Archive-name: Miscell/sex-life.txt
Archive-author: Don Sharp
Archive-title: Animal Sex Life

                       From _Easyriders Magazine_


    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 live-
stock 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 prac-
tice. 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 quali-
fied, 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, chick-
en thieves, and others of like ilk, well qualified to instruct. Henceforth,
no biker should begin a cross-country run without taking this copy of Easy-
riders along for guidance.

    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-screwer gets serious.

    Therefore, to fuck a cow requires that it be immobilized, a fact long
recognized in rural architecture. As long as milkmaids 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-shagger. 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 ef-
fectively 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
in-her tube out. He grasps the tail, catches one hamstring between big toe
and the next (like a shower thong), heaves up, catches the other hamstring,
and begins to ream properly.

    Unfortunately, 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 bas-
tard will splash it all up his shirt and get his pants full, and be grateful 
that he took his boots off.

                                Part 2

    Second, a cow is an indifferent piece, somewhat like thigh-
fucking a flabby, lard-loaded, ass-drooping fat woman; that is, hope-
lessly 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, they can be seduced by edibles,
preferably raisins. 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 some-
thing 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 dis-
mount, 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 inter-
feres 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, though, 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.

    A cartoon in _Easyriders_ (January '75, page 50) illustrates a pair
of bikers screwing some sheep by a method that would work only with an over-
sized Rambouilett ewe or with very short bikers. Also, anyone who used the
naive technique illustrated would spend most of his time chasing the sheep
around the pasture. To properly screw a sheep, pull your pants legs up above
your boot tops, hoist the sheep by the tail, and drop its hind feet into
your boots. With the sheep thus elevated and secured, the trousers can be
lowered and milady enjoyed.

    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 drip-
ping foul stuff, and should carry protection for others. Rubbers, "sold only
for the prevention of disease," are readily available, and if not, a prophy-
lactic 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 fibre 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 re-
move. Given the potential difficulties, a sheep-fucker should carry rubbers.

                                Part 3

    Though easy to screw, sheep are stupid. You can't develop a mean-
ingful relationship with a sheep; hence, the notorious promiscuity af shep-
herds. The animal that demands personalized cuddling and which returns aff-
ection 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 at-
tention 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 court-
ship 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 chick-
en 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 cer-
tainly, 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 allow-
ing 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 in-
timately, 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. Any further doubts
can be obviated by recalling that to spare the chicken may only mean its 
ultimate delivery into the fatal custody of Colonel Sanders.

    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 faceful of chicken blood that severely distracts from that ex-
quisite 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 funda-
mentals outlined here before attempting creative variations. Even the ele-
mentary level of animal-fucking will provide the cuntless biker's rigid
stroker with solace superior to that available from a grimy hand.

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