by Ben Hargrave

Hello! If anyone can hear this distress call, Mercedes and I are in grave danger. After being handed a directive by a PA to head to the Fantasy Suite, we both jumped at the chance to feast upon each other’s loins in the safety, comfort, and mic-free privacy of the storied resort. But instead of walking into a pleasure chamber, we have instead been taken to an alternate dimension where we cannot fuck.

Emerging through a wormhole, we found ourselves in a Jumanji-esque nightmare world. Mercedes almost died instantly, for as I pressed upon her supple bosom to lead her into what I thought was the foyer of a tasty fuckpad, I – in reality – had inadvertently pushed her towards a cliff edge that overlooked a vast, purple jungle being ravaged by blue tornadoes of flame. Luckily, her heels sunk into the mud and she held, as did my hands on her breasts, saving her from a ghastly fate: dying before we could have sex with one another.

My heart was racing, spurred largely by a naughty craving for intercourse that was competing with feeling like we were about to die, for the climate here is similar to southwestern Australia, except times a million, and the environment is filled with deadly fauna that possesses evil magical abilities. We watched an anthropomorphic dandelion use telekinesis to de-limb a stray cat-penguin, then drink its soul. Despite this, we trekked onward, not knowing if the next moment would be our last, nor if the moment before it would be filled with us porking our brains out, God willing.

Chancing upon a cave embedded in the side of an emerald mountain, gargantuan dragons could be seen teleporting around the summit. They bathed the crown in ice ejected from their gullets, causing the formation of stiff peaks that reminded me of my own stiff peak beetling against the trousers that held it prisoner. The will to bone was overwhelming and inescapable, but the thought of future sex gave me the strength and the courage to trudge onward and into the grotto that I hoped, at the very least, had a functioning box spring.

Our sense of safety was proved false when a griffin with a stop sign face, a rhino’s body, oatmeal lips, and the legs of a Boston Dynamics Big Dog appeared and roared, sending us running out the gape. We took shelter under the shade of an armoire tree and as we caught our breath, I gulped down Mercedes’ succulent pheromones. Sexy time seemed imminent until the moment was ruined when I discovered the wardrobe was alive after informing us his name was Dougie and that he wanted to watch us fornicate, which really doesn’t do it for me.

Once again we were off, trying to find any way out of this damned world. I was so hell-bent on the latter that I broke ahead of Mercedes, only to turn around to see her far behind. I made to move, but was stuck in the digital honey of a robo-bee and could only watch helplessly. As fate would have it, a B-52 flying squirrel had dropped a slow-motion bomb on the area, turning her sprint into a Baywatch-style montage that would’ve made Pamela Anderson blush, and made me nearly orgasm.

After wrenching myself free, we encountered a ferrofluid river where we witnessed a googly-eyed shipping container and a regular platypus all drinking from the liquid as if for nourishment. Just one drop replenished our energy instantly and engorged our sex organs preposterously. We moved to kiss right as an upside-down rainbow burst through the ground beneath our feet and we descended into an abyss. As we fell, we both prayed aloud that it would lead us to the end of this bad dream and to a place where we could shag, finally.

So, if you are hearing this, we’re down here! ‘Here’ being this tortuous space we landed in. It is pitch black, smells of lavender, ample bedding abounds, and Isaac Hayes’ discography is playing on vinyl, somehow. This would all be well and good, except the acoustics are so wacky and this space so large that we haven’t been able to find each other, and I fear we never will. Please, I beg of you, if there’s anyone out there: send for help immediately and get us out of here! Or at least figure out a way to turn the light on. I am going to explode. 

Ben Hargrave is a comedian, writer, and videographer living in New York who makes his own peanut butter (is so good). Check out his tweets @HarHarHargrave – it would mean a lot to him.