puckhead's Journal: The Worst of Anonymous Coward 8

Do you know me? Well, if you've been to an orgy in the greater Cincinnati area in the past 17 years, you've probably seen me (or at least part of me). My name is Hank Wetzel, and I am the king of the Cincinnati group-sex scene. You may have heard a story or two--and believe me, there are hundreds--about my legendary carnal exploits. Yet as renowned as I am, and as much fun as I've had, few people realize that it's not easy being the life of the orgy.

Anytime four or more people decide to get naked together in Cincinnati, someone inevitably says, "We need Hank. Hank should be here." Why? Because they know that once I get there, I'm going to blow the roof off the joint. Everybody who likes to swap, group-grope, or rut around on protective plastic sheets is sure to light up at the mention of my name. But do any of them know the real me? I'm not so sure.

They see my mastery of countless freaky positions, my vast collection of latex outfits, and my skillful use of the Polynesian fuck-swing, and they think they know Hank. Well, they don't know Hank. They're too distracted by my way with writhing piles of flesh to see the sadness beneath all the sucking and fucking.

It's not that I don't enjoy what I do. The daisy chains, the S&M dungeon parties, and the round-robin clusterfucks are still fun, but the pressure to always be "on" can be exhausting. Remember: There's a person with hopes and dreams behind that nine-and-a-half-inch cock.

People should know that when I'm alone or out of my group-sex circle, I'm basically a shy, simple guy. It's only when I pick up the scent of K-Y that I transform from Hank the Coca-Cola bottling-plant supervisor to Hank the Fuck Machine.

Sometimes, I think this is slowly killing me.

It's harder than you'd think to keep up the positive orgy attitude. If I don't meet and exceed someone's expectations, I'm no longer the top fuck dog in town. As great a group lover as I am, that kind of reputation can be hard to live up to. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

You may be wondering why I do it. Why do I pleasure four people at once when two would suffice? Why do I bring my partners to such heated climaxes that they unleash a symphony of frenzied shrieks? And why do I always have to be the last one standing at the orgy, still humping away while the others are collapsed in post-coital bliss? I used to think it was just because I like getting people off. Now I know the truth: that being the life of the orgy is all I have.

I can't just lay back and let a girl blow me on a couch like everyone else. I have to put on a whole sex show, to be the center of a whole crowd, whether I'm in the mood or not.

I know I won't be able to keep this up forever. Eventually, a younger, better-looking, more flexible young buck is going to come along with a bigger dick and more tricks, and I'll be brushed off to the side room. Either that, or I'm simply going to lose my edge. I've seen it happen. I've seen people who've slowly lost it. Like Clara Mascara. Antonio. Dirty Ben. I don't want to go out like that. I don't want people to whisper, "What happened to Hank? He used to fuck like a champ."

If I have to leave the scene, I want to go out on top like my mentor, Frank Fourteen-Inch. Frank hung up his anal beads in his absolute prime, and people still talk about him like he could fuck no wrong. That's the way to go.

I'll never forget the last thing Frank told me just before he walked away from the game. He said, "If you want to make people fuck like there's no tomorrow, you must remember the pain of yesterday."

Back then, I didn't understand what he meant. I do now. I've come to realize that even when you're face-deep in hair pie while simultaneously coating someone else's belly with your steamy man-butter, being Orgy King can be awful lonely.