Don G. Carpenter, Jordan Stanley Ray, Dr. Garth Mundinger-Klow
Taboo Acts X: Farm Lust
Some Notes on How to Fuck an Animal
Cross-country bikers who travel cuntless usually discover that to leave one nagging problem behind simply leaves a throbbing one in front. Fortunately, America's farmlands provide an abundance of domestic livestock that can be exploited to reduce the swelling. The biker who uses such means may know that he is practicing a tradition sufficiently ancient to have been denounced by Moses. Unfortunately, sex manuals neglect this dimension of sexual practice. They tell how it's done in a dozen countries, of acrobatic positions, of how to use cunt juice as a sauce for roast squab, but tell nothing of shagging animals. The following treatise may well be the first of its kind. Hopefully, this pioneer work will stimulate public discussion of animal-fucking. Perhaps someone will initiate a monthly journal devoted thereto, complete with centerfolds, advertisements for helpful apparatus, and a question-answer column (which the author hereof, being the only one qualified, volunteers to write). Further, the author hereof swears on a greasy chop manual that the lore presented herein has been gathered from years of attendance to the discourse of plowboys, mule-skinners, swineherds, chicken thieves, and others of like ilk, well qualified to instruct.
Given the brevity of this guide, only the rudimentary procedures appropriate to common domestic livestock can be outlined. Exotic foreign species such as the yak or alpaca and wildlife such as bears and moose are excluded, as are dogs, these topics deserving treatises to themselves.
To consider cows first. Cows are basically nervous. They're like the prick-teasers of the 50's who would bat their eyelashes, lean over to show their boobs, flounce their skirts to show a beaver, and then shriek like hell if some bothered dude tweaked a tit. Cows can be attracted by a handful of cottonseed meal, a piece of bread (preferably whole wheat), even a bunch of grass. They will hang around, switching their tails to show off their cunts, then get jumpy and run off as soon as the cow-fucker gets serious. To fuck a cow requires that it be immobilized, a fact long recognized in rural architecture. As long as milk-maids did the milking, it was done in the open, the cow being kept in place by a bucket of eating goodies. With the development of large dairies, men took over and the barns built to shelter milking were cleverly contrived to assist cow-screwing.
The cow was headed into a stall, its head locked in a stanchion, and hobbles added according to the disposition of the cow and the agility of the cow-bopper. Posts ran up to support the roof at the cow-ass end of the stall, these posts being connected by horizontal 2x4s. The 2x4 presumably provided a place from which to hang milk buckets, stools, hobbles, and so on, but was, of course, carefully placed for cow-shagging, its height indicating the favorite technique. If about a foot above a man's reach, the cow-fucker leapt up, hung from the 2x4, and swung in to hook his heels in the cow's flanks, from which position he could achieve suitable intromission, regulating the stroke with his legs.
Were the 2x4 only slightly above head-high, the screwer clambered over and hung by the armpits. He poked the cow in the ass with a toe and when the cow switched her tail, he grabbed it in both hands, placed feet athwart hamstrings, and by pulling on the tail and heaving with the feet, could effectively achieve his purpose. This latter method lacks the passionate violence of the former, but suggests the method for the itinerant biker who must make do without the niceties of dairy barns.
Having found a cow, enticed it into grabbing range, and tethered it to a fence post, the biker goes behind, removes his boots, and gets his inner tube out. He grasps the tail, catches one ham-string between big toe and the next (like a shower thong), heaves up, catches the other hamstring, and begins to ream properly.
Cows have two serious faults. First, they'll shit all over you. You can't even fool them into dumping first by gigging them with a ratchet handle. The cow waits till the humper starts driving in to finish, then lets out about a gallon of slurpy, green cowshit. The poor, fucking bastard will splash it all up his shirt and get his pants full, and be grateful that he took his boots off. Second, a cow is an indifferent piece, somewhat like thigh-fucking a flabby, lard-loaded, ass-drooping fat woman; that is, hopelessly loose, ill-defined, and unresponsive, like screwing a plastic bag of warm Jello. Calves are some improvement, but their common diarrhea-like ailment known as “scours” renders them totally unfit. Yearlings are best, like median-age women, less full of shit but not yet become vindictive. As a final note, the beef breeds, Angus and Hereford, are most tractable. Of dairy breeds, Shorthorn and Brown Swiss are preferred to Holsteins, which are especially likely to shit, and to Jerseys, which are just too damn nervous.
Horses are better than cows. Like some women, if you can get close enough to talk to them, you can probably screw them. Also, like women who must be taken to dinner or who get hot giving head, edibles, preferably raisins, can seduce them. Sugar cubes are used only in kids' stories. A horse will stand still to be fucked, but won't tolerate any messing with its tail or feet. Hence, cow technique will not work, and a horse-fucker must have something to stand on. Traditionally, horses were “stump-broke”; that is, trained to back up to a stump, presumably to aid a bareback rider to mount and dismount, but, in fact, to assure cooperation when the plowboy wanted a piece. If biking in a group, members can support each other in turn. Else, the horse can be backed up to a parked scoot, provided it has cooled.
Horses don't like hot, greasy metal smells. A horse gives a good fuck, if a frustrating one. The big ass interferes with getting in deep, and while it's warm, firm, and confining, the horse fucker senses a tremendous amount of unused cunt that he simply can't reach. Guys uptight about their bore and stroke shouldn't screw horses.
Hasty fuckers will prefer goats, the most convenient of all animals to screw. An adult nanny stands just high enough for a bent-kneed fuck and the tail flips up as soon as the goat feels something poking at its snatch. A nanny gives a good fit and puts up no objections. In fact, that's what's wrong with goats. They just don't care. A goat can take on a whole bike club and chew its cud the whole time. A cow gets nervous like something wild is happening; a horse gets comfortable, like it digs what's happening; but a goat, like a Tijuana whore paid in advance, doesn't care whether anything is happening.
Sheep are one of the choice pieces among quadrupeds, a fact long known (and kept suppressed) by shepherds. Like the girl next door, sheep want the fucker to be friendly, kind, and just aggressive enough to do the job, and they give back a fair fuck in return. The sheep will look over its shoulder a lot; hence, the idea that one must kiss a sheep, a notion that has led some authorities to urge a sheep-superior position, i.e., biker supine, sheep's forelegs astraddle his chest, etc. The idea is just plain silly. A sheep doesn't give a rat's ass whether you kiss it or not. Sheep do groove on sniffing each other's asses, so a foul-breathed sheep-fucker can blow some her way. However, it's hardly a necessary gesture; sheep certainly don't insist on it.
Now, while a sheep is a good piece, it may, unfortunately, have VD, either clap or syph. Indeed, some medical historians believe VD came to people from sheep. Sheep-fuckers should avoid any that are obviously dripping foul stuff, and should carry protection for others. Rubbers, “sold only for the prevention of disease,” are readily available, and if not, a prophylactic buffer of grease can be applied to the moving part. Vaseline is a virtual standard, but wheel-bearing grease will do as well.
Some users report gratifying results with coarse fiber grease, while others say a rapid stroke requires a proper high-speed lithium-base grease with molybdenum additives, and yet others insist on vegetable-base lubricants, since petroleum-base lubricants form carbon under heat and pressure, wherefore the sheep-fucker may withdraw his pushrod to find it coated with black, carbonized grease that requires repeated applications of Gunk or, worse yet, steam cleaning to remove. Given the potential difficulties, a sheep-fucker should carry rubbers.
Though easy to screw, sheep are stupid. You can't develop a meaningful relationship with a sheep; hence, the notorious promiscuity of shepherds. The animal that demands personalized cuddling and which returns affection with an excellent fuck is a pig.
The pig-fucker must enter the sty casually, like cruising at a party, as if getting laid were the last thing on his mind. He must greet each sow and give a scratch or two. Once he has chosen one, he must devote full attention to her. He kneels on one side and scratches behind ears and down the snout with one hand while the other hand scratches along the back and sides until reaching the tail, at which point the first hand works back and sides while the other hand goes under the tail to rim the cunt. Thorough courtship involves finger-fucking to assure the sow is ready. Meanwhile, the pig-screwer must gently ease the sow into a corner of the pen, thus to inhibit her lateral movement. Any movements she can make will be agreeable fore-and-aft motions. Once she is cornered and finger-fucked into readiness, the biker inserts his rod. However, he must not slacken his caresses. If the sow thinks she's being taken for granted, she will sit down. And if the other sows see that, you'll never get screwed in that pigsty.
A pig will not cooperate with a fucker who thinks she's too easy. A pig is an even better piece than a sheep, and a well-fucked sow will grunt appreciatively. Opinions differ, though, on whether a pig is best of all. One ancient declared wistfully, in his impotent dotage, that “I've fucked just about everything, but I always liked pussy best.” Asked about “second best,” he replied at once: “A chicken.” The old man knew his fucking. If a pig isn't second best, a chicken is. A hen doesn't need much petting, but she does need to be talked to. Some authorities view this talk as like that used on those women who will be divested of garments and shagged in every position as long as the word “sex” is never uttered.
Others view it as the “sweet nothings” that add their own dimension to getting laid. Either way, you've got to talk to a chicken. The approach begins with the chicken-fucker getting down on all fours to establish eye contact (while avoiding inadvertent hand contact with chicken shit), and saying “kuh-kuh-kuh.” That's the basic line, but it can be varied to “keh-keh-keh” or “kee-kee-kee,” if uttered in tones of sincere passion and devotion. Don't, however, say “chickey-chickey-chickey,” for that's how farmers call chickens. To a chicken, it sounds like an order, which is a turn-off. Once a chicken comes close and begins to respond to the small talk, a hand goes under its breast and belly and the hen is lifted up. Once its feet lose purchase, a chicken will sit still. However, the chicken-fucker must keep talking as he gets his cock into place. Don't be offended by the thought that a chicken's asshole and its cunt are functionally the same aperture, of which only one is provided. The chicken isn't going to apologize for it, and certainly, among humankind, the former has been taken for the latter often enough and the fucker never the wiser.
As with a porcupine, a chicken must be screwed carefully. Even allowing for the exaggeration of bike-club boasting, your average Rhode Island Red can't accommodate more than half the average biker's cock, a Leghorn no more than a third. However, as anyone who has watched an egg being laid knows, that half or third can enjoy some extraordinary hospitality.
The old fucker quoted earlier added a note on how chicken-screwing could be elevated to the sublime. “Just as you go off,” said he, “you cut its throat. That last, dying quiver…”
This refinement presents the biker with a dismaying choice. To cut the throat of the chicken he has spoken to so intimately, the hen he has cultivated so carefully, seems to border on murder; to kill for mere lust seems gross beyond mention. Yet, one has not properly fucked a chicken unless one goes all the way.
Rural tradition did not view the matter as morally reprehensible. Usually, when the family got home from church, the farmwife sent a twelvish son to fetch a chicken for Sunday dinner. Son fucked the chicken before killing it, and enjoyed the dying quiver as a concomitant to obeying his mother's orders. The biker, then, can resolve the moral dilemma simply by taking the chicken along for roasting over the campfire. Recalling that to spare the chicken may only mean its ultimate delivery into the fatal custody of Colonel Sanders can obviate any further doubts.
In cutting the chicken's throat, the knife should be placed behind the neck and directed forward and down. To cut from under and upward may result in a face full of chicken blood that severely distracts from that exquisite dying quiver. If buddies help, they can see to the cutting while the fucker concentrates on the quiver.
More could be said, of course, but as most readers hereof will be novices at animal-fucking, they should concentrate on mastering the fundamentals outlined here before attempting creative variations. Even the elementary level of animal-fucking will provide the cuntless biker's rigid striker with solace superior to that available from a grimy hand.