Farm Boy Pt. 01

"Cialis, viagra, levitra, and other erectile dysfunction medications generally belong to a class of chemical compounds called phosphodiesterase inhibitors or PDEs. Due to their ability to induce vasodilation - - or the dilation of blood vessels - - these compounds were originally developed to address cardio-pulmonary indications, particularly hypertension or 'high blood pressure.' Their value in targeting erectile dysfunction was a happy and serendipitous byproduct of this original intended use.

Today, some may take cialis, viagra, and levitra for granted. However, it's important to remember that these drugs were the fruit of decades-long research into chemically-supported sexual enhancement. Many other candidate drugs and compounds fell by the wayside during this long search.

For instance, in the 1960s, a small pharmacology developer named Manning-Smith pursued an alternative approach to chemically-supported sexual enhancement. Manning-Smith, located near Bloomington, Indiana, in the small town of Hadleyburg, explored the therapeutic relation between psychotropic drugs and sexual health. In what we might today recognize as something akin to "microdosing," Manning-Smith developed a precursor form of lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD) specifically targeted to the neural system supporting human erogenous zones. (At the time, other psychiatric researchers were experimenting with LSD as an adjunct therapy for alcoholism, anxiety, and depression.)

Due to contraindicative animal studies, Manning-Smith shuttered its psychotropic-erogenous program in the early 1970s. In the only known report on the program - - a pre-publication study accepted by the journal, Human Sexuality and Chemistry - - these contraindications included: deletion of executive function, super-heightened sexual response, and hyper-euphoria. It is estimated that over the course of its research program, Manning-Smith may have produced up to 4,000 gallons of its LSD isologue. The fate of this enormous chemical inventory has never been determined. Manning-Smith subsequently focused on the cognitive-enhancing effects of apoaequorin, a protein found in jellyfish. The company declared bankruptcy in 1981."

- Historical Approaches to Pharmacology: A Textbook

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Rutherford Samuel Johnson hated his name. So, at age twelve he declared that henceforth he would only respond to the name "Sammy." Rutherford Senior was disappointed but within a few years even he found himself addressing his oldest son as Sammy.

Unfortunately, Sammy's rebellion didn't end with his name. At fifteen, he was apprehended by Indianapolis police while spray painting an obscene image on his school's exterior. A year later, Indiana State Police pulled young Sammy over as he sped, unlicensed, in his parents' car through Greenwood, an Indianapolis suburb. When Sammy was discovered on the day after his eighteenth birthday in flagrante delicto and half-naked with a classmate - - Mary Beth Myer - - in a school coat closet, the judge offered Rutherford Senior a choice: send his son off to the military or enroll him in 24/7 supervised home care. Rutherford instead proposed that Sammy be sent to live on his parents' farm - - located in Hadleyburg, a small town near the Illinois-Indiana border. The judge, who proudly recalled his own rise from lowly farmhand to doctor of law, approved.

Three days after walking out of the courthouse on a bright, sunny morning in 1974, Sammy Rutherford found himself on a Greyhound bus heading west through the corn and soy fields of Indiana. As befits any budding juvenile delinquent, Sammy quickly found a seat in the smoking section of the bus, sharing a bottle of cheap vodka and a carton of cigarettes with a Vietnam vet (hardly older than himself) on his way home to Danville, Illinois.

Buzzed and stinking of nicotine - - but thrilled by his seatmate's tales of hot nights of coitus and cocksucking in Saigon, Sammy stumbled off the bus in Hadleyburg and into the welcoming arms of Mom and Pop Johnson. Sammy mostly slept on the short ride to the Johnson farm.

The Johnsons were proud, god-fearing Methodists who could trace their lineage and property deeds to Indiana's original settlers. Pop Johnson - - like all the other Johnson men - - was tall and broad. Unlike his son, the insurance adjuster, Pop was bronzed and layered with ropy muscle. His wife, whom he'd met at a dance at the Oddfellows Hall in a neighboring town, was petite and gifted with an especially robust figure for a woman in her late fifties. Folks around Hadleyburg who knew the Johnsons knew one thing for certain - - Pop Johnson was the muscle of the operation, but Mom Johnson was the brains. Other folks, mainly the men and boys who loitered on Hadleyburg's main street, also appreciated Mom Johnson's buxom figure when she and Pop visited town to shop and socialize.

"Well, Lucinda," Pop said to his wife as they drove from the bus station on the day of Sammy's arrival. "What are we gonna do with this young hellion?"

Lucinda Johnson pursed her lips.

"Pop," she finally answered as her husband navigated the big old Chevy onto the long dirt road that served as the farm's driveway. "We're gonna have to work him hard." She paused and glanced at the tall, lanky figure draped across the rear seat. "We're gonna have to work him so hard he remembers his name is Rutherford Samuel Johnson and that he's the Lord's grateful child."

Pop nodded, admiring his wife's honesty and straightforwardness.

And so began the reformation of Sammy Johnson. Grumbling and groaning, Sammy rose every morning at dawn, Monday through Saturday, and joined his grandpa in the fields around the farm. Tilling, planting, cultivating, and harvesting - - within the year, Sammy had become a farmer. He picked up a dark tan, drove the tractor in spring, walked the rows of soy and corn in summer, and delivered the crops to the processors in autumn. Sundays found Mom and Pop's grandson on the hard pews of Holy Redeemer Methodist Church, squirming under the endless droning of the local reverend.

The first few months were tough for young Sammy - - who spent most of his nights in sweaty dreams of hot rodding through downtown Indianapolis with Mary Beth Myter on his lap dressed in nothing but panties and bra. Yet, after that first season, as the cool autumn days gave way to the long winter nights, something changed in Sammy. The dreams of Mary Beth and speeding cars faded. There was less grumbling and complaining. He came to enjoy the work. He grew to respect his grandparents and their way of life, even if he never learned to forgive Reverend Adams and his yammering.

There were physical changes as well, of course. The hard work of farming transformed Sammy's gawky teenage frame into the tough, muscle-packed body of a man. He grew out his sideburns and kept his thick dark hair short and neat. He walked with new confidence and a straight back. More and more, he came to understand what it meant to be an independent, honest adult - - unafraid of responsibility and duty.

Mom and Pop Johnson recognized Sammy's transformation and applauded it, even if Mom Johnson sometimes worried that her pride in their work was a sinful vanity. Rutherford Senior thanked his parents every time they talked by phone or he visited in person and shook his son's firm hand. Visiting the farm at Christmas that first year, Rutherford even offered to take Sammy back to the city with him after the New Year.

"No thanks, dad," Sammy responded in his deep baritone. "Mom and Pop need me." He met his father's eyes. "Besides, I like it here."

Rutherford Senior nodded, choking back tears of gratitude and relief.

Spring came to the Johnson farm and the work commenced again. Sammy woke at dawn every morning and sprang out of bed, hungry for Mom's big breakfasts and eager to help Pop prepare the fields. For his eighteenth birthday that year, the family organized a big picnic at the farm and Mom and Pop and Rutherford Senior gifted Sammy a bright red Ford pickup truck.

"You'll need that for the bales," Pop said with a chuckle. "And also to pitch woo at them young ladies in town."

They all laughed and ate and drank until everybody stumbled off to bed.

That spring, however, odd things started happening around the farm. It was Pop who first noticed the change in the goats. One morning while Sammy tuned up the tractor, Pop fed the sleepy creatures. They barely stirred from their pen when he banged the feed tray. At first, he thought they were sick, but after a few minutes they rose and galloped first to the watering trough, drinking and slurping until the trough ran dry. They hardly paused to graze at the feed before the billy goats began chasing and mounting the nannies. The animals spent the rest of morning copulating wildly. By noon, they were all once again fast asleep in the pen.

"I'll be damned," Pop said to Sammy as they watched the goats panting in their sleep. "I guess now we know why they say 'horny as a billy goat'."

Both men chuckled and headed into the house for lunch.

The same pattern continued all week - - the goats rising from a drugged sleep to copulate madly, then collapsing for the rest of the day. Pretty soon, the chickens got in on the act as well, with the roosters and hens rolling in lust-driven, feather-flying balls for half the day.

At first, Pop was happy. More copulating meant more offspring. Then, he grew concerned. Was it possible, he asked himself, for animals to diddle themselves to death?

"Mom," he asked one morning as he sipped his coffee at the breakfast table. "You noticed anything off about this well water?"

Lucinda flipped the eggs in the frying pan and turned to her husband.

"Well.... no.... " she answered slowly. "I mean it tastes about the same to me. What about you Sammy?"

Sammy looked up from his plate.

"I don't know grandma," he replied. "I noticed maybe it tastes a little sweeter than usual out of the tap. But nothing too different."

Pop studied the hot coffee in his cup.

"Son," he finally said. "You and me are gonna use the afternoon to check out that well. Maybe something got caught down there."

Pop's was a fateful decision and by two that afternoon, both men were peering over the lip of the deep well.

"I'm gonna lower you down there, Sammy," Pop said, mopping sweat from his brow. "So you can check it out."

"I don't know, Pop," his grandson replied. "Maybe we should get Hal Thompson or his son to help out."

Pop shook his head and proceeded to wrap a nylon rope around Sammy's chest.

"I'll tie it off at that fence post," Pop said, gesturing behind him. "Then, I'll lower you down. I still got the strength. Don't your worry none, junior."

Pop slapped him on the back.

A few minutes later, Sammy was descending into the deep, dark hole. Fifteen feet down, his boots found a strip of metal protruding from the cement walls of the well.

"Hey, Pop," Sammy shouted up toward the square of blue sky above him. "I think I found a ladder."

His right boot found the next rung and he rested his weight on the iron ladder steps.

"Got it," he shouted again. "You can let go, Pop."

The only response was silence.

"Pop," Sammy yelled. "You up there."

More silence.

Sammy swore to himself and tugged on the rope but the thick line resisted his efforts. Bending his torso and applying his shoulder muscles, he began hauling the length of rope toward him.

"Pop," he shouted again. "You up there?"

He peered toward the well entrance as he pulled. A pair of hands appeared, clutching the rope. He tugged again and a pair of arms followed. He could barely make out Pop's labored breathing.

"Oh fuck," he exclaimed as he wiggled and twisted the rope, trying to free it from the old man's grip.

With a long, deep sigh, Pop finally released the rope and Sammy pulled it taut. He ascended hand over hand to the surface and crawled over the lip of the well next to Pop's body. He flipped the old man onto his back and Pop's eyes blinked open. He smiled up at Sammy and patted him on the shoulder.

"There you are son," Pop mumbled. "Worried I'd let you fall."

Pop closed his eyes and his body jerked once or twice.

By the time Sammy carried his grandfather to the farmhouse, the old man was slack weight. Grandma Johnson called the ambulance but Sammy hustled his grandfather into his new truck and hightailed it into town. Doc Halloran pronounced Rutherford S. Johnson dead at 2 p.m. that same day.

After the funeral later in the week, Rutherford Senior pulled his son to the side.

"Listen, son," his dad said. "I know mom's relying on you. But, if it's too much, we can hire somebody out or even think about selling the farm."

Sammy gazed at the older man and, in an instant, realized all the flaws and weaknesses that made his father just another human being.

"I've got it, dad," Sammy said slowly. "I can take care of it."

Rutherford Senior nodded, still apprehensive. Sammy patted his father on the shoulder.

"Trust me," he said in a firm voice.

Rutherford Senior nodded again and turned to head back into the living room of the farmhouse.

"Say," he said suddenly, twisting to look at his son. "That well water is tasting kinda funny. Have you noticed that?"

"Tastes the same as always," Sammy answered. "But, I'll have somebody come out and test it."

When everyone left, Sammy helped his grandmother clear away the dishes and tidy up the house. He returned from dumping the trash to find Mom Johnson quietly sobbing at the sink. Sammy's heart sank as he recognized her shock and pain.

"It's okay, grandma," he said, sidling up to her and resting his hands on her fleshy but firm shoulders. "I'm still here."

Lucinda choked off her sobs and sighed. Thirty years of marriage and now he was gone, just plain gone. Her stomach roiled with a sense of emptiness and abandonment. Sammy's hands kneaded her shoulders and she sighed again, the ache in her stomach replaced by warm relief.

"Thank you, sweetie," Lucinda said, raising a soapy hand onto one of Sammy's big, strong hands. "Thanks so much, honey."

She squeezed his hand, marveling at its width and its firmness. The closeness of her grandson's tall, beefy body made her feel warm and tender. She sighed yet again and relaxed.

Slowly, however, the warmth spreading through her body seemed to change into something else, a tingling across her chest and down her neck. She released Sammy's hand and noticed, seemingly for the first time, his big, beefy body pressed lightly against her backside. She inhaled his tangy, male odor. The tingling spread across her bottom and a hot blush bloomed in her cheeks. Sammy wrapped his big arms around her waist and something twitched along her crotch.

A sudden image of Sammy - - naked and young and thickly muscled with his long man-thing dangling between his strong thighs - - flashed across her mind and she gasped.

"Gran," Sammy said, unclasping her. "Are you okay?"

Lucinda inhaled deeply, desperate to chase the wicked image of her grandson from her brain.

"Yes, dear," she stuttered. "Yes, I'm fine. Just... just...it's all a bit overwhelming."

She turned to watch Sammy drop onto a chair at the kitchen table.

"It's just horrible," he said, putting his hand to his head. "I feel so bad."

"Now, honey," Lucinda said, feeling a wave of her old confidence wash through her. "You just sit there and think about your grandpop enjoying himself in heaven. I'm gonna get you a cup of coffee."

She poured a cup of steaming hot liquid from the percolator and handed it to Sammy.

"You sit there and enjoy that coffee," she said, patting the top of his head.

When her hand made contact with Sammy's abundant, dark hair, something stirred again across her groin. She resisted the sharp urge to burrow her tiny delicate fingers into his thick mane. Lucinda gulped and wiped her hands on her apron.

"I'll be right back," she mumbled, turning to hide her crimson cheeks. "Need to get to the ladies room."

Sammy grunted a reply and watched his grandmother retreat from the kitchen. For the first time in his life, he noticed her big, broad bottom as it rolled underneath her tight black dress. His eyes glued themselves to its curves and his crotch seemed to glow. As she disappeared from sight, Sammy's eyes traveled up, from her big ass to her hips and then to her back and shoulders. The glow turned into a radiating warmth as his cock stirred in his trousers.

"What the fuck." He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a wave of shame. "Jesus, you sick jerk. Stop that."

Despite his protestations, his cock continued to lengthen and swell. He gulped the last of his coffee, laid the cup on the table, and practically jogged out the back door. Once outside, he stopped, took a deep breath, and gazed out on the fields. Better go check on the goats, he scolded himself.

While Sammy fled the kitchen, Lucinda locked the bathroom door behind her, untied her apron, and gazed into the mirror.

"My goodness," she said to her reflection. "Oh my goodness."

Her mind flipped back to the forbidden image of Sammy - - naked and armed with his super-sized man-thing. Without thinking, Lucinda dropped her hands to the front of her dress and cupped her big breasts. His man-thing, she thought to herself. Long and thick and crowned with a head as fat as a plum. Her breasts itched under her bra and she squeezed her chest. In her mind, Sammy's man-root inflated and stiffened until it sprang from between his loins like a sapling. Lucinda gasped. Her crotch tingled and she pushed her hand between her thighs.

This is so wrong, she thought to herself. It's wicked.

Her hands respectfully disagreed and they skittered beyond her control. As her fingers played with her big breast, she rubbed her other hand against her crotch. In her mind, Sammy wrapped his fingers around his man-thing and leered at her.

"No, no, no," Lucinda moaned softly at her reflection as her hands busied themselves on her body.

Just as she visualized Sammy stepping toward her, his naked body rippling with youth and strength and his hand stroking his love-rod, a wave of pleasure exploded from Lucinda's damp groin. She screwed her eyes shut and bit her lip as her womanly parts thrummed and her thighs trembled. She leaned down and grasped the edge of the sink. Raising her head, she saw herself in the mirror - - lips parted, face crimson, and her chin raised in saucy triumph. A smile flickered across her face as the last of the hot, sparking pulses swamed through her body. She dropped her head and collapsed onto the toilet.

"Wicked," she whispered hoarsely, her body still quivering. "Stop it. Please. Lord help me."

Later that afternoon, as the sun crested in the sky and dropped to the horizon, Lucinda filled a glass pitcher with water and made some cold lemonade. She brought the pitcher and a glass of ice to the back porch.

"Sammy," she yelled toward the barn. "I got some lemonade here."

A minute or two later, her grandson emerged from the dark interior of the outbuilding. He was damp with sweat and his t-shirt clung to his body, outlining his powerfully muscled arms and chest. He raised a hand to wipe his forehead as he trudged toward the house. Lucinda's eyes fixed on his torso and then on the bulging crotch of his jeans. She wanted to beat her hands at the sides of her head to drive away the feelings that flooded into her mind. Instead, she turned to open the screen door.

"You go on," she shouted over her shoulder. "I'm gonna heat up some dinner."

Inside the house, she pushed the kitchen door shut and leaned against it, her chest heaving with deep, strenuous breaths.

"Goodness," she said out loud to the empty room. "My goodness."

Sammy drank a glass of the cold sweet lemonade, listening to the rattle of pans in the kitchen punctuated by his grandmother's voice.