At one point, I lived on a farm and traded my labor for a break on rent.
The family who actually ran the farm for its rich owner kept a dairy cow. I had to learn to milk it so I could cover all the chores in case the family went away for a few days. Why else have an assistant?
Most of us have seen milking depicted in many forms in television, movies and cartoons. It does little to prepare the city or suburb slicker for the smell of the barn or the experience of sitting down beside an enormous-appearing hairy beast, with an empty bucket and instructions to fill it with warm, fresh milk.
I try not to let anything faze me, but as I sat there on my little stool, actually another bucket, upturned, I realized I was about to grab the nipples of an extremely large creature I had barely met.
Prior to this, the only mammaries I had ever touched had required a certain amount of courtship. Shouldn't I kiss her a couple of times, or something? This just seemed so abrupt, so personal. Getting slapped is nothing compared to getting brushed off with a hard hoof with, dare I say it, some beef behind it.
The cow had no such qualms. She was used to the routine. If she felt fractious she would simply step into the bucket with a manure-covered hoof or swat me alongside the face with her encrusted tail. She didn't care if I ever called, and she preferred hay and grain to chocolate and flowers.
We ended up seeing each other for a little over a year.
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