This month’s pK News post (first of each month) gathered several reports of the Church, the Pope, still minding other people’s business. If there were any reliable relationship between any respectable god and the Church or the Pope, I wouldn’t mind: any more than I would mind if Einstein came up with good theories for physics by consulting his horoscope. To that extent I’m practical, not inveterate. Related, I’ve browsed and respected several LiveScience.com articles on sex, masturbation, animals … Very good, check some out.
Now it’s time for pk to gather a few of his own experiences and thoughts on the subject (and revised thoughts) in a new post:
I was a baby once, as were you. I didn’t argue with my mother’s right to splay me open, change my diaper. No, no: Thanks, Mom, I needed that. As a boy I saw that daddies disappeared, mothers changed diapers, neibhborhood girls, old women, babysat: I didn’t argue. But, I did become aware that some resentments existed, in me, in others: in boys, in girls …
One day a bunch of kids were standing around Grace, the older red head two houses up the block. I played with those kids; I never played with Grace. But I joined them. Grace had a puppy on her lap, a male puppy. We could all see that because Grace had the puppy lying back down, belly (and genitals) up! Grace was playing with the puppy’s balls! Grace was fiddling with the puppy’s dick: or rather with that holster dogs carry their dick in: dogs piss right through the hoster; they whip the actual monster out only when mating!
Anyway, I didn’t see that the puppy’s gonads were any of this older redhead’s business, this girl! What the other kids, all girls, thought none of them said. I’d never liked Grace: leading the parade before the football game with her skinny pale legs, her freckles more absurd than mine! and her Olive Oyl figure on an Irish complexion (like a sunless fungus!) gave me the creeps: but watching her manhandle the pup made me hate her. Years later I detected a little misogyny in my reaction.
I had a right to play with the girl’s pussy if she was cooperative, she had a right to handle my scrotum only if I openly approved: not quite the same.
I felt something very similar this past decade, 2004, with my beloved Catherine, another pale Celt (Scots not Irish) terminal in the ICU. Catherine needed something: a gaggle of nurses or aids or whatever, all female, were nearby, gathered around what proved to be a table supporting a bunch of babies, all getting changed. The “nurses” had a pair or more of babies splayed upen, their privates, their fundaments, open to any view: a nursery in the same room with the dying?! I walked up to the nurses before I realized that they had a baby girl’s pussy agape at the ceiling or before they realized that I was actually approaching them!
I felt a twinge of resentment at their female privilege, at the automatic, the unconscious attitude with which they held the privilege, and I saw that they, each, felt a twinge of resentment that I, a male, should be walking right up to them! dying old woman friend, duty, filthy baby, or not!
My point, thank you, concerns automatic unconscious attitudes: culture hard to impossible to distinguish from genetic hardwiring.
Males and females are half-different species. We can communicate, but never fully. Committees of experts will routinely agree on their objectivity, ready to crucify any skeptic. Sure there’s objectivity, but never 100%. And the expert impatiently agreeing is too impatient to see it!
I have a laughing memory, a couple of them:
In 1970 I founded the Free Learning Exchange. The public was invited to sponsor its own digital data base. The public was invited to help me assure that is was unlicensed, uncensored, uncensorable, unlicensable. The public neglected to have a clue: but began raving about black people’s rights, about women‘s rights … Why can’t we handle all people’s rights? If all people had rights, then black people would automatically have rights, women … everybody: but only if everybody wanted it, cooperated, chopped off the government’s hand in its pocket! refused to salute the assigned “teacher”!
If we’re idiots, it may be our fault; but it is not my fault!
If Jesus says Let’s have peace, and Tiberius Caesar says Let’s have peace (a pax Romana! that is), and we give all our money to Tiberius, and give no money to Jesus, then … well, fuck us.
Wait, those memories will get lassoed in another sec, and on to more animal sex
I just rewatched the Swedish film of Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Loved it every bit as much as a year and a half ago when I watched it a couple of times. A girl has been missing for twenty years, the cops haven’t a clue, the uncle thinks she’s dead. A disgraced reporter (and an amoral hacker) track down some clues: what everyone had thought were names and phone numbers in the girl’s diary prove to be numbered passages in Leviticus: all concerning the torture and murder of women accused of having sex with animals. Societies always murder misfits: then later say they were gods, had some previously unfamiliar disease … But be humble enough to follow its own religious precepts (or secular laws!) no society will ever be. The Republicans’ cops will sabotage the Democrats and torture the anarchists: and call it Homeland Security. Christians say that Jews killed Christ, (nearly) never that Christians and Jews are more alike than different.
Does the movie show us the sex with the animals? No, but it sure shows us b&w pix of mutilated women! As good as The Silence of the Lambs in a couple of respects!
Some memories come in any order: I just recalled Mario Puzo’s report of his, an inveterate gambler’s, disgust when told that dog racing was fixed: the handlers, all “girls,” altered the odds by masturbating the short-odds dogs, favoring the long-odds dogs: the fucked-out favorite won’t bother to run fast. Of course such a practice can’t guarantee results in any particular race, but over a range of races a system could prove very profitable: to those who knew which dogs got jerked. (Would Leviticus torture these witches?) (Or would Leviticus get out its own money?)
My fine arts professor would tell those of us hanging around after class of his days as a horse wrangler. On display on the farm, in a fishbowl of a kind, the stallions, who, no doubt mounted mares aplenty running wild, got balky. The human hands had to hold them mounted in place, on the female, while the stallion bucked, trying to get the hell away from these meddling voyeurs.
(Try to mate leopards on an ill-run zoo and the male just pronto kills the female!)
Another guy I knew back when told me that Cowboy Jane would sit on the fence watching, and, after the poor stallion was allowed back into his own solitary stall, everybody would get laid. Cowgirl Jane would be eager for all the hot cock the boys could provide: on all that nice clean straw that any good stable had loads of.
I’m loving recalling these stories so far, but I keep initially coming up with examples of animals inspiring human sex or humans dictating animal sex. Examples of the girl blowing the horse that I know come only in porn, as fiction, or myth. But: it proves that humans are obsessed with it. We want to see the girl blow the horse, then prosecute all others who’ve seen the pic we sold them!
Girls blowing horses is vivid enough in my own mind that I’ve used it for half a century or more to paraphrase George Bernard Shaw’s take on liberty, on censorship: he supported a kleptocracy’s right to say you can’t show a blond blowing a horse, and you can put the girl in jail who’s convicted for doing so, and her photographer, pimp, publisher too; but, once you’ve said that, then you must not prosecute the brunette blowing the donkey! Say what the law is, say it clearly, or you haven’t said anything, and have no rights.
2013 02 15 I was just reminded, surveying natural law that the tradition Shaw was following/leading comes from Thomas Hobbes. Glad to see that: I don’t usually associate them.
2014 06 16 Something else on the subject of British law, license, censorship that I’ve learned since scribbling the above: the Stationers Register was the bureaucracy that handled censorship in Shakespeare’s day: quite so: but that’s still misleading: the Stationers Register was more like the patent office than the Inquisition. Yes, the office censored, yes the office licensed: the office also protected: it identified who was entitled to receive the receipts, who got the royalties.
One my way to a gallery opening on Hilton Head Island in the early 1980s an artist working out of Puerto Rico, also a Paul, and I trudged the sand road past the saw palmetto, when we almost stepped on a pair of snakes joined at the genitals and also near the head: the male had the female’s neck in his jaws. The snakes were black, and huge! way more than twelve feet each.
I was so jealous: those snakes were loving each other over every inch: full body contact. We watched them for a long time before entering the Red Piano Gallery: I can’t remember whose show it was, but Joe Bowler, portraitist extraordinaire, was there: could have been Joe’s show. After an hour or so we told people about the snakes: and half the crowd went out to watch.
Under the gaze of Paul and me the snakes had moved only an inch or two away from the road. Under the gaze of dozens though they did start inching woodsward. So we left them alone.
Point is: by that time hours had passed. I don’t know how long the snakes had been screwing when Paul and I arrived, I don’t know how long the snakes continued to screw after the crowd of us crowded them, but those snakes were remindding me of the time I fucked the girl throughout three-quarters of Wagner’s Tristan, Furtwangler conducting, the slowest of conductors! I finally came with the orgasms of the Liebestod. And she, wow, I don’t think she ever stopped coming.
Gregory Bateson quoted a funny story in which Carl Sagan reported getting bumped in the pool by the hard-on of a porpoise! But then homo-eroticism seems to be common across species where no female is in rut. With a bitch in heat, all the males are hetero; with no bitch in heat, all the dogs are grab-assy. But cross-species homo-eroticism: that’s not something you hear about too commonly: let alone from two of the greatest scientist/teachers/writers.
2012 06 29 OK, here’s pk, a couple of days later, once hailed by Catfarmer as appallingly honest, scratching his memory for sex-with-animals confessions: I’ll confess to liking the haunches of horses (and the haunches of pubescent girls astride nicely-haunched horses (I’ve embarrassed myself at least twice gawking at mounted girls under fourteen years of age)) but I have no personal experiences with … No, wait! I just recalled one!
I’m a child, my father has taken me to the zoo, an old-fashioned, horrid zoo, all confined concrete space, no wonder the leopards straight away kill the female, if only the females could likewise kill the males! We’re standing in front of a zebra cage: and hear a loud splat! A whitish liquid impacts the concrete. It ain’t urine. “Holy something or other” exclaims my father. And the zebra, a male, displays an erection the size of a howitzer, quivering, only just beginning to recede!
A wet waking dream? What had he been masturbating against? How can I figure out what I must have seen seventy-something years ago, when I was maybe two and a half?
Oh, but that sparks other zoo memories! My favorite sex at the zoo story I’ve already told elsewhere: the armadillo oral orgy my buddy, my son, and I encountered in the Central Park Zoo night house, bk riding on my shoulders, and, of course, having no idea what absorbed Phil and me. I originally told that story commenting on the preponderance of female pudenda getting licked by long long tongues, granddaughter to grandmama in on long complex chain of licking; I hadn’t realized that female was the only qualification, armadillos being all female clones!
In the primate house I once encountered a tiny monkey with great staring eyes: and an erection almost a duplicate of mine! It rose straught up from the floor of the cage where his pelvis was seated, up past his tiny chest, its glans like a mushroom cap, with a slight tremor before its brow. “Oh, please eat me,” “oh, please sit on me,” “please bend over for me,” it was pleading.
Well, it just so happened that three very attractive young women, tall, willowly, were whispering before the cage of another primate, smiling, laughing, chuckling secretively behind their hands: and I was just sure of what they were regarding! Christ, I’ve never so wanted to go up to a trio of utter strangers, inviting all of them at once to let me eat them! “No, no! Don’t look at his erection, his tremble, his yearning; look at mine!”
Another time in the primate house I was looking at I forget what primate when a ruckus among the gorillas made me turn to my left. The gorilla had an audience of several: guys. One gorilla lifted a comic book knee into the cooperating groin of his comic book open and vulnerable cage mate. The cage mate pretending to gasp and groan and suffer; the aggressor cavorted about, chuckling at his crime: a pair of vaudeville comedians. Males, cross-species, goofing on maleness.
Never mind sex with animals; how about irony with animals?
Imagine a fish telling you a joke! or a spider!
I just realized, checking something: I’d also already told the zebra story.
Scanning my memories for sex-&-animals stories I think of a joke or two:
I still haven’t seen Woody Allen’s Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask, but back when my buddy told me a detail that made me explode: the Woody-Allen-schmuck character takes up with a sheep, he doesn’t far well, we see him as a bum on the street, but instead of a bottle of hooch at his hip, there’s a bottle of Woolite! Now that’s comedy!
But here’s a more ordinary joke: Three guys are shipwrecked, they struggle to an island. They scout the island: there’s their beach, there’s a hill, and over the hill some meadow. In the meadow is a herd of sheep. No shepherd. Nothing else.
After a while, no rescue, no passing ships, nothing to signal, one guy exclaims that he can’t stand it any longer. Pounding his meat isn’t enough! And he charges up and over the hill! The second guy screams, “He’s right! Why should I suffer?” And charges up and over the hill. The third guy though, he’s civilized, a Roman Catholic, cowed, an experiential coward. “No, no,” he thinks, “I’m married, have a wife, children, a family …” But finally even he can’t resist. “I can’t stand it,” he wails, and charges over the hill.
He returns, looking sheepish. The other two laugh their asses off at him!
“What’s ‘a matter?! First you laughed at me because I wouldn’t: now I did: and you laugh at me worse!”
“Ha, ha, ha,” in chorus: “You picked the ugliest one!”