Recently I did a BTR online radio show with the poet Frankie Metro. During the show, a poet by the name of Yossarian Hunter called in and proceeded to read a poem about fucking a dog. Yossarian went on to discuss various forms of animal fucking as well as the numerous virtues of bestiality.
Seems this type of thing happens a lot where he lives in Mississippi and that his favorite animal to fuck is a goat. I'd never really thought much about fucking a goat. But Yossarian made a really good case for it.
You can buy a goat for much cheaper than you can a hooker, and a hooker you only get for one night, whereas a goat you can keep for many years, plus it'll mow your yard. (Try getting a hooker to mow your yard!)
Plus all you gotta do to make a goat happy is feed it. Just 99 cents will buy you an apple to feed a goat and make it happy, as opposed to a hooker who you gotta pay at least $50 for head alone, plus you might also have to buy him or her crack cocaine or some shit.
Frankie Metro and I were initially repulsed though amused by Yossarian's praise of bestiality. However, through telepathy after the show, we discussed the matter in greater detail, and the more we talked about fucking a goat, the more turned on we got by it, so we decided to meet up the next night, at a peyote farm in the New Mexico desert, to try it ourselves.
We agreed to rendezvous up at the farm at around 2am. When I got there, I didn't see Frankie Metro anywhere. I was walking around for a little while making tropical bird mating call sounds, trying to locate him, when all of a sudden Frankie Metro fell from the sky, landing right in front of me.
Upon landing, he made some kind of mentally retarded, retching type yell, and did a Japanese style bow. I swear a gong clanged in the background.
Frankie Metro was in perfect attire for the occasion. He was wearing bright red tights, knee high silver platform boots, a brown leather motorcycle type vest, and a white, ill-fitting cape with a large marijuana leaf on it.
He also had on weight lifting gloves, one of those leather 1920's football helmets, and pink Barbie swimming goggles.
I couldn't make out much of his face, probably because underneath the football helmet smoke was pouring out, a greenish type smoke, and I could see that he was pulling on a fat blunt.
Without even saying a word, Frankie passed me the blunt and motioned me to follow him up to a nearby hill. I hit the blunt a few times and was instantly buzzed. It was some chronic shit. I almost forgot why we'd met anyway, but then I saw a goat gnawing on a bushel of hydroponic ganja up at the top of the hill, and I remembered why we were there.
At first I thought maybe we were going to tag team the goat and suggested this to Frankie. However, neither of us wanted to be the one in front and to take a chance on the goat biting our dick off. Neither of us wanted to go for sloppy seconds, either, so we flipped a coin for first fuck.
Frankie called heads and won. Initially he was somewhat reluctant to fuck the goat since he's married to a lovely transsexual midget, a Korean Karaoke singer named Tang Wu Doo Doo Kai, and worried fucking the goat would be like cheating on him/her. I assured Frankie that it's not. Bestiality doesn't count as cheating or adultery. I confirmed this as well through telepathy with Yossarian. Frankie and I hit the blunt a few more times and Frankie was like fuck this shit, it's time to get all up in this goat ass.
He yanked down his tights and broke out a penis I can only describe as monstrous. It wasn't as big as Yossarian's, but it was still big, about the length and width of a 1.5 liter water bottle.
Besides the sheer size of it, noteworthy as well about Frankie Metro's penis was that it had dragon wings tattooed on it, big, neon purple ones, and that it was uncircumcised, with an especially long and floppy foreskin, which kinda resembled a folded slice of smoked turkey.
His dick really looked like a weird fucked up faced neon dragon or something you might see if you were taking acid and watching Sesame Street.
I was expecting Frankie Metro's penis to start shooting fire or singing the alphabet at any minute.
His testicles were also unique. One testicle was damn near the size of a football, and the other the size of a ping pong ball. I'd no idea how they got so uneven like that or how this motherfucker even managed to walk. They were some hairy shits too. Fucking hairiest nads I'd ever seen. Looked like somebody'd caught Slash in a headlock.
Frankie Metro cradled his dragon penis in his hand, stroking it 'till it achieved erection. He calmly approached the goat, which seemed oblivious to the whole thing, and rested his hands on the goat's furry buttocks.
Frankie arched his ass backwards, then gave the goat a sudden pelvic thrust, and his massive unit rocketed right up into the goat's vagina. His dick entering the goat's pussy made a loud squishy type sound, like someone'd squashed an orange with a sledgehammer.
Frankie closed his eyes, bent back his head, and began thrashing away at the goat, truly fucking it like the animal it was. The goat only made slight “bah” type murmurs, but Frankie, in trance of pleasure, started screaming uncontrollably, speaking in tongues, and again making those retarded retching sounds he'd made when we first met.
After about five minutes of frantically fucking the goat, Frankie Metro appeared to orgasm into it, his whole body gyrating in spastic, violent, epileptic fit type convulsions, except his arms, which remained frozen still, in almost a yoga-like contortion.
Once it appeared he'd finished orgasming, he reached down and tried to withdraw his penis from the goat, but couldn't.
It seemed his penis had gotten stuck.
Frankie Metro tried in vain to pull his penis out, but it was to no avail. Soon he started really freaking out, yelling, slapping, and punching at the goat, trying to break its vaginal grip. He cried out to me to help and I ran over to assist and attempted to yank the goat's head forward, thinking this might undo it.
But it didn't.
Actually it just pissed the goat off. The goat glanced up at me with a Satanic expression, as if it'd been fucked by one too many poets and it growled and butted forward, knocking me over.
The goat “bah”ed with such an ear splitting squeal that I had to cover my ears, and I thought for a second my eardrums would explode.
The goat then took off running... with Frankie Metro still attached to it.
It ran like a racehorse, faster than any animal I could recall. The last I saw of it, it was dragging Frankie Metro by the dick over the slope of a sandstone hill.
Frankie Metro's arms were flailing and slapping madly at the beast, his cape flapping in the wind, as the goat pulled him away, and I could still hear Frankie Metro's painful, retarded retching type screams for a couple minutes until they gradually faded away into the moonlit night.
I then tried to contact Frankie Metro by telepathy but only got his voicemail. So I picked up his blunt, which was on the desert floor and still burning, hit it a couple times, plucked and ate a handful of peyote, sat down on a rock, watched the stars in the sky change colors, and for some reason thought of that episode of “Who's the Boss?” where Tony sees Angela naked in the shower.
I'd been staying in Hong Kong for about two weeks, in a shoebox size hotel room, on the outskirts of the city. Every night I'd been having sex with a different hooker. Most of them were women. A few were transvestites.
The other night, around 12 am, there was a loud knock on my hotel door. I answered, in hair curlers and hotel bathrobe, but no one was there.
I went back over to the bed and heard another knock. But this time it seemed to be coming from the window.
I swung my head around to see what looked like the poet Murphy Clamrod outside my window, standing on a tightrope that stretched between my hotel's 27th floor to the neighboring, equally tall and narrow high rise building.
Murphy was wearing only a plaid, Japanese schoolgirl miniskirt and silver high heels. He didn't have a shirt on and his chest was gorilla hairy and beer gut maybe the biggest I ever saw.
On his head was a raccoon skin, Davy Crockett type hat, with bushy tail. Facial hair obscured most of his face. He was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.
I was shocked to see him, not only because he'd somehow shown up to Hong Kong, but also because we'd never met in real life. I only knew him from the Internet. Sometimes I thought he wasn't real and that I was imagining him.
However, here he was, all 6'4 of him, standing on a tightrope, outside my hotel room in Hong Kong, half naked and banging on my 27th floor window. Confused, I tiptoed warily up to the window, and slowly opened it. I asked Murphy what the hell was going on and how he'd found me.
Murphy replied in such a thick New England accent that I couldn't figure out what he was saying.
When repeated shrugs of my shoulders clearly indicated to him my lack of understanding, he gestured down towards the ground below, and then jumped off the tightrope, plummeted 27 storeys, and landed with a loud thud, face first on a delivery van parked next to the hotel.
Aghast, I screamed in horror and quickly got dressed and rode the elevator downstairs. I'd expected to go outside and find a bloody and mangled Murphy Clamrod atop the van.
But instead, he stood in my hotel lobby, unscathed, and now wearing football pads, cleats, and helmet and a Tom Brady Patriots jersey.
Before I could say anything, he motioned me to follow him, and took off running into the crowded, late night Hong Kong streets.
Murphy tore through the streets at a frenetic pace, knocking the far smaller Chinese to the ground, seemingly purposely shoving them over, and occasionally stopping to kick or punch one.
Whenever he saw a Chinese baby, he'd grab it and punt it like a football.
I ran after him, following him into a public bathroom, where he slammed a policeman using a urinal into the wall, then picked him up, pushed his bloodied face into the basin of the urinal, and finally flung him, by his hair and seat of his pants, out of the bathroom, into the street.
Murphy scanned the bathroom for a minute, I guess trying to see if anyone else was there.
He checked under each stall, but didn't find a soul. He stared at me for a second, pointed at me, and pointed at a stall door. Opening the stall door, he undid his chin strap and removed his helmet, throwing it angrily to the floor.
Waving me over to the stall, I followed him in. He nodded a couple times, yelled out some kind of weird prayer, and flushed the toilet. The toilet beamed us, Star Trek style, away, to a barren, snow covered landscape.
Wherever we got to was freezing cold and the sky dark grey. A burning plastic stench filled the air. There was nothing but icy, snowcapped trees as far as the eye could see, except for a small camper van nearby, underneath a large tree that had a maze of crisscrossing crystal branches.
Murphy walked backwards, almost moonwalking, to the camper, twirled around, snapped his fingers in the air, and stepped inside.
I didn't really want to see what was in the camper, but was so cold, I decided to go in there, if only for warmth. I reasoned that if he didn't have a heater, I could go Jack London style and kill Murphy and live inside his gut for a couple days and eat his fat.
Not that I wanted to do that, but when you get teleported to a freezing cold place by a poet who shows up outside the 27th floor of your Hong Kong hotel room late at night, you've got to make contingency plans.
So I crept cautiously inside, thinking maybe Murphy wanted to kill me and do the same thing.
When I got inside the camper, I saw Tom Brady posters covering every inch of the walls. The burning plastic smell grew much stronger, and The Insane Clown Posse played on a boombox in the corner. Scattered about the floor were pieces of paper with free verse poems written in cut out newspaper letters, ransom note style.
The camper wasn't much warmer than outside and didn't have any furniture. There was only a white coffin with the number “12” handwritten all over it, lying in the middle of the floor. The coffin was closed.
Thoughts raced through my mind of Murphy waiting inside the coffin, with a chainsaw or something, ready to jump out and kill me and eat me. I could just totally picture that motherfucker being a cannibal.
I saw a golf club next to the front door of the camper and picked it up and approached the coffin.
I kicked the coffin as hard as I could, to piss him off and maybe make him burst out of there, hopefully without a chainsaw. But nothing happened other than the lid of the coffin flying off.
Golf club cocked back, high in the air, I stepped forward, but what I saw in the coffin shocked me.
There was a toilet seat in there, with a laptop inside it. The laptop was open and one of the transvestite hookers I'd fucked last weekend was on web cam. The transvestite wore a Tom Brady Halloween mask and danced and jumped on the bed.
Then the web cam feed dissolved. The laptop's screen turned blue and a tiny video player came on, showing grainy footage of Tom Brady being sacked by various Giants players in the Super Bowl, again and again and again...
I was kinda bored the other night,
so I contacted Unca Frank by telepathy
to see if he wanted ta come over ta my apartment,
read some blogs, and masturbate a little ta midget porn.
About fifteen seconds later he appeared in my bathroom as I was painting my toenails.
Seems he’d built a teleportation device like the one from Star Trek.
Must admit it was quite shocking seeing him in person for the first time…
He was disturbingly hairy, wore only a black lace teddy, and had eight tentacle, octopus-type arms.
There were malt liquor 40s in four of his tentacles, lit cigarettes in two, and king sized dildos in the other two.
This mahfucker came ready ta party.
I spastically grabbed his testicles and led him inta my living room.
I had a poet named “Yossarian Hunter” hanging upside down in there from the ceiling by suction cup boots and had been using his hair to wash my dishes and was beating him occasionally like a piñata for the things he did to my cat.
Uncle Frank immediately got the party started and began aggressively fucking Yossarian up the ass with a dildo; he then began voraciously jerking me off while playing my pet baboon, Fred, in Madden on the Xbox, AND started passing around a bong to everyone AND was even doing multiple badass kegstands.
Midget porn was raging on the computer; alcohol and ejaculatory bodily fluids were erupting in every direction; and I thought to myself, “Yup, gotta have this mahfucker over again soon. He know how to party, mang.”
“I’m telling you, I fucked a midget.”
“Dude! No way!”
“Yeah, I’m serious.”
“When? Where? And why didn’t you phone me immediately afterwards!?”
“Listen, it was kinda fucked up. I… I didn’t want to tell anyone about it.”
“That’s understandable. We are talking about fucking a midget, after all, but still! Tell me about it, pretty please…”
“Alright, alright, so I’ve been using the ‘Casual Encounters’ section of Craigslist a lot recently to meet girls. Well, not meet them, but hook up with them, casually...”
“Gotta love that site.”
“I saw this ad for a ‘petite’ single white female, non-smoker, 26, looking for fun, and I answered it.”
“Usually most of those ads turn out to be porn spam.”
“I know. So I was wary, but the photo looked different than usual porn spam. It was a headshot from a weird angle, looked like it was self-taken from a camera phone in the bathroom, and her head was only in the bottom part of the mirror. She was sort of sexy… though I could tell she was a midget.”
“How did you know?”
“How do you not know? Midgets have very particular faces.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“So anyway, I had just taken some LSD and was watching the Fox News Channel. Big mistake…”
“What the fuck does the Fox News Channel have to do with the midget?”
“Nothing really.”
“Are you on acid now? Have you been taking it again before work?”
“Nah, and I’m not on it now, but I was the night I fucked the midget, some really potent shit I scored at a Dead show parking lot.”
“Fuck yeah! Damn hippies have the best shit. Back to this midget, though, please continue…”
“Anyway, yeah, okay, the midget. So I respond to her ad, and like 20 minutes later she replies.”
“That’s quick.”
“I know! And it gets weird too. Her name’s Bridget.”
“Bridget the midget?”
“Bridget the midget.”
“We shoot a couple emails back and forth, small talk. Then she, yes, she, suggests we meet at the bar down the street. Surprisingly, she lived only a few blocks away.”
“And you’d never seen her?”
“Nope. But I guess it might be easy to miss a midget.”
“You’re probably right. I bet a lot of people have midgets living near them and don’t know it.”
“So we meet at the bar, and she turns out to be even hotter in person. Had the rosiest cheeks I’d ever seen. Looked a bit like a midget Nicole Kidman.”
“A midget Nicole Kidman?! Dude!”
“A prime Nicole Kidman too. Not the cockeyed owl-looking bitch she is today.”
“I don’t know what Tom Cruise did to her, but it wasn’t right! Fucking Scientology…”
“Yeah, and I’m like tripping balls at this point, having trouble keeping a straight face because I’m at this bar slamming brews with a midget who looks like Nicole Kidman. Her voice sounded funny too. Midgets have very particular voices. She sounded like some shit from the Wizard of Oz and starts cracking all types of jokes. A fucking comedian, this midget was.”
“Soon enough I’m laughing so hard that I’m clenching my gut and beer’s shooting from my nose and she’s howling like a wolf and slapping on the table after every joke and people around the bar are looking at us crazy.”
“That’s not right, though. I bet midgets get weird looks all the time, even when they aren't cracking jokes.”
“We’re both pretty fucked up at this point. And she, yes, she, suggests we go back to her place… for ‘coffee.’”
“’Coffee’ with a midget. That’s fucking awesome.”
“You know, it was when we left our table that I really realized I was with a midget. After standing up from our chairs, I was just towering over her. She couldn’t have even been four feet tall.”
“Well, she is a midget.”
“Yeah...”
“So we’re walking back to her place and I’m wondering what it must be like, her place, like if all the doors were tiny, everything’s shrunken, what her toilet must look like, etc… If it’s a secret midget colony or something…”
“But we get there and it was a normal place; a nice, upscale, modern and fashionable one bedroom apartment, except she did have step ladders everywhere.”
“I guess she has to. She is a midget.”
“Once inside, she disappears into the kitchen, and I think she’s going to actually make coffee, as if the ‘coffee’ wasn’t just a euphemism.”
“But she comes out of the kitchen totally naked with a can of whipped cream in her hand. And damn, her body was hot. Had smallish but firm little tits with large light pinkish nipples, neatly trimmed blond bush, and was all together thin and shapely. She really did look like a naked Nicole Kidman, just in midget form.”
“Fuck…”
“Yeah, so I’m sitting there on the couch, tripping hard, seeing trails and colors everywhere, and like I’m saying, this midget walks out of the kitchen, naked, holding a can of whipped cream, and of course, I sprout instant wood.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“She sits down on the couch next to me, doesn’t say a word, smiles and calmly hands me the can of whipped cream. I shake it up a bit, then spray some in between her legs, then suck the nitrous right of out of the can, and go in and commence the act of cunnilingus.”
“You ate out the midget?”
“One might think a midget’s vagina would be really tiny or something, but it was normal female sized. She even had a rather large clitoris.”
“Bridget the midget, with a large clitoris, wow…”
“So I’m eating away down there, totally slobbering all over her vagina, my face covered in whipped cream, and she’s all squirming and whimpering as I lick at her private personal part. And dude, I could have sworn that as I was eating her, I was hallucinating her vagina lips moving, speaking to me in a voice that sounded like Fran Drescher.”
“The ‘Nanny?!’ Whoa...”
“Her Fran Drescher talking vagina mouth pushed me over the edge, and I just couldn’t bear anymore foreplay. So I get up and tear off my clothes, kick off my shoes, grab the emergency condom out of my wallet, rip open the wrapper, roll the rubber over my manhood, and dive back down to the couch and mount her, missionary style.”
“Always wondered how someone would fuck a midget…”
“Plunging it in, I feel she’s tight as fuck, and I close my eyes and imagine that I’m fucking her, the midget, and Fran Drescher’s mouth at the same time, which was disturbing, but strangely arousing…”
“Dude, I always wanted to shove my penis in her mouth, just to make her shut the fuck up if nothing else…”
“And so I’m on this couch, pure beast-fucking this midget. Skin slapping skin sex sounds very audible. And she’s yelling loud, screaming and moaning, and I start screaming and moaning and cursing and dirty talking to her.”
“But then it gets even weirder… I’m pulling on her stubby little legs as I’m banging her, and suddenly, one of them comes off!”
“Dude!”
“Yeah, a prosthetic…”
“How did you not notice she had a prosthetic? Couldn’t you tell that she limped or something?”
“I guess I was tripping too hard to notice…”
“Dude…”
“So her prosthetic comes off, and I’m holding it in my hand and wondering if this is really happening or if it’s the acid.”
“Duuuude…”
“But I’m horny as fuck and figure I’ll just go with it and I keep on fucking her and screaming and she keeps on screaming, even louder now, like not even noticing her prosthetic leg had come off, and now I start hearing her next door neighbor screaming and banging on the wall, telling us to shut the fuck up, and all three of us are screaming in unison and then I start beating on the wall with the prosthetic leg, yelling shit at the neighbor and at the midget concurrently.”
“That’d definitely be some shit I’d complain to my landlord about if it was me living next door.”
“Pretty soon I orgasm and collapse on top of the midget, but then I start smothering her, because she’s so small… and I’m still holding her prosthetic leg in my hand too, so I get up off her and lie down on the other end of the couch.”
“And she reaches over, takes the leg out of my hand as if it’s no big deal. Then she reattaches it, picks up the can of whipped cream, and walks back into the kitchen. A minute later she comes out, still naked, holding a huge bong, almost as tall as her.”
“I thought she was a non-smoker?”
“As did I. But she didn’t say anything in her ad about being a midget w/a prosthetic leg, either.”
“Fair enough…”
“So we take some bong hits, listen to some music for a while, and even dance a bit.”
“You danced with the midget?”
“Yeah, she danced pretty well for having a prosthetic too. Did the latest hip hop moves, the ‘Dougie’ and everything.”
“Damn…”
“Then we sit back down on the couch and watch ESPN for a while. Turns out she was quite knowledgeable about sports. We soon get into a heated argument about who was the overall better quarterback, John Elway or Joe Montana.”
“Who’d she think was better?”
“I can’t remember…”
“But she got really mad about it and threw me out of her apartment.”
“Some people take sports far too seriously…”
“Tell me about it! You realize that when you’re tripping on acid and a naked midget covered in whipped cream, hopping around on a prosthetic leg, starts throwing shit and pushes you out the door.”
“If that isn’t a ‘teachable’ moment, I don’t know what is.”
“Yeah, I liked her though, wanted to call her the next day and see her again, but I don’t think I ever got her number. And I couldn’t remember exactly where she lived, either, because I was so fucked up when I went over there and more so when I left. Also couldn’t find her emails or her ad again on Craigslist.”
“Maybe you hallucinated the whole thing and just stayed home that night, tripped on acid and jerked off to midget porn…”
“You know, I probably did...”
“Fucking hippies, they always have the best shit.”
Keith Jones was a slightly overweight, fortysomething American teaching conversational English at a small college in China.
The college was located in a rural area, about an hour away from the closest city. There wasn’t a lot to do at the college and buses to the city were few and far between.
Like pretty much all his colleagues, Keith was bored. And lonely. Nearly the entire foreign teaching staff at the college was male, and the few female teachers were painfully unattractive. The Chinese teachers, most of which were female, wanted nothing to do with their foreign counterparts, and most didn’t speak English anyway.
Keith tried hitting on a few of his students, as some of his colleagues had been dating their students, but he didn’t have any luck. He also tried the city, but his lack of Chinese and all the women he met’s lack of English caused him to have no success there, either.
Fed up and not having had sex in almost a year, he turned to prostitution. But all the hookers he found in the city were too expensive. So he asked around to his colleagues and found out about a place in the nearby village, underneath a highway bridge, where some hookers lived and would fuck for only about $15.
However, he was warned the hookers there were way, way past their prime. In fact, he was told most were pushing at least forty or fifty and were fat and ugly and appeared to be in quite ill health.
But Keith didn’t care. Sure, he wanted better, but was tired of his hand and decided desperate times call for desperate measures.
So he biked down to the village one drizzly afternoon and happened upon the bridge he’d been told about. Under it were four women standing around in a litter-filled street, in front of a row of dilapidated shacks.
The closer he got, the worse they looked. All four were nearly fifty, flabby, and all had terrible skin and overall unhealthy appearances.
He’d not paid for sex before and figured that if he would, it’d at least be for someone attractive. But the thought of again going home to his hand pushed him to keep going, and he rode his bike up to the hookers, picked out the least unattractive of the lot, and followed her back to her shack.
Inside her shack there was only a single bed, an old TV, and a bucket of water on the floor. The whole place smelled like shit and looked filthy. Even the tiny bathroom in the back, consisting of just a shower head and squat toilet, looked dirty as fuck.
He paid the hooker and she pulled off her shirt, revealing dangerously low hanging boobs with large purplish nipples. She then peeled off her pants and granny panties and out came her pussy, which was jungle hairy and stunk royally.
Keith undid his pants and whipped out his cock but wasn’t turned on at all. His cock fell limp into the cold air of the room. He closed his eyes and stroked it, trying to think of his 18 year old students, Megan Fox, porn, whatever he could, but it was to no avail.
The hooker grabbed onto his cock and started to wank him w/her clammy hand. Not getting any reaction, she squirted some lube onto him and tried again.
Keith did his best to think of anything other than this nasty whore and her disgusting shack. But he wasn’t feeling anything and just couldn’t get horny.
The hooker continued wanking him for about a minute, finally giving him a semi, and, mere seconds after that, he prematurely ejaculated into her hand.
Disappointed in himself, he did up his pants and got the hell out of there, not even looking at the hooker or saying goodbye. He went back to his apartment at school and wanked off later that night to a picture he’d snuck from his cell phone of one of his students, bending over a desk in her short skirt. Suddenly an idea popped into his mind.
The next day, he biked back to the bridge, this time carr