"Can we, as a country, all
: October 2002:
am not proud to be telling you this, my friends. If
there is any pride, any dignity here at all, it is
that I'm mildly proud that I'm not so proud
that I'd try to hide something this embarrassing from
you. I'm sure some of you will be shocked by my story.
Others will congratulate me for my candor. Others
will call me a fool. Some will pat me on the back.
Yet more will challenge me to a fistfight. These are
the risks that one takes in life, risks that grow
yet riskier when one reveals that as a teen, one tried
to make one's brother's dachshund blow him.
sad is it that I couldn't even get a dog to
have sex with me?
it was a male dachshund, which doesn't help
things at all.
I can say in my defense is that I was horny. My teen
boner was a Fist of Life reaching toward the sun.
From morn 'til midnight, I'd be walking around bumping
into things with that vicious, snarling narwhal tusk,
that divining-rod perpetual early teen soupbone, that
never-say-die desperate sort of erection you never
really seem to achieve again after those initial glory
an age when I feared that literal death would occur
if I didn't masturbate at least once daily. Teen vagina
still seemed unattainable, and at this point in the
mid-70s at a Catholic school, real live intercourse
was rare. So I jerked off a lot. Jerked off to models
in ads from Philadelphia magazine. I still
remember one blonde with combed-back wet hair and
a wet T-shirt...came on her tits a few times....don't
remember what the ad was for, though. Jerked off to
the sound of Donna Summer's grunts on "Love to Love
You, Baby" as it floated from the transistor radio
in our bathroom. Within six months of discovering
I was able to have an orgasm, I had yanked enough
wads out of my dick to fill a gallon bucket of ice
was the fall of 1975, my freshman year in high school.
Jethro Tull and Blue Oyster Cult and Kansas ruled
the airwaves. Sideburns and free sex and lava lamps
and party vans and serial killers dotted the landscape.
My favorite album was Queen's A Night at the Opera.
The kids' favorite TV show at my school was Welcome
was a freshman in high school, a lonely, socially
crippled virgin, spilling cherry Coke all over myself
at the mall during an excruciatingly awkward date
with a real live girl, a girl I never even got to
kiss, much less fuck with that eterna-boner of mine.
social idiot, I lived almost exclusively within my
own head. One lonely Friday night a few months prior
to my sexual encounter with the dachshund, I'd gulped
a half-dozen Vivarin diet tablets, danced my pale
jiggly ass off to The Sylvers' "Boogie Fever" blaring
from my bedroom radio, then puked my guts out and
swore to myself that I'd never do drugs again.
brother lived in a sprawling, grimy apartment in a
dead industrial patch near where south Philadelphia
Oil refineries and bikers. Blueberry soda and swamplands.
He had just
finished with his first marriage and lived alone.
not truly alone. Not if you count his dachshund.
some reason which escapes me now as I'm older and
fairly punch-drunk from life's indignities, my brother
was gone that night and I was alone at his apartment
at the edge of railroad tracks and biker bars and
was not truly alone. Not when one considers
the dog. I forget his name. A stout little dachshund,
the so-called "wiener dog." Before the evening was
over, this particular dachshund would become a wiener
dog in another, sicker sense of the word.
brother kept a stack of porno magazines in his bathroom...1970s
porn, the best there ever was, the best there ever
will be. Unabashed porn featuring women who had
never been told that what they were doing wasn't
dirty, who labored under the belief that they were
doing something wrong and would someday be punished
for it. Women revealing the sort of charms that
men tend to forget when women are clothed. Lurid,
garish bubble-gum twats hiding amid tall, thick
bushes. Natural boobs hanging every which way. A
girl who tied her flappy cuntlips into pretzel shapes.
battery-powered devices ensured to save your marriage.
Pornography seemed magical and golden back then
rather than boring and clinical.
can't remember which publication I settled on for
inspiration that night...Hustler or Oui
or Gent or Swank or Cherry,
but something of that caliber and aroma. But
it only took a few ganders at those curvaceous,
Jimmy Carter-era shrimp cocktails before I was veiny-hard
and ready for action.
was then that I looked down at the dog. The innocent,
all, a warm, wet tongue is a warm, wet tongue whether
it's on a dog or a human or a Martian, right?
I mean, it's not like I was going to touch his
Are you with me? No?
pants around my ankles, my cock hard as leather
nunchucks, I waddled into my brother's bedroom,
jumped on the bed, and summoned the dog to join
me. He eagerly jumped up, unaware of the innocence-shattering
abuse which would befall him. Somewhat firmly, I
guided his head toward my rigid teencock.
not really sure what I expected him
the poor beast to do. Did I really think he'd start
sucking away like some
the dachshund, unlike me, was born with the sort
of instincts that told him this was not a
dog sniffed my cock, took a few licks, and then
jumped off the bed. He seemed bored, and perhaps
disgusted, at the prospect of sex with me. I felt
like a total asshole. I felt worthless. I didn't
have a girlfriend...I didn't have any friends...and
now I was forced to endure the unique shame that
occurs when a presumedly inferior animal rejects
your offer of some quickie bestial sex.
I was still feeling randy. I pumped my still-hard
wang until I shot my teen-goo all over my brother's
bedroom. I don't even remember if I cleaned it up.
If I didn't, well, I'm sorry, Johnny. And I'm sorry
for the sexual abuse to which I subjected your pet
dachshund, a creature that I'm sure has passed into
another dimension by now...a pure, celestial dimension
where things such as sexual abuse between different
species don't exist. a safe, fluffy place where
dachshunds aren't forced to suck cock and where
lonely teenaged boys don't wind up feeling sexually
rejected by canines.
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