Open for sex. MWMMTBBW.

To get to my neighborhood, you have to drive through the neighborhood that I like to call, with all degree of tact and class, the poor neighborhood. More carports than garages, grass replete with brown grass and long weeds instead of lush, green blades, cars parked in the yard, shifty characters, etc.

It's not that my neighborhood is some big fancy palatial neighborhood, either, but there is a noticeable difference when you cross the Iron Curtain, as I like to call the small dip in the road between neighborhoods. Our lawns all usually look pretty good and it just feels friendlier and nicer. And more expensive.

I digress.

Last night, I was driving through the poor neighborhood on the way to my house when I passed one of the houses that actually has a garage. Of course, they don't actually use it as a garage – that would be crazy! Why would they want to park one of the four or five hideous cars that they have in the garage? Instead, it looks like it's converted into a workout room slash den slash hangout slash romper room slash bedroom.

In the garageslash window, less than six feet from the street, is a neon "Open" sign. When lit, it bathes the street in a lovely red and blue glow reminiscent of the outside of a seedy hotel attracting hookers like moths.

The sign was turned on as I drove by, and I turned to look in as I passed. The solitary occupant of the garageslash was sitting on a workout bench, with his Neanderthalic brow furrowed, doing bicep curls.

In my head, I stopped to talk to him:

Me: Hi!

Idiot: Umm. . . hi.

Me: What are you open to?

Idiot: Huh?

Me: The sign – it says you're open.

Idiot: Oh.

Me: So what are you open to?

Idiot: What do you mean?

Me: I mean, are you open to larger men ejaculating on your chest? Fisting?

Idiot: What??!

Me: Or are you more open to someone stepping on your nuts and hitting you with a cane?

Idiot: What the fuck are you talking about?

Me: Well, it says that you're open. I just figured that since you are announcing your openness to the whole world via neon sign, you've got to be pretty damn open, right? Do you want me to pee in your mouth?

Idiot: That sign's not meant like that!

Me: Aww, c'mon, it's okay. You can tell me. I mean, it's not like you're just putting it there to show that you're home. The light in the garageslash would show that. Do you want me to put on some stockings and you can suck my toes?

Idiot: Get the fuck out of here!

Me: I can't leave yet – I just told my friends all about your "open" sign, and they're on the way here. They're a bunch of bikers who call themselves the Scat Brigade. I hope you're open to getting pooped on.

Idiot: This is just for my friends . . .

Me: That's clearly not the case – none of them have cell phones? You can just call them and say, like, "Hey Jimmy, I'm home. Come over." This sign has to be here as an indicator of your desire to participate in some of the filthiest sex acts known to man. Can I give you an enema?

Idiot: *sobs*

Me: It'll be fun! This place is going to give Sodom and Gomorrah a run for their money. I'll be right back – I have to run home and get my gimp suit.

And of course, by the time I returned, the garageslash door was closed, the open sign was gone from the window and the lights were off.


I have 9 raffle tickets left to sell in one week. Do you have $7 left in your Paypal account? I know you do. Don't be a bastard!

Who is the ticket for?

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