CHAPTER FIVE
With our first foray into the world of swapping such a smashing success, it was only natural that Frank and I would keep right on swinging. It was the first thing we'd wholeheartedly agreed upon in years.
We were practically supporting Marsha Cox, the blonde babysitter, we were going out so often.
There was no end of couples we could contact either through personals right in the classified section of the newspaper, or through the grapevine of which we were now a tendril.
"Look at the size of this guy's d**k," I would show Frank a photo from an ad in a swappers' magazine. "I wonder what that would feel like all the way up my tight ass."
"Why don't you give him a call and find out," Frank might suggest. "His area-code is for this region. His prick is probably within driving
