The Time I Was Molested by a Dog
When I was in junior high school, my friend had a great big chocolate labrador named Apollo.
Apollo was huge, with a head about the size of my torso, and his family kept him unneutered so as to breed him in the future. He seemed an altogether happy dog, and followed most commands. Well, except when he got into his sexual frenzies.
I remember the first incident I witnessed one New Year’s Eve. Too young to drink or go out, I was watching the ball drop at my friend’s house when Apollo came by, sniffed around, then started furiously humping a throw pillow. I mean, he was just decimating this pillow, scooting across the floor with each thrust.
My friend’s family giggled nervously, but mostly ignored the scene. It became apparent that this spectacle was no stranger to this home. After a few minutes, Apollo finally jizzed all over the pillow, and a good portion of the floor. I was horrified, seeing as how this was my first look at real, live sperm, but my friend’s mom just calmly got some paper towels and cleaned it up.
Months later, my friend and I were playing some sort of shrieky teenage game in the back yard. I was eating Twizzlers and running around in the sun. Innocent. Apollo was let out to join in the fun, but he had this glint in his eyes.
A glint that said, clearly, “I’m going to fuck the shit out of you.”
Sure enough, he came up behind me, knocked me to the ground, and began humping like his life depended on it. My half-chewed Twizzler flew out of mouth as I screamed for help, but my friend and her family just laaaaughed and laaaaughed. Despite the fact that their dog was trying to impregnate me through my jeans, it looked like there would be no help from that corner.
I tried pushing the massive dog off of me, but he weighed more than me, and so I just had to take it. I closed my eyes and continued trying to wriggle away. In retrospect, all that movement was probably taken by Apollo as encouragement.
Saliva from his gaping maw dripped on my shirt, and soon jizz joined the grass, sweat, and spit-stained Jackson Pollock painting on my back.
I don’t remember details from the rest of the day, but I’m pretty sure it involved a long, hot shower and scrubbing with steel wool.