Its a Living

You think your jobs tough? Try being the Ty-D-Bowl Man for Huntington Beach

Well, we use hearing protection—it's pretty loud, like I couldn't make out anything you said if I was in the back on the phone. And you get burned, of course.



I got this job because I was going to school and my parents pretty much cut me off. It's got flexible hours, and the pay is good—I make about $500 per week, which pays my rent and bills. I've been doing this for three and a half years. I really like it because I get to drive cars that aren't mine. I really like the newer Benz models. The Lexuses are really nice, too. There's not a lot of room in this lot, so we park them next door or across Pacific Coast Highway. No one's gotten hit yet running across the street—thank God—but it does get scary sometimes.



I'm not one now, but I used to be a data clerk, and it wasn't that bad—as long as you ignored the sore hands and crushing isolation. My days were spent typing nonstop for eight hours a day, five days a week, with only my co-worker for human interaction. People still don't believe I did that for three years. To keep my sanity, I essentially meditated on the clicking of the keyboard and the flashing icon that served as proof of where I was. You can't distract yourself with things as trivial as life; if you think about anything other than typing, you'll turn crazy. My friend took over for me after I quit. He lasted only a month. He said the job was crushing his soul.

'Would you like to see my drawings?'



They don't even dim the lights, these people, when they lead in a bitch wearing a pair of denim shorts—bitches' britches, they call them. They put her in a headlock, remove her pants and leave her bare ass exposed under the throbbing fluorescent lights. She stands on industrial, rubber-backed carpet, her ass wiggling around, her tail "flagging," i.e., waving side to side like a wiper blade, a signal, apparently, that she's in heat, and then—boom-thunka-boom-thunka-boom—the male comes clattering in, his nails scratching madly across the linoleum, his black muzzle like the hand of Adam in Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel, reaching for the bitch's keister.

"He was in a cage on the way over," one of the owners tells me, and she—the brindle bitch—was wandering around the very same car, spreading her scent like an intoxicating perfume, smelling up the joint like a ham.

He is primed. He yearns, he leans, he tugs for her ass. He is like a road sign indicating Intercourse. His pecker is only the size of a small man's thumb—until his searching nose and groping tongue hit her butt, and then the thing telescopes. It's like a bratwurst, a yardarm, a human phallus. He's a Great Dane, an immense hound—and so is she—and he's suddenly got a cock bigger than a man's, something about one-fifth his body length. Where does he store such a thing?

And he's on her. The brindle's face is buried in her master's lap like a scene from Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale; his snout is rooting around in her ass like the hand of a blindfolded kid under a broken piŮata. And that dick! That purple-and-red, swollen, blue-veined, slick, raging hard-on he's driving toward her haunches! Here it comes like a flesh zeppelin! The bitch is going to get it!

And then—no!—it's in the deft hand of the vet. She reaches under the dog's belly, grabs his wanker and slips it smoothly into a kind of Baggie, if Baggies were shaped like cones and attached to test tubes. And now she's jerking off the Baggied dog with such dexterity that he doesn't seem to know he's not inside the bitch—"bitch" being a word the vet throws around like she's Eminem. He's pumping against the doctor's hand like an exotic dancer, his forelegs on the bitch's back, his hips moving faster than humanly possible, as if there's a coiled spring in his butt unwinding at warp speed. While one dog owner holds the bitch and the other tries to leash in the thrusting male, the vet is working him, but it's a little like whacking off a muscular 80-pound ferret because this dog is positively mad with love.

"My job is to sweat," the vet says, and she is doing her job, and I'm wondering, "Is it hot in here?" Her right arm—her working arm—is larger than her left arm, she notes, "and not because of baseball."

She jokes easily, and even laughs a little—especially when she sees the look of horror frozen on my face as she bends the male's cock backward between his legs like an udder, a second tail, so that his head is pointing north and his dick is thumbing a ride south.

Semen collection is physical work. "I've got a death grip on his penis," the vet says, and she needs it; the job is like milking a cow on the run. She manipulates the dog and substitutes one test tube for another seven times in quick succession. She doesn't want the first shot, heavy with prostatic fluid, just the sperm-rich seminal fluid that comes after.

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