Doc here, a man who some say was once affectionately known as "Neptune's Trident" to the bocce community.
Good readers of The Journal, you are in for a wonderful Monday treat! Hugh Mungus returns with his second report, and it's another doozy of great intel, funny narrative, and some creative boning all in one serving size.
In this report, Hugh Mungus returns to Personal Preference in Mesa, AZ. As a veteran of many conflicts within the foxhole at PP, he has some solid insight into this adult theater/abs that should not be missed.
Take it away, Hugh Mungus!
***
The cactus outside Personal Preference (PP) was more twisted than the belief Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump actually care about us. I sat in a bug-baked jalopy, gazing through the greasy windshield at the neon porn theater sign. Inside the licentious locale, a pocketful of spent condoms, and six minutes of sweat on the hardwood floor, were the sole reminders I'd even been there.
Although the Moon wasn't quite full, it was brighter than bleached teeth, and illuminated the desert around me. A mile to my right, the scant lights of this burg just stopped. They didn't flicker out; they simply ended where asphalt ceased, and gritty desolation began.
I was on the fringes of nowhere. In a macrocosmic sense, I reminded myself, every human on Earth is on the outer reaches of nothing, as we hurtle through space, far-removed from the more populated portions of this galaxy.
Half an hour earlier, I'd roped a trailer park GILF in the back of the theater, as she'd stroked her hubby's salient sword. Walking in on the action, I'd immediately gone to work ― realizing none of the other single males in attendance would make a move. Stripping to bare flesh, I pumped my proud protrusion and brought it to its full length. From there, I'd migrated toward the duo on question, inquiring if I could join the joviality.
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| Personal Preference Mesa, AZ |
A thumbs up from the man of the house was all it took for me to be positioned perfectly above his wife. The delicious damsel in question wreaked of Vick's Vap-O-Rub and some perfume sample from the pages of Cosmo, whilst loitering in a Circle K.
"Jack him off," hubby commanded.
A compliant wife reached up, fondling my fullness.
"Holy shit!" she exclaimed, examining my erection, rolling it over in her trembling, little hands. "You're fuckin' huge! I don't think I can take it all―"
"Just try. That's all I ask. Just try."
In the end, the wanton wife was correct in her assertion, but she received an "A" for effort. Had I an honorable mention medal, I would've pinned it to her push-up bra, as she wandered out of the movie house.
Upon her departure, a bubbly Native American nugget stumbled in ― and the whole process began again.
It was just another lazy evening, cradled in the loving arms of some southwestern town, in the heart of southwestern nowhere.
I'd ambled through the desert ― on a horse with no legs ― in search of Personal Preference, after poring over auspicious field reports, late night on Dr. Lizardo's Website. Carefully carving the porn palace into my itinerary, I scampered across the cracked and bleeding landscape ― palming frosty, hand-crafted Micheladas the entire trip.
PP blends into the sparse environment the way Burt Reynolds' current eyebrows blend seamlessly into his face. Thin, sand-colored walls are all that separate folks in these rural parts from a cornucopia of concupiscence. Step through the door declaring "Must Be 18 to Enter," and find yourself ― as with most porn peddlers ― drowning in a pool of prurient paraphernalia that would make Larry Flint get a boner from beyond the grave (ed. note: Larry is still with us). Everything from cock rings to clit caressers, to a bountiful basket overflowing with used porn pulp from the '70s, '80s and '90s can be procured here. But you came for the theater, didn't you? Hence, fuck all that.
Cough up 10 donuts ― the way a mangy mutt belches forth a half-swallowed splinter of bone stuck in its craw ― and you've purchased your tattered ticket to the freak show.
Having frequented Personal Preference a dozen times, I'll provide a sprawling overview of my experiences there, as opposed to a single-shot expose of one particular evening.
"Jack him off," hubby commanded.
A compliant wife reached up, fondling my fullness.
"Holy shit!" she exclaimed, examining my erection, rolling it over in her trembling, little hands. "You're fuckin' huge! I don't think I can take it all―"
"Just try. That's all I ask. Just try."
In the end, the wanton wife was correct in her assertion, but she received an "A" for effort. Had I an honorable mention medal, I would've pinned it to her push-up bra, as she wandered out of the movie house.
Upon her departure, a bubbly Native American nugget stumbled in ― and the whole process began again.
It was just another lazy evening, cradled in the loving arms of some southwestern town, in the heart of southwestern nowhere.
I'd ambled through the desert ― on a horse with no legs ― in search of Personal Preference, after poring over auspicious field reports, late night on Dr. Lizardo's Website. Carefully carving the porn palace into my itinerary, I scampered across the cracked and bleeding landscape ― palming frosty, hand-crafted Micheladas the entire trip.
PP blends into the sparse environment the way Burt Reynolds' current eyebrows blend seamlessly into his face. Thin, sand-colored walls are all that separate folks in these rural parts from a cornucopia of concupiscence. Step through the door declaring "Must Be 18 to Enter," and find yourself ― as with most porn peddlers ― drowning in a pool of prurient paraphernalia that would make Larry Flint get a boner from beyond the grave (ed. note: Larry is still with us). Everything from cock rings to clit caressers, to a bountiful basket overflowing with used porn pulp from the '70s, '80s and '90s can be procured here. But you came for the theater, didn't you? Hence, fuck all that.
Cough up 10 donuts ― the way a mangy mutt belches forth a half-swallowed splinter of bone stuck in its craw ― and you've purchased your tattered ticket to the freak show.
Having frequented Personal Preference a dozen times, I'll provide a sprawling overview of my experiences there, as opposed to a single-shot expose of one particular evening.
 |
| Personal Preference, 2013 Mesa, AZ |
Since visiting PP, I've humped four women within its crazy confines, received two blow jobs, three hand jobs, fingered two gorgeous gals, dined on four pussies, been informed by girls and guys alike I'm hung like a Clydesdale, been admonished as a lame lay, punched once, rejected by three women for being "too large," and kicked to the curb countless times for looking like a creepy cross between a Columbian used car salesman and Mr. Miyagi ― probably now, as opposed to 25 years ago, when he starred in Karate Kid…and was still alive (ed.note: Pat Morita is still dead.). For $10 a pop, I ain't spendin' my tip money anywhere else. During down time, I've discussed ― with patrons at Personal Preference ― everything from Wilhelm Reich and Orgone energy, to how overpaid Dr. Phil's hairdresser is. Hence, why pitch a sawbuck in any other direction?
The lowlight reel?
You got it!
Obviously, the punch is most salient on our list of "must sees."
First off, let's get the precursors out of the way. Although my mom and dad are good-lookin' folk, I haven't only been beaten with the ugly stick, I've been bashed with the entire forest from whence it came. Thus, the words, "That Hugh Mungus is so hot!" have never, and will never, be uttered. You'll more likely see Steven Hawking performing in a homemade porn with Miley Cyrus.
On top of this ― like hot fudge on a sundae ― I'm shorter in stature than most lawn gnomes.
If all that weren't enough of a flaming hoop ― the diameter of a dime ― to have to jump through, I'm thinner than the difference between a convicted felon and a politician.
Hence, nobody's interested in me when my clothes are on.
The above stated, my aces in the hole are a demeanor similar to a Walmart greeter on Ecstasy, and what female friends refer to as the Nine Inch Nail between my legs. Armed with solely these attributes, I enter the Orgasm Octagon at every opportunity, incurring as many brutal beatings as it takes, in order to get laid like shag carpet during the disco era.
These drubbings come in the form of verbal thrashings, or the ubiquitous flake jobs that are par for the single guy course. On one particular evening, however, I literally took a punch in my pursuit of pleasure.
You know it's hot when inanimate objects perspire. Such was the case on this night, as the theater ― like many things deep in the desert ― was sweating. Working the late Friday crowd, I hedged my bets female clientele at the Trough ― a weary watering hole down the street ― would imbibe enough "liquid courage" by last call to lock their internal GPSs on Personal Preference, and follow that direct path to my crotch.
Such appeared to be the case, as a couple wandered in around 2 AM. The jukebox screeched to a halt; all conversation ceased; and every head turned toward the lone individual sporting natural breasts. The dynamic duo ― a buxom BBW and some Latin guy, who looked like a street thug from the original Kojak series ― immediately headed for the opposite theater. A friend ― and longtime veteran of PP ― quickly turned to me, promulgating, "I know this couple. The dude likes watching his girl take big dick. Get over there and get that thing outta your pants before they leave."
"All for the sake of the team," I lied to myself. "All for the sake of the team."
Mind you, these scenarios start out like a scene from Boogie Nights ― "Damn, dude! Is that thing even real?!" ― but typically end with me alone and sobbing in a corner, like a kid who's lost his parents, and is crashing hard ― post-sugar rush ― at Disneyland.
I ambled into the theater, positioning myself across from the couple ― who were already engrossed in the scintillating dialogue from yet another mesmerizing porn ― this one interracial Hot Wife flavor.
As per my friend's suggestion, I dropped my pants and stroked like an Olympic swimmer in a desperate medal race. Immediately receiving the green light, I wandered over to the couch, and performed my best impression of an infant seeking precious mother's milk.
Fuck her, man. Fuck her with that horse dick!"
A condom was donned; the all-beef frank inserted into the preheated oven, and I began mentally recounting the 1973 World Series, pitch by pitch.
"Daddy," came the taciturn whimperings of the big, beautiful babe beneath me.
"Fuck her harder, man. Fucker her harder!" Whatever this shameless chaperone was smoking earlier, fallaciously certain I knew what the hell I was doing.
"Harder, man! She can take it! Give it to her harder!"
Less certain which path to take than a Price is Right contestant standing before doors one, two and three, I followed the dissolute dude's lead to Jonestown and laced Kool-Aid.
"Ow, daddy!"
The fist connected with bare flesh, and he delivered it with as much finesse as an acrimonious, intoxicated mail carrier does a package, moments prior to quitting in anger. There was no crack ― not the type one hungers for between a woman's legs, but the kind one expects to hear from a whip snapping back upon itself. It was funny; I'd always anticipated a shrill cacophony to emanate from a right cross, left jab, or any other type of punch, as it found exposed skin. That's the way it's portrayed in kung fu movies, as they spill forth from one's dilapidated Panasonic, 13-inch at 3 AM. Crack or no crack, it didn't matter, since I'd already penetrated what was either the guy's wife, or his girlfriend, and she was thus the most recent addition to my licentious list.
The lowlight reel?
You got it!
Obviously, the punch is most salient on our list of "must sees."
First off, let's get the precursors out of the way. Although my mom and dad are good-lookin' folk, I haven't only been beaten with the ugly stick, I've been bashed with the entire forest from whence it came. Thus, the words, "That Hugh Mungus is so hot!" have never, and will never, be uttered. You'll more likely see Steven Hawking performing in a homemade porn with Miley Cyrus.
On top of this ― like hot fudge on a sundae ― I'm shorter in stature than most lawn gnomes.
If all that weren't enough of a flaming hoop ― the diameter of a dime ― to have to jump through, I'm thinner than the difference between a convicted felon and a politician.
Hence, nobody's interested in me when my clothes are on.
The above stated, my aces in the hole are a demeanor similar to a Walmart greeter on Ecstasy, and what female friends refer to as the Nine Inch Nail between my legs. Armed with solely these attributes, I enter the Orgasm Octagon at every opportunity, incurring as many brutal beatings as it takes, in order to get laid like shag carpet during the disco era.
These drubbings come in the form of verbal thrashings, or the ubiquitous flake jobs that are par for the single guy course. On one particular evening, however, I literally took a punch in my pursuit of pleasure.
You know it's hot when inanimate objects perspire. Such was the case on this night, as the theater ― like many things deep in the desert ― was sweating. Working the late Friday crowd, I hedged my bets female clientele at the Trough ― a weary watering hole down the street ― would imbibe enough "liquid courage" by last call to lock their internal GPSs on Personal Preference, and follow that direct path to my crotch.
Such appeared to be the case, as a couple wandered in around 2 AM. The jukebox screeched to a halt; all conversation ceased; and every head turned toward the lone individual sporting natural breasts. The dynamic duo ― a buxom BBW and some Latin guy, who looked like a street thug from the original Kojak series ― immediately headed for the opposite theater. A friend ― and longtime veteran of PP ― quickly turned to me, promulgating, "I know this couple. The dude likes watching his girl take big dick. Get over there and get that thing outta your pants before they leave."
"All for the sake of the team," I lied to myself. "All for the sake of the team."
Mind you, these scenarios start out like a scene from Boogie Nights ― "Damn, dude! Is that thing even real?!" ― but typically end with me alone and sobbing in a corner, like a kid who's lost his parents, and is crashing hard ― post-sugar rush ― at Disneyland.
I ambled into the theater, positioning myself across from the couple ― who were already engrossed in the scintillating dialogue from yet another mesmerizing porn ― this one interracial Hot Wife flavor.
As per my friend's suggestion, I dropped my pants and stroked like an Olympic swimmer in a desperate medal race. Immediately receiving the green light, I wandered over to the couch, and performed my best impression of an infant seeking precious mother's milk.
Fuck her, man. Fuck her with that horse dick!"
A condom was donned; the all-beef frank inserted into the preheated oven, and I began mentally recounting the 1973 World Series, pitch by pitch.
"Daddy," came the taciturn whimperings of the big, beautiful babe beneath me.
"Fuck her harder, man. Fucker her harder!" Whatever this shameless chaperone was smoking earlier, fallaciously certain I knew what the hell I was doing.
"Harder, man! She can take it! Give it to her harder!"
Less certain which path to take than a Price is Right contestant standing before doors one, two and three, I followed the dissolute dude's lead to Jonestown and laced Kool-Aid.
"Ow, daddy!"
The fist connected with bare flesh, and he delivered it with as much finesse as an acrimonious, intoxicated mail carrier does a package, moments prior to quitting in anger. There was no crack ― not the type one hungers for between a woman's legs, but the kind one expects to hear from a whip snapping back upon itself. It was funny; I'd always anticipated a shrill cacophony to emanate from a right cross, left jab, or any other type of punch, as it found exposed skin. That's the way it's portrayed in kung fu movies, as they spill forth from one's dilapidated Panasonic, 13-inch at 3 AM. Crack or no crack, it didn't matter, since I'd already penetrated what was either the guy's wife, or his girlfriend, and she was thus the most recent addition to my licentious list.
Let's just say this coach didn't like the athlete's performance
I withdrew my membership from the Latest Lass club, and retreated to a darkened corner. Minutes subsequent, the wild-eyed Latino apologized for his erratic outburst and beckoned me back into the action. Declining, I opted to simply watch as two corpulent day laborers mounted the bouncing beauty, and Meadowlark Lemon announced his imminent orgasm on the Big Screen behind me.
From drunken dames stumbling out of local gin joints — cocktails concealed, still in their original glassware — to salacious seniors swappin' spit, Personal Preference should not be missed. My most recent sojourn to P-squared found me firmly embedded in a BBW of Earth-shattering beauty, as she released an ocean of girl jizz on everything within a six foot radius. Couches were soaked, hardwood floors drenched, and the mop buckets were brought in. As a result, the theater to the left was ephemerally shut down, and a gentleman sporting a lighted miner helmet was sent in to assess the situation.
You can waste $10 watching a drunken David Faustino performing live in concert — somewhere at a bowling alley in Kansas — or you can bring porn to life at PP. Keep in mind, this raging vestige of sexual liberation — like any other — can be feast or famine. Hence, what follows are a few insider tips:
There are two adjoining theaters at Personal Preference. These movie houses are moderate in size, but large enough to accommodate six, luxuriant couches a piece. A single Big Screen plays a constantly rotating line-up of XXX fare in either fleapit.
Tuesdays and Saturdays are couples' nights. On these evenings, the door between grind houses is locked shut, and dissolute duos play for free on one side from 8 PM to somewhere between 11 PM and midnight. During this time, single men still fork over 10 greenbacks, but are relegated to one theater, as opposed to the typical two.
Although solo studs are denied access to the couples' area — between 8 PM and 11-something on Tuesdays and Saturdays — playing pairs can wander into the singles' region, and either hand pick a dangling dong, or indulge their gang bang fantasies.
A fan of firsthand research, I've visited Personal Preference nearly every night of the week, and have found Friday evenings to be most efficacious. The preponderance of the population doesn't work on Saturdays, and can thus stay out past their normal bedtimes. Hence, you'll often encounter prodigious foot traffic on Friday nights.
Your entrance fee provides you theater access for five continuous hours. Use your time at P-squared wisely, keeping plenty of snacks in your car, so there's no need to leave, and miss any action.
Personal Preference is located at:
9550 East Main Street
Mesa, Arizona 85207
As always, if you have questions, feel free to E-mail me at:
longlivenuno@aol.com
Humbly,
Hugh Mungus
From drunken dames stumbling out of local gin joints — cocktails concealed, still in their original glassware — to salacious seniors swappin' spit, Personal Preference should not be missed. My most recent sojourn to P-squared found me firmly embedded in a BBW of Earth-shattering beauty, as she released an ocean of girl jizz on everything within a six foot radius. Couches were soaked, hardwood floors drenched, and the mop buckets were brought in. As a result, the theater to the left was ephemerally shut down, and a gentleman sporting a lighted miner helmet was sent in to assess the situation.
You can waste $10 watching a drunken David Faustino performing live in concert — somewhere at a bowling alley in Kansas — or you can bring porn to life at PP. Keep in mind, this raging vestige of sexual liberation — like any other — can be feast or famine. Hence, what follows are a few insider tips:
There are two adjoining theaters at Personal Preference. These movie houses are moderate in size, but large enough to accommodate six, luxuriant couches a piece. A single Big Screen plays a constantly rotating line-up of XXX fare in either fleapit.
Tuesdays and Saturdays are couples' nights. On these evenings, the door between grind houses is locked shut, and dissolute duos play for free on one side from 8 PM to somewhere between 11 PM and midnight. During this time, single men still fork over 10 greenbacks, but are relegated to one theater, as opposed to the typical two.
Although solo studs are denied access to the couples' area — between 8 PM and 11-something on Tuesdays and Saturdays — playing pairs can wander into the singles' region, and either hand pick a dangling dong, or indulge their gang bang fantasies.
A fan of firsthand research, I've visited Personal Preference nearly every night of the week, and have found Friday evenings to be most efficacious. The preponderance of the population doesn't work on Saturdays, and can thus stay out past their normal bedtimes. Hence, you'll often encounter prodigious foot traffic on Friday nights.
Your entrance fee provides you theater access for five continuous hours. Use your time at P-squared wisely, keeping plenty of snacks in your car, so there's no need to leave, and miss any action.
Personal Preference is located at:
9550 East Main Street
Mesa, Arizona 85207
As always, if you have questions, feel free to E-mail me at:
longlivenuno@aol.com
Humbly,
Hugh Mungus
***
Doc here again... Many thanks once again to Hugh Mungus on his report on Personal Preference in Mesa, AZ. Great stuff, and some awesome LOL moments. Keep up the great work, sir!
Thanks,
Doc