I Did It For The Glory

To put it eloquently, Burt was a connoisseur of coitus. To put it bluntly (and more accurately), Burt was a perv fuck. His face was buried in a saucy little publication, a magazine devoted to anonymous love making between public restroom partitions. Therein he found an application to partake in such fleshy encounters. The women pictured were of superior gene pools, only the finest for subscribers of "Glory Hole Gushers".

Three items were required: 1) A copy of a government-issued ID, 2) Laboratory test results confirming venereal disease-free blood, and 3) A photograph of the applicant's reproductive organ.

An expired driver's license and forged lab results (Burt had previously tested positive for gonorrhea, syphilis, and hepatitis A-C) completed 66.67 percent of the task, so close to 69. Before the big photoshoot, Burt glammed up his gonads like a '40s Hollywood movie starlet, primping his pubes and powdering away all unsightly blemishes.

The good news came two weeks later: Burt was in. He arrived at the given address - some nondescript edifice - at the given time. A suit with a ponytail so greasy it was practically dripping led Burt to the sex space. "Have at it, boss," he said.

Burt unsheathed his bacteria-gorged snake and deposited it through the hole in the wall.

A voice from the other side squeaked, "Not so fast, mister." The voice belonged to a leather-plastered woman clutching a giant black dildo slathered in vaseline. "You're coming in backwards. I'm going to need you to turn around."