't have helped.

I eagerly stroked myself while I looked at the mountain of pulchritude
before me. I asked "How long can you hold that position?"

"Indefinitely," came the answer. "I told you I dance. It makes me very
limber."

'It makes me very horny,' I thought. I didn't say it.

"Are you going to stroke yourself off?" she asked. She caught me by
surprise.

"Well, uh..." I was embarrassed.

"Because you're obviously not going to tit-fuck me," she giggled. "I
don't have the equipment. And you're not going to stick that thing in
my pussy because I'm not on the pill. And anyway I hate condoms."
Disappointment. "So maybe you could use the back door?" Her voice was
unassured, insecure, questioning.

I gaped at her asshole. I stared at her face. I looked back at her
asshole.  Most days of my life I didn't know if there was a Deity or
not. Now I knew.  There is, and He is good.

I didn't say anything for several seconds. My tongue was lost
somewhere in the backwoods of Wyoming. She thought I was being
reluctant. "I just thought you would enjoy, I mean, I know the other
day that you, you know..." Aha! She was competing with the
cheerleader. She didn't want to finish second in the contest. An hour
ago the smart money would have been on the big tits. Even Morty
wouldn't put odds on this race now.

I stepped forward and aimed my cock. As it neared her asshole, a drop
of fluid formed on the tip. I smeared it over my dick head. It was
replaced by another. I smeared again. I made the lightest contact,
resting the tip of my hard-on perfectly in the cavity of her pucker.

NOW. Right now. If she turned to me and said, "You have to stop unless
you promise to vote for any woman running for office for the rest of
your life" do you think I would do it? Of course. And I probably
would, too.  Usually maybe. That's why I say Women Are Stupid. They
have all the power.  They just don't know how to use it.

I mean shit, I'd vote for Gerry Ferraro anyway. I'd even take a shot
at her, given half a chance. She looks like a nice piece of ass,
really, in a mature sort of way. And I'd love to fuck a politician, if
only to try to break even.  What's my other choice anyhow, Madeleine
Albright? Barney Frank? Oh, sorry.  I get carried away sometimes when
I'm spouting politics. Limbaugh should have such self-control.

Anyway, I gave a gentle push forward. The pucker opened, and my
mushroom cap disappeared. I pushed some more. I sank into her, inch by
inch. I wished I had more lubrication handy; she had a tighter ass
than most girls I'd experienced.  On the other hand, who wants to
slide into the Hershey Highway, Size 42?  Well, I mean, if it's what's
handy, but... Come on, you know what I meant.

I continued pushing, then withdrawing, fighting and clawing my way in.
She remained bent over; now she held her ankles firmly in her hands.
"I have an interesting view from down here," she said, looking up at
the fight raging at the top of her legs. "One minute I can see your
nice long prick and the next it disappears. I wonder where it's
going?" She cocked one eyebrow at me as I looked over into her face.

"It's going in your ass, your beautiful fucking ass," I fairly
shouted. I couldn't help myself. "My dick is going in your ass, and
it's going to stay in your ass until I cum in your ass." I was
entranced with her ass, I think.

My rocking continued, she began matching the rhythm, my balls slapped
against her cunt in synchronization with Yanni's orchestra. Now that I
think about it, maybe I DO like him.

I bent forward and grabbed at her tits. Hanging upside down and with
the bouncing, it was difficult to keep a firm hold. The small nipples
were so taut

and pointy that at least I had something to scrape against with my
fingertips to regain my grip. I was bent over her and my chest grazed
her back with each backward thrust, my hands squeezed the hard tips of
her soft boobies, my fierce digit pierced her rectum.

How long could this go on? Not long enough. I knew I was ready. She
knew, too.  "Come on, Mr. Playboy photography editor, dump it in me. I
want to feel your dick when you cum. I love the feeling when you fuck
me and cum in my ass." I couldn't take any more.

"Then get ready, because here I cum," I cried. She twisted her neck to
look at my face as it contorted in orgasmic agony, then between her
legs at my pounding pecker. I spasmed, and rammed myself as hard
against her as I could.  *WHAM!* I accidentally squeezed one of her
tits too tightly as I convulsed.

"Ow," she yelled. I couldn't help it. I thrust forward again. I
squeezed again, more gently this time. She said "Ooo." I reared back
and felt another on the way. I pushed forward mightily. *WHAM!* She
let go of her ankles and reached for the table to steady herself. I
poked her again. My eyes went foggy, my brain stopped functioning. I
could only feel the thrill of each contraction as my balls erupted
through the hard anger of my cock. WHAM! Juice delicious.  Lots of
lubrication now. WHAM! Another creamy deposit. I gulped a breath of
air. WHAM! Another, maybe the biggest yet. The tickle in my dick was
just indescribable. Wham! A good one. My head was spinning. Wham!
Another. Wam!  Coming down. wam. Ahhh. wam. When I pulled out of my
reverie, had no idea where I was or what time it was. I glanced into
the kitchen. I saw the clock.

52 minutes from "Hi," to Wham-O-Rama. Not a new world's record, but
probably in the Top 20. And the force of my explosion was of greater
magnitude than I could remember. I would have to check my records.

I stayed locked inside her as my dick began to lose its hardness, then
its angry shape, and finally its size. I didn't want to move. But as
all good things must come to an end (if you'll pardon the pun), I
withdrew.

I knew we had about five minutes together. "Did you get everything you
need?" she asked.

"More," I said, gratefully.

"Did you really enjoy the, uh, session?"

"Beyond my dreams. It was the best I can remember." She beamed. She'd
show Miss Big Tits a thing or two! The smart money would have been
wrong.

I threw her a clean towel, and wiped myself off in the kitchen. I was
still breathing heavily as I walked her to the door. I wished her
luck, and told her she'd probably hear from me in a few weeks. She
wouldn't, of course. There were always new fields to plow.

I surveyed the room; there were little white cardboard pictures
scattered everywhere. The camera didn't care where it spit them out. I
walked around gathering them up, and when I had all of them I opened a
small jar on the coffee table. I took out two rubber bands,
straightened up the pile of cardboard images, and applied the elastic
tourniquet to the stack. I walked into the bedroom and opened the top
drawer of a large filing cabinet. It was neatly labeled "M1KE HUNT's".

There was almost no room left in the drawer. All the little white
piles of pictures were neatly stacked and stored, and on the top of
each one was a legend with the girl's name, type of encounter, and
rating. I took out the marker pen and wrote on the back of the new
stack "Rona. Ass. 10."

I have to keep track. I'm anal that way.


* * * *


Well, dear reader, I hope I've proved my point to you. My essay point
I mean.  It's obvious that Women Are Stupid, isn't it? I mean, they
think a dumb fuck like me actually works for Playboy. They think shoes
are important. And they believe it when you say "I won't cum in your
mouth." HA HA HA.

Women Are Stupid. But if you see a bunch of them parading down the
street with signs that say "Pussy Power" and "Turn Off The Cock" and
stuff like that, hey, it wasn't me. I'm on the team. OK?

* * * *

This was a difficult piece to write. It's very tough to intertwine a
political extract with a fuck story and not lose the momentum that I
know you readers enjoy. I don't know if I succeeded or not, and the
price I'm going to pay with flames from pissed off guys and criticism
from women will undoubtedly contribute to my already elevated level of
stress. I need a blow job!

I thought of writing a sort of companion piece, not a sequel exactly,
called "All Men Are Horny Morons", but I figured you'd kick the shit
out of me.

* * * *

The term "Playboy" is a registered trademark, and is used without
permission.  I would have called and asked, but they probably would
have just blown me off.  I'm sure they have a whole building full of
lawyers just waiting to hassle people like me. They shouldn't bother.
I'm broke, and anyway I really like the magazine.

Of course, I wish they had more snatch shots. A tastefully
photographed pussy can be a thing of beauty. Not like those scuzzy
cunts in Hustler, you know?

The term "Hustler" is a registered trademark, and is used without
permission.  I would have called and asked, but why waste my time with
those slimy perverts?

* * * *

MIKE HUNT has more stories to tell. Shoot a few electrons to
Bannerboy1@aol.com to get new ones by e-mail. Please certify that you
are over 18. Or at least lie convincingly. I obviously do. Send
beloved fan mail to M1KE HUNT@aol.com.  Flames also cheerfully
accepted. Fuck you too. Note that the 2nd character in M1KE is a "one"
(1) not an "eye" (I). Thanks.

Copyright 1997 M1KE HUNT. My wife June and I were talking about this
story last night in bed. She said I should use some protection before
I released it. I'm sure this copyright notice is what she meant. I've
also Trademarked the title "Women Are Stupid"<TM>. I have really *BIG*
plans here.  Also protected are "Girls Are Stupid", "Politicians Are
Stupid" and "Writers Are Stupid". I might register "Dental Hygienists
Are Stupid" and "Surveillance Epidemiologists Are Stupid" and other
variants but you have to stop somewhere, right?

Free distribution by computer is allowed. Even encouraged. Otherwise
we all have to go back to buying sleazy little paperbacks in dirty
little stores.

Note: The paperback of "Women Are Stupid" will be published early next
year.  Ask for it by name at your local community bookshop.

For now "Women Are Stupid" is available with other M1KE HUNT free shit
in the <alt.sex.stories> and <alt.sex.stories.moderated> usenet
newsgroups. You can find my older crap (among other places) in Eli's
Finer Archives at <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/>. I
started in March, '97, but there's good stuff everywhere. Of course
there's a lot of shit everywhere, too.

Oh, and that other shit I mentioned at the top of the story? I
measured it.  It's about 30 feet deep. And yes, it's also free.





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