MYTHOLOGY: FAUST

By Steve Katz

Don't believe any of those stories you had to read in college about Faust, the big scientist who wanted to know all the shit in the world, so he turned on with the devil. Don't believe all that. It's a big put-on, and maybe some of it is almost true, but none of it is really true, and if you fall for it you deserve to be pasted up on the wall like a wall paper pattern. This here, what I'm going to lay out for you, is the real truth, the whole, and nothing but the truth, so help me. This is the story about Faust, and how he loved the girls better than he loved his homestead, and how he plowed the former deeper than he did the latter. All those other stories about him were made up, believe me, just so a bunch of professors could grunt and squeeze out the long words about him and lean around at parties and be influential; but this is the real scoop. Here comes the truth: That Faust loved the girls better than he loved his daily chores. You don't need to agonize over this. We'll just take a look at Faust out there in the field ready to hitch his mule up to a plow, a simple farmer after all, and he wanted to sock in some soy beans, some sweet potatoes and some Swiss chard. Suddenly along comes Lulu, the ravishing beauty, the daughter of the local minister, whom every body on the block wanted a piece of but they were all afraid because the local minister put them uptight.

"LuLu," said Faust. "Step down here in my field and we'll plow up some loam."

"Socko," LuLu retorted, and she pranced down into the foamy earth with the little cheeks of her butt wobbling like tapioca.

"Oh LuLu," Faust cheered, spreading his arms and describing a mysterious figure eight with the point of his chin. His mule sat down and closed one eye. "Oh Lulu, you are the most luscious piece of tail on the block, and even though you are the minister's daughter you make all the guys horny. Me too. So now I'm going to have you for sure. Have at you. Fuck you. Ball you. Screw you. Stick you. Pump you. Lap you up. Slobber your squiff. Munch your pubes. Slurp your twat squilch. I'm going to make love to you. I'm going to sleep with you here and now." He lowered his arms, smiled like a martyr, and stroked the soft nose of his mule.

Lulu nearly blushed. "Sir," she said, "My guess is that you won't." She sighed and burbled. "But sir, if you will. Yes you will. You will. Please don't. Just don't. No. I can't. Oh, yes, yes. Stop it. No. You mustn't. Yes. Do it. Harder. No. Don't hurt me. I shouldn't. Yes. Come on. Slip it in. All the way. Stop. Not here. Ooooh. You can't do that to a girl like me. My father. Yes. Ohhhhh. Don't quit. Fuck me, Jehosophat. Fuck. Fuck. Can't. Now Stop. Now. Now. Don't be naughty. Yes, be naughty. Ram it into my heart. I can't. What will they think of me. Think of me. Fuck me.Put it right there and work out. Smooth. Oooohhhhh. Did I come?"

"Hold it LuLu, baby. Cool it. Don't talk yourself into anything you don't want to do. But if you're going to talk yourself into it, stop talking, and let's do it, because here's the man." And he revealed himself unto her an enormous erection like the forearm of Abraham.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed. "My God what a gorgeous thing." She fell to her knees, unhinged her lower jaw like a snake, and gobbled it, honking through her nose like a gratified mare. Faust tipped her back into the loam and fingered the flower meat she unfolded, and with her forefingers she spread the pulsing pubic petals and pulled his petzel pussywards. The mule lay down on its side. They scraunched around in the dark fertile soil till they were slicked over with a nice film of muddy sweat.

"Well," she smiled and shuddered. "That's over. Now I hope I'll see you at the services this Sunday."

"No ma'am," he said. "Not this Faust. Not if you know my story. I've got my farm to farm." He took his last gawk at the soft, moist, swollen, pink swamp-flower lips that pulsed and pullulated and gushed juice like a busted persimmon, and then he slapped his mule so it yawned and rose, and he ended the pause in his plowing. Several moments of good sun and healthy work ensued, that any one who has ever plowed barefoot behind a mule on a warm spring day after a rain will appreciate. Suddenly another female form appeared on the horizon and when the mule recognized her he lay down immediately. It was Maggie, and she was another story entirely.

"Hi there, Faustie, you old honey-scrotum, you barrel of nuts, you insatiable cumsack."

"Why, hello, Margaret," said Faust, taken slightly aback."Today I've had Edgar and Zeke and Isor and Dick and Mike and Alfred and Edsel and Floyd, and now I'm here to have you, because you're the best of them all, Faustie. Without a doubt." At that moment she slipped out of her shift and stood there naked in midfield. She was covered with grundge from head to toe.

The sight of such a befouled beauty made Faust frantic at his fly. It was an emotional experience of the first order. "Bend over Margaret," he entreated, "and touch your toes while I toddle over with my tool." His implement stretched out before him in a slender spine as straight as a rung of the ladder of Jacob. He palmed her pelvic out croppings and patiently worked it in the neat and narrow passage. She wiggled and she giggled and she wriggled and kicked up her heels and flipped him over her back, and then she went over him and he over her in and out without missing a stroke in a wide circle like a couple of professionals.

"You do it dirty and you do it devilish," said Maggie. "But you do it good, and I've got to hand it to you." She jounced his oysters gently with her sweet fingertips.

"Madame, to service you is my greatest pleasure." Faust bowed and dismissed Maggie with a kiss on her hand.

It was later and the mule yawned and got up, and Faust ended the pause in his plowing. Several moments of good sun and healthful work ensued that anyone who has ever balled two women and then plowed barefoot behind a mule on a warm spring day after a rain will understand. Just then the long shadow of a voluptuous stranger fell across the traces and the mule stopped. Of course you know how the story goes by now. It lust keeps on telling the truth about Faust until it stops. It is a bitch to really tell the truth about Faust, as you can guess. Even this story fudges a little bit. Faust couldn't have got his farm farmed ever if he carried on like this, even if he farmed like the devil. You can't seem to say anything about Faust without lying a linle, he was so ex traordinary, whatever he was. He wasn't a farmer, that's for sure, but he wasn't a college professor either, and that's the truth. He was a something or other. It's hard to tell.