THE MILKMANI LIKE SMALL COUNTRY TOWNS. I like to see the horses in the fields walking and prancing as piss gushes from their thick hoselike d***s. Those bulls bellowing with balls swaying back and forth like a sack of apples get me in the mood for something hot. In country towns, you have fruit peddlers and other kinds of peddlers going door to door. Sometimes those old men have their boys with them. There’s nothing I like better than answering the door in a pair of clean white briefs that hug my ass and make it look like a tight firm cantaloupe. The boys look at me with sullen expressions on their faces—wife beaters torn and jeans hanging low on their hips. Then they sneak back late at night calling out to me, “whooo” like hoot owls. I meet them for a romp under the Moon and Grandma’s chi
