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From: "Stasya T. Canine" <stasyatk9SPAMUNDESIRED@juno.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Memories Seen in a Mirage (M-dog best zoo) intro to a new series by Stasya T. Canine
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Date: Wed,  1 Sep 2004 05:10:03 -0400
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Memories Seen in a Mirage
First in a series exploring zoosexuality
    --and what makes a person decide to become a zoosexual
by:  Stasya T. Canine
---

I've heard it said that little, unremarkable decisions add up to big, life
defining ones that you can't help but know will change your life
significantly.

Some of the most important ones were made before I was born--but they all
led to who I am now.

Strange?  Or just the way life is?

Both, I guess.  I'll never blame my parents for the decisions they made. 
After all, *I* was the one who confronted the life-defining decision that
can never be unmade...

And chose...

To become a zoosexual.

* * *

My parents were children of the Great Depression.  Not tremendously
wealthy, not rags on their backs poor, they both belonged to working class
families, they both survived.  They carried their own scars, of course.

My father was an only child.  When he was fifteen or so he tripped and hit
his head on the bumper of the family car.  A personality change followed. 
Mood swings were now normal.  He became abusive of his parents when he
didn't get his way.  Later, after he married my mother, these mood shifts
led to violent attacks and other abuse.  She finally had enough and left
him when I was about six.

I still remember cowering under the bed in terror when he attacked
someone, a lawyer, I think, who had come on the property.

There's still evidence of the scar I received when my head hit the broken
bedrail while I crawled under the bed.

But they loved each other before that time--and it shows in all the
pictures I've seen of them during those few years they spent together.

My mother was from a large family.  Of seven brothers and sisters, she was
the next to youngest.  I am too close to her to be able to piece together
what I consider a 'true and factual' account of her childhood.  I've also
heard so many different versions of incidents she's related to me that I
don't know how much 'truth' there is in any of them.

No matter.  The only 'truth' that really matters is the 'truth' that she
believed, and still believes.  It is that truth that helped her make the
decisions that eventually led to the one I confronted when I was about
twenty-three.

So, without speculating on her veracity, I'll simply state that she was
the victim of an attempted rape by her oldest brother when she was about
six.  One of her sisters was well known to be round-heeled and willing to
sleep with any man who was willing to use his penis.  My mother stayed at
home and took care of her father--and was the one who was there when he
died in the bathroom from a heart attack.  He was in his mid forties.

 From what I remember, she and my father had met during their school years
at some point.  It might have been college.  I don't remember.  Both of
them joined the Marines during WWII.  My mother served stateside, my
father in the Pacific theater, eventually winding up serving a tour of
duty in the Philippines during the reoccupation.  I have few details from
either of them.  My mother had her stories on being a mail clerk and my
father never spoke of his years except to tell me a story of how the men
would masturbate before they saw the Philippino whores in an attempt to
make the time with them last longer.  He also told me that anyone coming
off leave or returning from an off post trip was routinely required to let
the medics insert the tip of a syringe into their penis so they could get
treated for VD.

I never knew my father that well, except through my mother's eyes.  I knew
her image of him was distorted.  It wasn't until after he died and after I
made my decision...  That I was finally able to understand how distorted
her image of him, and men in general, truly was.

I sigh deeply...

After the horror of the divorce, and the memories I have of the judicial
system and its warped idea of justice, I was the only son of a single
mother.  Of course this led to events and decisions on her part, and mine,
that now make my 'final' decision seem inevitable.

During the early years after the divorce she made her living doing what
she could.  She had her pride but she accepted the inevitable and applied
for and recieved financial assitance.  It was never enough and she
supplemented that by working.  For years she was a motel maid.  I was too
busy being a kid so I never noticed any changes in her--or knew until many
years later--that at one hotel she was raped twice in the space of two
weeks.  Both times, when she went into the room to clean it, a man was
still there.  Different men each time, but they both did what some men
often do to a woman who is essentially a cipher, with nobody to speak for
them.  She's carried those scars all her life.  Indirectly, I carry them,
too.

In defiance of the court orders, my mother denied my father his visitation
rights.  She made me a part of this by telling me all the bad things he'd
done to her.  She seldom spoke of the good things so my picture was
distorted, filled with hatred, and I was used as a tool to help her
justify her decisions.  Did I know it?  No, and much of what she was doing
was unconscious.  She did her best to present an even-handed view of men
and women but no matter how much I knew about what was happening, no
matter how much I struggled to counteract the distortion, it was still
there and affecting my view of life.

I'm not apologizing for her.  I'm not making excuses.

I grew up fast.  I was able to see the world around me at a very early
age.  I had my childhood and it was a good one for the time I lived it. 
No worse than many, it was above average and even though I didn't have a
father at home, it was a good time to be a child, albeit a child who saw
the world through the eyes of an adult.

It was a good life with far too many good things to mention.  It sounds
this way, dark, because I am taking the time to tell you some of the parts
that played major roles in making me who--and what I am now.

My mother had a book called 'Motherhood'.  It was huge.  8.5 x 11 inches
and about 5 inches thick, it covered everything.  I'd read it through by
the time I was ten.  My mother would often ask me 'What does the book
say?'.  I would tell her and she would usually follow that advice.

I knew about sex by then.  I'd had sex with a female cousin not once but
many times by the time I was nine.  An older male cousin introduced me to
her and the joys of masturbation.

By the time I was ten I also knew that sometimes sex can be a commodity,
to be traded--and used to survive.  Sometimes for a woman it is the only
thing she has to offer.

Forgive me, mother.  I always knew that while we lived there you paid the
rent with your body.  I've always known about the 'special bond' you and
he have.  I've always known why he still cares so much for you.

The wisdom of silence comes early to a child able to see the world around
him.  I understand and have never, will never, judge or condem you for
what you did to help us survive.

Survival has its own rules and I understood that, even then.

By the time I hit puberty though, I had a conditioned fear of forming a
serious relationship with girls.  Something had made me shy.  I guess most
of that fear came from constantly hearing my mother.  She was talking
about men and what jerks they could be but I could see the other side, how
the system favored women in so many ways.  Piss a woman off and she could
ruin you, even if it was obviously the woman who was at fault.  No, I
wanted no part of that risk.  I was poor, below poverty level poor and
almost everything I had, I'd earned.  *I'd* earned it.  Not my mother.  No
gifts.  It was mine--and I didn't want some vindictive bitch taking it away from
me.

Better to avoid all women and masturbate.

Besides, by he time I was feeling this way, the hormone generated LUST I
was feeling had already found an alternative to women.  Ten years later
that 'temporary' solution became a permanent one.

A country boy.  No matter how long I live or where I live I'll always be
one.  Living in the country means animals, of course.  Cats, dogs,
chickens, turkeys, cows, horses, sheep...  Animals of some sort
everywhere.  Of course during puberty only certain parts of these animals
were of interest to me.  Sex.  Mating.  Sex.  Sex.

Fucking.

I'd grown up with cats.  My mother was and is, a cat person.  I was on my
second dog when I hit puberty.  Actually, we had two dogs.  A Collie sort
of looking male and a smaller dog that had what is now known as the
'Benji' look.  She was a mixed breed of some sort.  Both were intact and
when she was in heat my dog would try to mount her.  The size difference
made it difficult for him, but not impossible.  I remember finding a
hidden from view area in the back yard and helping hold her so he could
fuck her.  I didn't know about the knot, other than the fact that they
'tied together'.  Any kid knew that much.

I tried fucking her myself but couldn't get inside her.  I gave that idea
up eventually.  But, it led to one of those decisions I never knew was
important until years later.

I *was* able to ass fuck my dog--and let him ass fuck me.  It wasn't about
love or care, even though we shared a deep bond.  it was sex for both of
us.  I fucked him and I let him fuck me.  This went on for years.  Mostly
it was me fucking him but there were many times I'd lie on my back and let
him fuck me.  We never tied though.  Why that was, I'll never know.  For
some reason I never let it happen.

That was with the next dog we had, another mixed breed.

By now I knew what I wanted from a dog, and our dogs knew what they could
get from me.  The next dog was no stranger to me straddling him and
letting him swell inside me.  One evening I made the choice:  I straddled
him, got him started and finally managed to force his knot all the way
inside my ass.  I jerked off and waited for him to relax.  It felt good
and I knew we'd be doing it a lot more.

We did.

Time passes.

I live alone for awhile, no animals.

I join the military, again, no animals.  There is a failed sexual
relationship with a woman who is casually considered the company cunt. 
She puts out for anyone who is interested.  It's damn cold in the room and
for many reasons, my religious background (long since discarded for the
most part), whatever...  I can't perform and we do nothing.

During these years I explore masturbation and other forms of self
satisfaction.  It's no surprise to learn I'm an anal erotic.  I love
stuffing things up my ass, have since I was a child and I first discovered
sex.

Why didn't I turn gay?  I could have.  I had gay friends in high school. 
I knew that the choice was available.

Religious programming.  Cultural conditioning.  Gay was in the closet. 
Gay was hiding.  Gay was trusting another human about something that was
such a major part of me.

Being gay was not an option.

I'm working.  I'm thinking about my future.  My life.  My sex life.  I see
no realistic hope of ever meeting and forming a sexual relationship or
marrying a woman.  I can't picture myself as gay.

Off and on, since puberty, I've had sex with dogs.  Dogs are unremarkable.
 They blend in.  I love dogs and have always had close friendships, deep
relationships with them.

The decision is made.

I will get a bitch and eventually have sex with her.

I start visiting the animal shelter every time I go past.

Two weeks later, she shows up.

That evening, with the help of a cousin, we bring her home.

I wanted sex.

She taught me to love.
---

Stasya T. Canine
Aug 31, 2004

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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