On Fucking, Animals or Otherwise

By Balls Malone

I would like to clarify that when I talk about fucking animals, it is a purely hypothetical scenario I’m envisioning. It’s a campfire chitchat goof, like “what superpower would you like to have?” (you know mine), or “if you could only kill one Backstreet Boys member with an icepick, which one would you kill, and where would you stab him first?” (AJ, and left testicle)

So, when we’re talking about which animal you’d like to fuck, it’s a similar hypothetical question. The assumption here is that the animal is, of course, a completely willing participant and a disease free, premier specimen. You can also specify the sex of the animal and the type of sex act.

I would like to fuck a female tiger. As is my usual preference when getting down, I’d like to exchange fuck-faces to completion (one at a time, of course – 69 is goofy fun sometimes, but it’s much nicer to focus properly and do your respective jobs properly). Following that, it would be nice to relax together for a while until one thing leads to another. Then just see what happens.

I also am aware that oral sex from a tiger tongue would likely be rather painful. I know. That’s the point. Don’t kink shame!

When thinking about this important question for yourselves, do keep in mind that when I use the term “fuck,” I am in not way being hetero or male centric in my use of the term. When I say fuck I mean it in a wider, more universal sense. Whatever fucking is to you, is what I’m talking about.

Too many people are hung up on what is “normal” or “real” sex. Penis fucks and hole gets fucked, and any other shenanigans is queer. And that hole had better not enjoy itself too much, or it’s gonna turn itself into a slut hole, goddamn it!

This entire mode of thinking is fucked. If you can find someone who pushes your buttons and you can push theirs back, then the mechanics of what’s going on is irrelevant: you are fucking. If Person A is able to make eye contact with Person B across a crowded cafeteria while sending text message instructions on Person B getting themselves off (because Person B has informed them of how they are able to do this on the sly), then I would say that Person A is fucking the shit out of Person B.

That’s some good fuckin goin on right there!

Superpower

by Balls Malone

If I could have one superpower it would be to be able to transcend space and time to have three-ways with Queen Elizabeth II and Betty White in 1945. More specifically, that all three of us rendezvous in a suitably groovy trans-dimensional place, with them being their respective ages from that year. Of course, they are completely into it, and I could initiate this whenever I want.

Betty would be in her early twenties, just the perfect age to help the nineteen year old royal experience the nuances of our forbidden love. It would be cool to explore new things together, with our routine evolving each time we meet. The first time the Queen tastes Betty’s cunt on my cock would be a pleasure to savor working towards.

Taints on Ice

By Balls Malone

When you think about it, figure skating is really based on who is able to showcase their taint in the most grandiose way.

I suppose you don’t have to think about it this way, but it makes it a lot more entertaining. Particularly when you’re watching in Japan and don’t really understand what the commentators are saying.

Announcer 1 (male), yelling:

“Ohhhhh!! Subarashi!” (translation: “Wow! What a taint!”)

Announcer 2 (female), breathlessly:

“Hai! So desu ne.” (translation: “Indeed! Nothing much left to the imagination in that play, Bob.”)

But we really should not allow the spectacle of the whole event distract us from just how much work these world-class athletes have put into preparing themselves for the competition. All those long, early mornings spent stretching out and limbering up their taints. All the hard falls on that unforgiving ice that have bruised those taints.

So I salute you and your taints, you intrepid purveyors of your intimate, inter-orifice treasure.

It really is a wonder of the modern age, this taints on ice.

The Story of Big Bob

by Balls Malone

Big Bob had the silkiest anus in the village. It was big too. Like a bisected grapefruit. There might have been bigger anuses around, but none were so silky as Bob’s. That was something everyone could agree upon. Big, red, and silky; that was Bob.

Bob didn’t rest on his laurels, though. Not Bob. Why, he might have had the silkiest anus in the village, but that was just his steppingstone to true anal glory. It was Bob’s muscular control over his sphincter that made him the star that he was in these parts. Why, his bum-minstrel show at the county fair made him the talk far and wide.

It’s a curious thing, that one man would be so blessed in just that particular area. But it has been supposed that the attention and interest lavished on his orifice from an early age meant that he was encouraged to develop his athletic skills with it. Nature and nurture coming together in a happy confluence, if you will.

Whatever the reasons for it, Bob’s anus truly was a miracle. “Some grip!” folks would ejaculate at the fair, as they struggled to retrieve whatever objects they had paid Bob to show his skills with. Bob could also open and close that anus of his, like a toothless mouth, and would conduct a ventriloquist’s act: with a comical face painted on his behind and a straw hat propped on his lower back.

The fair was, of course, Bob’s bread and butter, but he got along okay in the village over the rest of the year. His shack backed up on Turtle Creek Lane. He cut a couple holes in the back wall: one big for his behind, and another small for a coffee can. When he heard the happy sound of coins falling in the can, Bob would present his ripe glory for his patron’s amusement. Whatever folks chose to do with Bob’s wonderful talents was their business. We aren’t the sort to pry into the affairs of others (unless, of course, we help them fill up their coffee can first).

Sadly, for all of us here, but especially Bob, some folks can’t leave well enough alone. A lawman from Town got it in his head that there was some kind of funny business going on with Bob. He came down to the village a couple weeks ago and shot poor Bob. Shot him dead right on his front stoop. Claimed that Bob came at him with an ax. It’s supposed this is probably true; since Bob had been working on a lumberjack routine for the fair, and the lawman shot him in the back. But Big Bob surely never meant the lawman any harm. He was probably just trying to lighten the mood. That was the kind of man Bob was.

Rest in peace, Big Bob. You brought joy to the lives of dozens, and will not be soon forgotten.

Road Trip

by Balls Malone

After about an hour of driving she had one of her episodes where she compulsively needed semen. Happy to oblige, I pulled over and she blew me. For all her enthusiasm, she was never very good at head. It was like she was attacking it; little animalistic grunts with manic, jerky motions. A bit frightening, actually, but head is head.

Afterwards, inevitably, her mood soured. We stopped a while later for lunch and recriminations.

I’m sure it’s no picnic being blind, but at least you must be able to save a lot of money on prostitutes! Just get an ugly one; it’s not like you’ll notice the difference. The ugly ones usually have a stronger work ethic, too. Win, win!

-Balls Malone

 

The Anusrasiertleckenman

by Balls Malone

In the olden days of the Bavarian Alps, folk would whisper of the Anusrasiertleckenman.

As the story goes, on the vernal equinox if you slept out of doors or in a barn or shed, the Anusrasiertleckenman would visit you.

Wearing only undersized lederhosen, the Anusrasiertleckenman appeared in the form of a small, rotund man, perfectly hairless but for his marvelously swirled handlebar mustache.

Now, if as you went to sleep, you left beside you a pitcher of fresh cream and a bowl of newly churned butter, the Anusrasiertleckenman would strip you naked, massage your body and his with the cream and butter provided, and then shave your anus skillfully with a razor-sharp hatchet. Only when your anus was perfectly smooth would the Anusrasiertleckenman lick the rest of the cream and butter from inside it.

However, woe to those who might fall asleep out of doors or in a barn on the vernal equinox without providing the Anusrasiertleckenman his dairy offering. For this offense, or for providing cream and butter not of the utmost freshness, the Anusrasiertleckenman would exact a fearsome toll with his hatchet: adding the offender’s anus to the collection he would tote around in a sack made from a troll’s scrotum.

What an exquisite torture it must have been, to feel that blade’s edge in your anus, wondering the whole time if your cream was fresh enough to prevent your hole’s extraction! Thrilling!

These days, cultural anthropologists who can be persuaded to speak of the Anusrasiertleckenman tend to regard him as a cautionary folk tale emphasizing the importance of hygiene standards in dairy production. Of course, the hatchet ass shaving and rim job stuff is just Germans being German.

German hand axe, late 16th century.German hand axe, late 16th century copy