YO ye older mongers:
As I sit here on a nice Sunday, sipping on some vodka and watching Shitass, my cat, chases another crockroach around my delapidated digs....my mind seems to wander back in tome to when old Circus was a young stallion. Seeking out ladies of many nationalities and young gringas that were were certainly less liberated than what we have today and more in need of pecker passion for little or less dinero.
In my early years I was quite an adventurer loooking for quick rides on the wild side with the risk factor being the titillation. Yeah, I as several others in CRT did my best pu*sy pounding in the 50's, 60's and disco 70's. And, although dinero or just a hot willing woman consummates the deal, the foreplay or tracking of the game is what made mongering exciting....and rewarding. Not knowing what was around the next corner. A strange woman in a strange motel, hotel, apt, house, car backseat or on the beach sand in a never been to city or country gave me a sexual rush and excitement. And the real thriller, upping the ante, by phucking married women especially after dodging their husband. Oh, the good old days.
Today's world of mongering is basically the same in many ways but time is no longer on old Circus' side. To this old fart who is well into his second half century of life.....I find new limitations with my diminished lust and this so called mongering sport has developed a lot of moguls.
All nighters have become 10% sex and 90% sleep. The massage at the MP's feels as good as the BBBJ. Foreplay is saying "please Lord, let me git it up." Doggie style is getting out of the bed with a bad back. Rough sex is being with two women at once and not being able to screw the 2nd one....she gets pissed and punches me out. Wild sex is with inanimate objects. Kinky sex is now getting my beard tangled up in her hairpins. A quickie has now become a marathon. Now chicas tell me that I give them an anti-climax. Fellow CRT members call my room at 9pm and ask, "Did I wake you?" Roberto at Idems always checks my blood pressure. Wendy and Maria at the Presidente no longer ask when I will be returning to CR. Chicas show me photos of their grandmother who I banged 36 years ago. A BBBJ and swallow is now a BBBJ and clear her throat. A hand job now only requires two fingers. With a shriveled up 2" pecker I qualify for a handicap sticker. Now chicas and El Ciego offer to help me across the street. I have a tendency to sing along with elevator music. Old Circus' supply of brain cells is finally down to a manageable size. People no longer view me as a hyprchondriac. Clothes I buy now won't wear out. I have a party in my room at the Pres and adjoining rooms don't even realize it. Knowing I'll never use up a pack of condoms. My most lucrative real estate investment in CR is a burial plot.
Shit, now I'm depressed. Somebody call the glue factory.
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