The cum cow strikes a primal nerve. The cum cow was not born so much as materialized and recombined in that deep dell common to all, that rolling free range pasture of pure consciousness at the base of thought. There, the cum cow was conceived and immaculately consummated, as are all things that occur to us.
“Cum cow” is strangely intuitive. On first cognizance, it is as though “cum cow” has always already been present in the unconscious but only just now, upon said cognizance, come to light. My blue ribbon cum cows, from ghettoized repression in the factory fuck farm to first prize at the county fair—they are the erotic shadow integrated, The Dick Inside ouroborated, the hole made wholesome.
The cum cow jumped over the moon.
So cute I could explode into pure cum,
the very sweet “I’ve been eating a lot of pineapple” cum.
So long as it’s not black tar cum, my favorite.
But what we want and need are not necessarily the same.
BUT WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH BLACK TAR CUM, BY GOD?
Everything, and nothing, once self-love is properly understood.
Once it is understood that nothing is to be refused or rejected (Cum Cow Cumpendium).
The cum cow started in darkness and came to light. I set out to write the most depraved thing I could imagine, something potentially legally obscene in a time when everything—even if mostly in (open) secret, and even if never leaving the realm of pure fantasy—seems permitted. This was the impetus, the erotic life-affirming death drive, that birthed the cum cow.
The cum cow was born of my most based lizard brain. My love of great big tits—extremely giant, usually fake-looking boobs—is, in large part, how the cum cow was born. My love of great big tits goes back as far back as I can remember, to the first porn magazines I hid under my mattress. My mind embellishes the great big tits of porn with perversions of my own devising. I see a pair, and—Behold! Cum cows. And they are lowing and being milked and milking themselves, and their udders are being inflated with bike pumps and air guns, and “How now, brown cow?” etc.
I set out to write a dystopian, dare I say speculative story about a “funny” factory fuck farm populated with cum cows made of various human and animal parts—sex monsters therein enslaved as part of a trafficking ring run by society’s elite and patronized by yes-all-men. Aside from having a black humor about it, at times a caustic silliness, it is pure darkness. And there was, for a time, nowhere to go for the cum cow except in darkness.
Elder cum cows, udders great big, as though drawn by the 12-year-old Cock E. [Cuntsmart] himself who’d heretofore never seen a pair of tits, so big the cum cows fall over forwards like the chickens at Sanderson Farms in McComb, Mississippi, pussies gel-filled for labial vitruvianism, fucked full nelson by the animal husbandrists who grab the cum cows by the biceps, pull them back in Jesus Christ poses, to raise high those cum cow tits standing tall, doing the barn proud (Where the Cum Cows Are).
There was, for a time, nowhere to go for me except in darkness. I withdrew into the psychological equivalent of a monk’s cloisters, a voluntarily celibate, a-romantic nunnery, a cave of existence in which I experienced almost total isolation, at times violent loneliness, meditating and self-reflecting in alternating introspective despair and transcension. I sat with myself, experienced utter (udder) aloneness in a way few people experience.
I spent the duration of that period with the loathsome monsters in my black abysses, approaching them with as much terror, shame, and guilt as gentle curiosity, with the basic goal of coming to a greater awareness of my demons, to observe them in surgical light but with minimal judgment.
I dialed up the mother of all cum cows. She wore a lime green miniscule bikini, thread strings, tiny triangles pulled tight so the nips pushed through and the clit pushed through the moisture-wicking spandex, clit big like a small dick, my POV head-camera kneeling before her as she pliéd like an R Crumb ballerina and pulled her pussy lips apart like the sheela na gig, the spotless cumcatcher, using her biceps to push her great big cum cow tits together and make them look great bigger, bikini top skewed out of place to expose the hard pacifier-like nips, too, big like small dicks, her mouth open in astonishment, plump obviously-filled lips, eyes aghast, as she projectile squirted on my face (my head is a camera) repeatedly. Came prolifically and belligerently. (Externalizing The Dick Inside: Day 7).
I set out to uncover the foulest, most loathsome and degraded images my unconscious would reveal to me. My search led me into shadowed nooks and forsaken places so stained that daylight dared not enter. I crouched in the filth spawned by my darkest urges, smeared myself with the runoff of my misdeeds, soaked in the refuse of my own moral collapse.
I dialed up a familiar fantasy: the gang bang, the women of porn getting used like cum dumpsters; they spread it wide, and the men cum all over it, and this is the type of porn that, if not flashing on the screen, continuously flashes through my mind: the shakti temple in Monstrous Masculine Vision.
Makes sense why I gravitate toward it. I unconsciously love being used, love to fetishize it while also fancying myself the user. In my fantasies I am the one who spreads it wide and the one who cums all over it. In the realm of pure fantasy, I get to give away my power and take it back.
I get off on my own defilement. “Victim mentality so strong, you have to feel like you’re not enjoying it to enjoy it.” The monstrous masculine + rapes and kills the feminine = The Dick Inside is implanted. The wounded feminine is the all-in-one mind-fuck of coping with genuine victimhood while self-perpetuating, even self-fulfilling, a victim complex.
I was masturbating to the image of a disembodied pussy, presumably my pussy but also not my pussy, younger and smaller but mine, not mine, spread wide and cummed on repeatedly by different men, with no gratification of my own other than the happiness of giving, the receptacle’s pure cum joy. I came especially hard, silently repeating variations on “I love being used” up to climax.
At the moment of cumming, into that vacuity, I cast: “I want to be free” (Decluttering the Doombox, 10/30/23).
As I surfaced for breath—gasping, weary, unsure if I could endure another descent—I locked eyes with my own reflection in the eyes of…the cum cows.
And the cum cows mooed their terrible moos and rolled their terrible are you my mother? eyes
and puckered their terrible vulvoplastied meat roses
and popped their terrible bonobo pussies and twitched their terrible dick-like clits
and bounced their terrible cum cow tits red and blistered from the feeding of the masses
and participated in terrible milk t-shirt contests
and showed their terrible Kardashian asses and tightened their terrible holes around forearms and fists
and snapped their terrible buboes together and grew their terrible eternity fistulas (Where the Cum Cows Are).
Like Amaterasu from the cave in which she’d hidden the world’s light, I emerged from that darkness a cum cow. I am a cum cow for good now. And if I think like a woman it’s only because every cum cow thinks like a woman inside her purple, veiny, mamey chest sacs punctuated with perpendicular exclamation points easily mistaken for eyes. I believe that all this succeeded in communicating to her in those putrefacto days, when I was still she, externalizing The Dick Inside.
That’s when the celestial cow occurred to me, the heavenly cow of the orient, the bovine divine crowned with solar disc, whose horns are the silvery crescent moon and whose udder is firmament showering milky rain to nourish the world and its inhabitants. The Diamond Sow, The Great Bitch, The Wild Cow:
She is the many-named divine ancestress.
She is the guiding feminine spirit.
She is the Sophia, a fountain sealed, a garden enclosed.
She is the red rose heart of hearts.
She is the wholesome hole (Cum Cow Cumpendium).How to know self-love when the arms of the Great Mother, the cow-horned crescent moon arms of the Great Mother, held in magical character, in an attitude of prayer, held to move and influence the upper-most, upraised arms in a posture of epiphany at the moment the ineffable appears—are now goalposts at the ends of the American football field, vacant totems shot through by teams of warrior men whose aim is to shoot Nut right through her open arms, to fuck Her and fuck Herself in one shot, the football a nut, an oversized almond, cyanide waiting to happen to explode, flying through or outside or pinging off the goal post arms of the Great Mother, steeled, lying afoul, and the referees hold out their nutless arms in goalpost stance at the first chance to sign VICTORY!
Shoot your shot, bust your Nut (Diane, 2023).
That’s when it occurred to me: the cum cow can ascend. The cum cow, heretofore relegated to the terrestrial, can become celestial, without disuniting with and renouncing any of the darkness. The cum cow can become the dialectical cum cow, the phenomenological cum cow who is always already the union of opposites.
Spoiler alert: The cum cow is an elaborate lactation kink.
My elaborate lactation kink is an elaborate mommy issue.
We have a Great Mother wound, and we have a Great Mommy kink.
As we acknowledge the Terrestrial Cum Cow pulled from the shadows,
embraced in daylight, we heal the Great Mother wound.
We rise into Celestial Cum Cow Oneness,
making biscuits on firmament udder, suckling starry teats.
It gets my udders producing. It helps me latch.
Self-love helps me latch to mine own productive udders
to become the snake that blows itself, the cum cow that nurses itself.
This is how I went backward to go forward.
This is how I became a god (Cum Cow Cumpendium).
The celestial cum cow’s voluptuousness is pleasure spilled out in physical form, not unlike the ginormous tits of porn. The terrestrial cum cow’s augmentation udderplastics are not unlike the Venuses of Menton, Willendorf, and Hohle Fels dating back decamillennia. The cum cow in the collective unconscious, a patchwork of goddess worship and monstrous masculine imposition, is all-inclusive cum joy in alchemical action.
Divinity encompasses its opposite—the sacred always includes the profane and cannot be sacred unless it embraces profanity in a manner all-loving, goddess-like—the true meaning of Christlikeness. The cum cow who is Joslyn James is also the heavenly cum cow who is Nut. The Houston 500 gang bang is also a temple of the hierodule. A lactation kink is a yearning to suckle the celestial sow, wet nurse to the human race.
I discovered the first cum cow in recorded history–the Venus of Hohle Fels (circa 38,000 – 33,000 BCE). She looks like a whole chicken, Sanderson Farms-coded, but with big perky breasts and a pussy about a third the size of her body. Not a chickenhead, no head at all, just a chickenbody, skin on, no feathers, partially deboned.
This ancient cum cow was a totem of the shakti temple. Men visited to leave offerings of cum on her tits, on her spreadeagle loose-as-a-goose hair pie. She flapped her deboned wings excitedly to make her great big cum cow tits bubble up and pop while all the dudes of decamillennial yesteryear blew crazy loads on her, peeling open her pussy to provide a better view of the erectile oinker and blowing loads on that, too.
She was the sheela na gig squatting and spreading her own sacredly profane pussy, the great cumcatcher of the great went (Externalizing The Dick Inside, Day 14).
To remove the bottom ribs and suck The Dick Inside is to become the celestial cum cow who suckles itself.
I have ouroboros envy. Who wouldn’t?
That dick once was mine.
Like the shakti in Adam, but the other way around.
The other way around has been the case for millennia.
The Dick Inside Eve and all femme (Cum Cow Cumpendium).
How do we ouroborate? By bringing darkness to light. Externalize The Dick Inside, and the erotic shadow is exposed as commonplace. The ocean of porn consciousness, the deep dell from whence the cum cow rises like a Plutonian Martian Aphrodite, is made conscious, and shame is disappeared. We see each other’s erotic shadows in the light, our guiltiest pornographic pleasures projected above our heads, our orgasm faces overlaid on the masks we wear as faces, vice-signaling:
From the ancient cum cow temple to the modern shakti temple: the gangbang, and the ancient cum cow is the Croatian barely legal probably-virgin getting reamed by two dozen dudes who mostly cum inside her, the seventh of this wild bunch really getting into it, the probably-virgin cum cow spread like the sheela na gig while he pumps her savagely, his dick getting harder and harder and impossibly hard while a revolving door of the other dudes cum on her tits, in her face, and she flinches back like she’s scared of the cum which makes them cum harder and makes the dude inside her cum the hardest of all, a whole snotty mess of cum oozing out her pussy hole onto the floor, and still 17 more loads to go (Externalizing The Dick Inside, Day 14).
In the realm of pure fantasy, we are vice-signaling. We signal vice to bring the erotic shadow from repressed obscurity into the light, for a healthier sex that receives and relishes its own depravity with drooling, cross-eyed delight as opposed to denial and projection. In the dialectical cum cow’s jouissance, we are Peter Pan reunited with his shadow. Empathy increases because we see ourselves in truths no longer hidden, no longer othered.
Because gang bangs are Cum Punk and want to be temples of the sacred whore but instead are secret societies of libertines who need to feel alone in a group of 23 other naked men to be able to cum in a single pussy hole, and for some reason this gets me off. “For some reason”—it’s what gets The Dick Inside hard. The Dick Inside cums real big when simultaneously the subject and object of its own disempowerment (Externalizing The Dick Inside, Day 14).
So, the cum cow starts with lower fire (basic instinct, nurture-based sexual constructs) and ends with fire in the sky (expansive, all-inclusive erotic identification and understanding). It starts with what The Dick Inside is attracted to, such as the great big cum cow tits of hardcore hetero horror-porn circa 2004, and ends with its own gaze, latching onto the Great Mother’s teats to become the celestial cum cow that nurses itself in auto-erotic queerness, to self-deify, to embrace divine self-love.
The cum cow is a monster, but the cum cow is also a creature of love and empathy. The increasingly manifold Cum Punk multiverse is the movement in which the cum cow, the numinous third, shall emerge from darkness to light.
Bitch, I’m a cum cow.
And as a fully embodied, dialectically integrated cum cow, I nourish the world with Cum Punk.
