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young stallion over to his farm to mate with one or more mares for the purpose of producing a foal. Intercourse was everywhere. Oh, what the heck, let’s call it what everyone calls it: fucking. Fucking was everywhere. Our dogs and cats were always doing it. Roosters mounted hens, rabbits mated in the fields, goats coupled in the barnyard. Bulls, birds, and bees did it, so sex was nothing new to me. As a matter of fact, before they started fighting, we kids occasionally heard Mom and Dad doing it, too. If their bedroom door was just a tiny crack open we’d take a peek. And why not? As far as I was concerned, they were only doing what nature intended them to do. But for some reason society seemed to follow more antiquated values.
    Like generations before us, we boys were eager to find out as much as we could about the female of the species. I vividly remember during a school picnic or a social outing when we crossed the boundary into forbidden territory according to the rules of church, school, and society’s norms. A couple of guys and girls would sneak behind the bushes and expose their private parts to one another, playing the “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” game. Lots of giggling would follow the briefest of glimpses. Of course, we hid such activities from parents and teachers but it was all in good fun and we never went as far as physically touching one another. We just looked. And every time I did so I would have to cover myself up because of my hard-on.
    One warm September day I returned home from school on Babe’s back and led her to the stable where I watered and fed her. Watched over by Momma’s all-seeing eyes, Don, Phyllis, and I had lunch together and then got on with our homework seated around the kitchen table. As always, I was impatient to go outside. As soon as I completed the last mathematical problem in my homework book I looked up at Momma, grinned from ear to ear, slammed the book shut, and was dismissed from the table. While Don and Phyllis enviously scowled at me as they continued to scribble away at their assignments I ran outside and went racing across the yard, free as a bird. I sprinted over the fence and headed toward the Peterson’s house to find out what my friends next door were doing.
    We managed to get up to some benign and forgettable mischief and then went racing across the folds of rich green grass that undulated around the farm. Toward late afternoon, satisfactorily exhausted, we returned to the house where Ma Peterson offered us refreshments. Just as I was about to return home to help with the evening milking her husband Joe walked in. He greeted me in his usual friendly manner.
    Joe Peterson was a gentle, jovial sort of guy. Big and burly with bright eyes, he never talked down to the kids like so many adults did. We chatted for a few minutes and then I said I really had to go. Don would already be helping with the milking of the cows and would no doubt be wondering why I wasn’t home yet. Peterson got up from his chair and offered to see me part of the way home.
    He came over, ruffled my hair, and, with his arm loosely slung over my shoulder, walked me outside. We went around the side of the house and continued to make small talk. I suddenly realized that I had an urgent need to urinate. I sheepishly told Peterson that I needed to pee and quickly slipped behind a tree to relieve myself. As I struggled with one of the buttons of my fly I looked up and was surprised to see him standing just a foot or two away from me. I hadn’t even heard him approach. He was staring at me with a look that I couldn’t quite figure out.
    The next thing I knew Peterson came over and helped me unbutton my fly and then, to my surprise, thrust his hand inside my overalls. Before I could say anything he grabbed my penis, pulled it out, and then let go.
    “There,” he said. “Go ahead and do what you have to do, son.”
    I thanked him and began to urinate, but I couldn’t help noticing