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Latest HUSTLER Magazine cover issue
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June 2024

Misha Cross and Agatha Vega
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Smells Like Cream Spirit
Featured Article

Smells Like Cream Spirit

They say that love stinks—and it’s also true that sex can create a hell of a scent too.

Around 20 years ago, I left a little dive bar in Winslow, Indiana, with two women of equal or greater drunkenness and headed to a recording studio I’d been shacked up in for a few months. (I’d been working there as a hired gun for a gospel album, of all things—hey, times were hard.) After about ten beers apiece and several shots of everything, the topic of a threesome was broached, and neither I nor the girls backed down. It was destined to be one of those bizarre blips in time; I had unwittingly won the lottery. Little did I know, but the chances of going home with a couple of horny women ever again were going to be slim to none. At that moment, however, I felt like anything in this life was actually possible, just like they’ve always said.

The studio owner, a middle-aged neurotic, was letting me stay there until the album was finished. He was a quirky bastard and tended to get awkward at times, especially when anyone mentioned sex. He wasn’t a total nookie Nazi about it or anything, but it was clear that any and all sexual activity was off-limits in his studio. Nonetheless, I wasn’t about to let a golden opportunity like this go to waste—and was equally determined not to get evicted. So, the next morning, I politely showed the ladies the door long before he arrived for work, keeping the secret of my extracurricular escapade sealed tighter than a Christian’s asshole.

“I’ve had sex before when there really wasn’t a smell, and other times when it was like there’s a demon in the room.”


Or so I thought. At a little after nine, as per usual, the studio owner came walking through the front door, only instead of shuffling around in the control room, checking his email, he screamed, “It smells like hard liquor and ass in here!” The jig, as they say, was up. Without a word from me, he was fully aware that I had used his place of business for a sleazy, ass-slapping soiree of sexual debauchery just hours before he pulled into the parking lot. The lingering scent of screwing had given me away. 

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