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BlankHISTOR-RECTUM-ME
I remember looking at a horse turd when I was a slip of a lad; my family wa=
s on holiday. We, my mother, father, sister and I, spent our family break m=
ostly wandering around the countryside on enforced walking =
adventures. I recall it vividly and the cottage we were staying in did =
not have a television, which caused much stress for my sister Annie and =
I. we were immensely disturbed of the fact that we were missing all our =
favourite children's programs.
Dad was keen on walking and always said that it would do us the world of =
=
good if we followed suit. Annie and I were not as infused by the idea =
but he still dragged us out into the painfully boring, countryside all =
the same. I never did appreciate the nature scene; there was never any =
people to accidentally bump into, no policemen for mimicking silly =
walks. Not enough streets and houses for us to play knock down ginger =
in, no shops to steal sweets from, just very slow tractors.
Anyway it was a scorching hot day in the year 1976, the Indian Summer. =
There was a draught across the whole country and we were roasting like =
bacon under the blazing sun. We came across this field and there it was =
a massive turd and it smelled wonderful. Flies buzzed around our heads =
as we all flicked them aside. The horse that had laid the shit stood =
proud, it was taller than my dad and he was six foot odd. Everyone =
laughed and made the usual jokes about the size of the horse's dick as =
it hung, unselfconscious, vulnerable and bare. I was more interested in =
its droppings, hypnotized as another turd escaped from the horse's ass =
and plopped onto the dry grass, scorched by the sun.
It fascinated me so much so that my father had to drag me away from the =
scene as I moaned loudly. He had a different agenda planned, so we had =
to carry on with the days booked mission, the family's official =
expedition.
That night in our rented cottage a few hours after everyone had finally =
gone to bed. I sneaked down the stairs out of the back door and followed =
=
the lane for a while, until I came across the field where we had seen =
the horse earlier that day. My small frame climbed over the steel gate =
and jumped into the field. There was no sign of the creature so I began =
collecting as much horse shit as possible and placed it all in one big =
pile. After spending about half an hour building a heap of horse shit in =
=
the middle of the field I decided to undress.
It was very warm and the excreta glistened under the silvery, shine of a =
=
crescent moon. My naked, white body stood above the mass, pausing =
apprehensively. I took a deep breath and smelled the aroma on my hands =
and stood still captured by the moment, excited and nervous at the same =
time. I slowly knelt and dipped my hands into the half-crusty, slimy =
solution and then dipped my nose into it. Then immersed the rest of my =
body into the abundantly large amount of horse-shit.
As I rolled around in it, experiencing its voluptuous stickiness, my =
mind flashed back to the memory of my father's mud wrestling videos. Of =
course he was not aware that I knew of their existence, but you know =
kids, they can instinctively discover all the best hiding places.
I stumbled across them on one of my 'seeking out the family secrets', =
adventures. Amongst numerous nude magazines, condoms, straps and other =
strange and fascinating objects I found three videotapes. The covers =
displayed females fighting in mud; these images immediately caught my =
eye. I ran downstairs, drew the curtains so no one could see from =
outside and placed one of the videocassettes into the video player. The =
video player was not like the digital ones that we use theses days, =
although it was exactly like the one they had at my school. It was big, =
clumsy, and noisy and it didn't always work. This time it did work and =
the visuals that appeared onto the screen at first made me laugh. The =
sight of full grown naked, woman who were probably the same age as my =
mother, throwing each other around in mud seemed hilarious and pointless =
=
at first. Suddenly my attention focused on the mud that the two females =
were playing around in. A close-up of one of the women's buttocks filled =
=
the screen. I paused the frame and looked more in detail at the image =
before me; I began to feel a slight tingle in my bones. I could just =
make out her bum-hole as her bare ass was covered in mud. Then it hit =
me; they were fighting in pretend shit.
After this revelation my interest for excreta became an obsession, my =
attention for shit references started go wild and innuendoes flourished, =
=
as well as taking the odd sneaky trip to my parents bedroom when the =
rest of my family was out. Television was my lifeline in my youth, there =
=
were plenty of films and adventure serials on the box that gave me =
constant information and pleasure, feeding my new found very secret =
hobby. The Amazing Adventures of Tarzan was one of my favourites, =
serialized on BBC1 every Saturday morning and Tarzan always seemed to in =
=
some kind of kinky scrape. He would be half-naked, swimming and =
splashing around in dense, insect, infested water and looking pretty =
sexy, or he would be wallowing in my most cherished medium - mud. =
Whenever I saw someone being swallowed by quicksand on the television, =
my nerves tingled and I would imagine that it was shit and that it was I =
=
who was in it, with my naked, vulnerable flesh being engulfed.
http://www.furtherfield.org/mgarrett/shit.htm
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