This is one in a series of writeups I am doing on child care for everything2.com brand website's quest on doing writeups on child care that I swear I remember being spoken about at some point in time.
One of the things I really just cannot stand are high school kids who are all "rah rah" about the school and get off at pep rallies, cheer at sporting events, and wear the school name on jackets and t-shirts. It makes me sick when kids do this because of the blatant slap in the face this is to our military veterans and those who gave their lives fighting for those kids' freedom. And this is how they are repaid. For shame. For absolute shame.
My anger towards high school piss ants over this and other very marginal issues began in the early 1980s, after the blessed 1970s ended and Jimmy Carter was elected and the whole country went into a toilet from which it has never recovered because of his insane, out of control economic schemes and desire to impose tariffs on other countries in a very haphazard manner. While I do not cheer Carter's assasination in Brazil in 1993, I do understand why it was necessary in light of being respectful towards military veterans and those who gave their lives fighting in foreign wars so that Jimmy Carter could just go to town on our financial health as a nation while laughing like Skeletor from the major international animated series, He-Man, which you are either too young or too absolutely dumb to remember or relate to. It set the tone for what would later become the award winning Rush Limbaugh radio program. Good things come from the strangest places.
As was noted by the long dead 19th century era everything2.com brand website columnists above, the extraction of breast milk can be a challenge for reasons that are not in any way related to Jimmy Carter or He-Man. Those are what are known as red herring type things. Knowing this you must consider the possibility that the main thrust of this article as it slams up inside you is actually Jimmy Carter and He-Man and that the red herring thing is the breast milk. How can you be sure? How can you ever be sure? You cannot. Don't fool yourself.
It is noted above by Miss Rose, who lived from 1834-1918, and noded consistently on everything2.com brand website from 1889-1916 before age and socialized medicine combined forces to take her out without mercy (one of the key issues I have with socialized medicine). Let us remember the sacrifice she made to show us why socialized medicine is always DEAD WRONG about everything, especially when science gets involved and the falseness increases exponentially (which means two steps forward and three steps back). Where was I? Oh yes. Lawdy I did lose my place there (ask Hector to make my glasses more readily available). Miss Rose, bless her for her sacrifice to expose the truth about socialism, points out the need to have a firm grasp on the nipple. Your mouth should go to it IMMEDIATELY and without pause, with only a couple seconds between the woman agreeing to meet you for a drink and your mouth latching onto her nipple like a lamprey. Lawdy! Ain't THAT the stuff. Am I right, fellas?
Because my adoptive mother in Germany's first words to me were "Don't EVER come near me, piece of shit," I was denied the experience of milk as a toddler and was given over to my adoptive father to have extremely brutal medical experiments with no scientific value performed on me, which including the insertion of live, cleanly shaved animals into my rectal passages for what he he called "exploration and colonization." He would then slap me on the back, which tended to be a problem since he kept my own nipples sewn to metal rings in the wall with extremely sharp razor wire, and say, "This is the only purpose a piece of shit like you serves." Because of this, my upbringing turned me into a very responsible and work-oriented businessman. This is why I want this visited on each and every one of you. I want ALL of you to have that kind of relationship with your parents, and if your relationship with your parents isn't like that, they will be taken to camps and replaced by "new parents" who WILL be that way. I know you can understand this is the only sensible plan to bring about the kind of America we really, truly want. I tend to get a 3/4 boner just thinking about it, I swear to God, man. I do.
My first experience with a woman came while I was in my mother's severe care, watching lustfully as her dried out old desert lady nipples moved up and down with the cruel desert winds. I think she may have been born in 17th century Palestine, but I don't know. As I said, she was my adoptive mother. My real parents were the Berkys, who were traveling people. They were very nice and they deserved to die for it and they did. My adoptive parents were superior in word and in deed and not afraid to execute a plan. Shame on my birth parents.
The guards on the Berlin Wall paid me to watch and shoot any people trying to escape when I was thirteen. I had 52 kills by the time I turned 14, but was forced out of that gig because 50 of them were our soldiers. Some of them I took down in knife fights where arguments were settled by putting the two parties in a cage with a rabid raccoon and and monkey with seven different STDs including the big ones. They felt bad, so they got me what was ostensibly known then as a "hooker" (lingo like that went out with the 1920s so you probably don't need to understand the reference). She wore a uniform like they did and had a moustache, but that didn't bother me because as she opened her shirt, these big walloping furry breasts tumbled out. So beautiful, so thick with hair, and I nestled myself in her bosom as I felt what I was told was her "clitoris" growing to what felt like a very thick, solid nine inches.
The problem was that she had not given birth to what is ostensibly known as a baby ever, and so her breasts were not filled with milk but it is always in there somewhere NEVER give up trying. When you suck on a woman's nipples, you want one thing and one thing only. You want some milk. Why else are you doing this? Sure, they feel good, but she doesn't need to be conscious for that. At this point you haven't even gotten the little case with your "kidnapping drugs" out of your car yet. What is going on? How do you get the milk? Should you ask her? It is considered wrong in this age of idiotic PC culture to say to a woman, "Fuck's wrong with your tits? Where the fuck is the milk, bitch?" You have to kind of "feel her out" which involves eventually working most of your fingers into one of her orafices.
My mother came in at that point and rasied her dress and began furiously rubbing the thing that looks like a rat that she has stapled to the spot between her legs. So awful. So wrong. I wish I hadn't shared that with you. Please don't repeat that. It is disrespectful to my adoptive mother and to mothers everywhere. I am sorry everyone. I am so, so sorry.
The hooker held my face against her breasts as she stroked my hair and told me I had to suck harder and firmer and not to let up until I heard her make a big sigh.
Okay, I need to tell you that at this point I knew there was something "off" about this situation. It just didn't feel right. There was something very uncomfortable and very wrong with this situation but I had no idea what it was. The hooker was so nice, so eager for me to proceed, and I hope I didn't hurt her feelings when I left. I quit the Berlin Wall detail to concentrate on figuring out who was going to win the Cold War so I would know which side to choose now that the invaders had crushed Germany and split the only truly great nation on Earth in two. I would bring my sensibilities and soon to be developed skills as a businessman to the highest bidder.
Many years later, back in the 2000s, I answered an ad in Craigslist for a stable boy to work for some farmer in Wichita, Kansas, with no pay, and I would have to sleep on the bathroom floor of an abandoned Howard Johnson's. It was too good to pass up. What an opportunity to SHINE! I put on leather chaps and a sleeveless t-shirt and headed out to Wichita. I was ready to muck out those stables like a man possessed.
The farmer was lonely. He's recently lost his wife and when he went back to the supermarket to look for her, he got a blood clot in his brain and began to act erractically. He wanted me to "feast on my wife's tits," or so he kept yelling in the middle of Denny's to everyone who walked by. The guy was in his seventies and he looked poor. What would the titties of a woman who would submit to someone like that be like? Like raisins with worms in them probably. Those need to be kept hidden away. That is what they make bras for. Hide that crap. Jesus.
The farmer had a horse he wanted me to milk, which was an issue. I hope I don't have to explain why. It was foreplay because later in the day he came out, dressed exactly as he had before, full beard and Klan tattoos, and said that he was his dead wife and wanted me to suck on her breasts until milk came out. This was not what I expected AT ALL when I answered that Craigslist ad. This was something very different from "barn chores." That was what I was interested in. Barn chores. Of course, I do like boobs, so I decided, "Eh, why not."
Farmer Bill took a seat on her porch rocker, dropped the flap on her overalls, and pulled out what was actually a very nice breast. It had a wonderful amount of hair on it, taut and tense nipples, and the biceps at the sides to really frame the femininity of the breasts. I was mesmerized, ready to go, but there were still issues and not all of them revolved around the milking horse.
Back in 1996 when I was running my startup company, Civil War Action Figures, ELLC, and listening to my Duncan Sheik album, I read an article about getting milk out of stubborn breasts but when it came to this moment with the farmer, I couldn't remember what the article had been about. I was not even sure it was about breasts or milk at all. It might have been the NFL Preview Issue of a sports magazine at a barber shop. If you barber doesn't draw AT LEAST a half pint of blood out of you with cuts and abrasions, get a new barber.
Farmer Bill pushed her hairy breast against my trembling lips and slid it around until my lips locked onto the pert and wonderfully tart nipples that she had. Such tartness. There was resonance. Real resonance. And I did that bit where you slowly draw the nipple between your lips and tongue and gently caress it with the mouth, moistening it, making it harder, preparing it for forcible milk extraction.
There are contraptions sold in baby stores and creepy coffee houses where they have a back room where "Shh, we have stuff back there" is sold. Some of these will have a sharp, microscopic drill bit and you drill through the center of the nipple until you have gone five or six inches into the flesh. The nipple may be torn asunder in this process, but it doesn't matter. You want the milk. The person doesn't matter. Get. The. Milk. Did Eisenhower give up because it rained on June 5, 1994? You decide. That nipple WILL give milk, just as Eisenhower eventually DID surrender to Hermann Hesse. You cannot stop progress or God's plan. It is the ONLY way. To hell with those who just don't get it.
I've never used any contraptions because I have an X-Man type hand and I love brutalizing people with it and chasing them down the streets when I burst in on them in gas station bathrooms and grab them and throw them in the streets and humiliation them before ripping off their flesh with my bare hands. Because of that, I developed a more gentle was of coaxing milk out of uncooperative breasts. Their purpose is to give milk. Make them give you milk. Day and night. Night and day. End of story.
Farmer Bill was very gentle with me. It had been a while since I'd had any success with women, even with paid prostitutes who always seemed to "change their mind" and refund my money at the last minute. Before long they were warning each other about me and no one would ask me for a date any longer when I walked the streets late at night. It was very sad, and so I was grateful to Farmer Bill for being so gentle with me. I had secretly hoped that I would get some tit when I came to Wichita and now I was.
I held her nipple between my lips and I began to slowly suck. We were in the pen with the pigs at the time, so we had the stink of livestock all around us, making it a full sensory experience. Nothing would come, so I bit into the nipple and then again until I felt fluid pass from it, a kind of milk that was dark red in color and now flowed freely. I continued sucking as more and more of the fluid came out while Farmer Bill moved her body in a writhing mix of pain and ecstasy. I then bit the nipple completely off and an ecstatic scream came out of Farmer Bill. It was rewarding.
There was a wonderful romantic moment that lasted several minutes. Farmer Bill's head was tilted back, her throat straining with untold amounts of throbbing, ceaseless pain, and I was satisfied. Then she came after me and I ran as fast as I could to the bus stop and got on the Greyhound bus back to Baltimore. Enough is enough.