Amish Boy Finds That It’s a Hassle To Jack Off Because There Are No Bathrooms In The House

By: Fock

The Amish! An interesting, reclusive, boring from the outside, group of non-conformists that always pick the most difficult way to do something, like that weird kid Jerry Smaltz from 3rd grade science class. Just build the fucking volcano Jerry….

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These handy, highly focused, heaven-folk are primarily found on farms or in the middle of cornfields, far from civilization and sheltered from an unknown world. They live in houses constructed by fallen tree and basic nail, often raised in a day by their cliquey group of friends that believe in community cooperation, just so long as the help is Amish. You may see them in their buggies, trotting down dirt roads in the back-country or, still in their buggies, trotting down highways, backing up traffic. I often wonder what it would be like to live as hermits, cut off from a sophisticated world, left to read my bible by candlelight as the sun sets every night. Sometimes I cringe, thinking about being stuck in a world where hymns are not sung, getting anywhere takes 4 hours, and every time you look at another Amish man, you briefly think you sinned as you thought he was your own reflection in a mirror, you know because they all look the same.

Well, 13 year old Jebedebediah Hershgerber gives insight into a lesser known but devastating problem that affects millions, or thousands (or hundreds, no idea how many Amish there are), young men everyday. A problem that put all my minuscule worries to the side and opened my eyes to the true difficulty of growing up Amish.

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*Sidenote: As the Amish often do, Jebedebediah declined an official interview as he was worried his dad would see it, which is stupid, because his dad wouldn’t see it, because they don’t consume media, but I complied.

In talking with Jebedebediah, (lets call him J-dog for short), I could see his frustration surrounding one of life’s most basic gifts, splooging. J-dog was candid with me in his description of a life lived where sex is of the devil and masturbation doubled as the valley of death. He spoke of his first wet dream, a nightmare for two reasons: The first, he didn’t know humans secreted the same substance as the family bull, and two, the only vagina he had ever seen were those of the cows that roamed the farm. Terrified of his family seeing the sin all over his sheets, he hurriedly mopped it up with the closest piece of cloth he could find in the dark. This was his first mistake as that cloth turned out to be his mother’s bonnet. The whipping that boy endured, although normal in his community, would make a grown man be like, “What the fock?”

Now, you would think the fallout from such an innocent display of maturation would deter any further impulse to ever cum again. But like all young men, the game was now afoot. And in that first year of discovery, he was determined to win. He explained the process he developed to take care of business while not letting his family on to his dirty little secret. First thing in the morning, J-dogs chore was to be in the barn by 4:30 am to collect the eggs and milk the cows, jobs he despised until his balls dropped. He would eagerly pop up out of bed every morning, strap leather to his feet and skip to the barn in anticipation of the great release. However, he knew his dad was wary of his sons sexual awakening and any time spent on the new hobby would be a giveaway if he walked back in the house even 1 minute late. His solution? Yank one out while he stroked the nipples of the cow in front of him. How glorious the nipple. How ripe its fruits. (I would later find out that a big fetish among Amish men is lactation porn, or rather images of lactating nipples drawn in the dirt with a stick, easily erased with the push of a foot.)

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But He couldn’t very well just stain the ground around him. His father, keenly observant to sin, would spot it immediately. At first, J-dog panicked, he was so close but needed something to camouflage his iniquities. Then, as the sun started to rise, it dawned on him. The milk pail. Of course! He told me he never drank milk again.

The second phase was much easier. J-dog was allowed to take a dip in the river near fields he plowed over his 7 minute lunch. He would down his lunch of buttered bread in one bite, throw out his milk behind a tree, and jump into the water for a quickie. He was proud of his ingenuity.

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A couple hours later he would start to mentally prep for what would be the third and hardest of his dalliances, his evening bucket bathing. The problem here was that his mother was present, ready to pour a bucket of water on his head to rinse off the homemade butter soap that he had vigorously scrubbed his body down with. At this point, just before he rinsed off and just after the water turned a milky yellow/white from soap, he had to make his move. As his mother filled the bucket, back turned, he would lean forward to wash his feet, all the while rubbing his nether regions between his makeshift cooter of thighs and stomach. It was exhilarating, dangerous and worth it every time.

After dinner, he would sit with his family in the living room in a beautifully handcrafted rocking chair and prepare for his final session that would come soon. He used to get antsy as he was required to silently read his bible every night for an hour before he was allowed to wash up and prepare for bed. That was until he stumbled on a book of the Bible he had never noticed before. The Song of Solomon. An erotic piece of literature buried in the depths of the good book. Although he had no images to attribute to the words he read he was particularly turned on by the word “Naval”. A word that dirty ole Solomon seemed to relish in application. For most of the hour he would hold the book over his lap to conceal his wandering member, which he justified as being okay as it came from reading the Holy book and seemed to want to point to Heaven. Then, just before the clock struck dusk, he flipped to Leviticus to put his heaving loins to rest, for the moment. As the family fun came to a close he would wait his turn to use the outhouse and fein constipation before entering the most private space to which he had access, to mess with his privates. This was the only time the outhouse would work for his wankings as during the day the peering eyes of his father would occasionally pop up in the half moon of the door, eager to catch his son in the act, giving him an excuse to release his anger through punishment. Anger which undoubtedly had built up due to the fact that he was Amish, and everyday was the same, and his wife was past childbearing days, and he would never have sex again. J-dog would then sit on the hole and dream of the world that Solomon had so eloquently painted. As he finished he made sure to time it with the plop of his poop, his parents none the wiser, his cravings satisfied for night. He would then rush to bed, climb under the covers, and dream of the cows he would see in the morning.

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That was years ago. J-dog was now 16, tired of hiding, indifferent to cow nipples, yearning for more but resigned to the fact that life was a bitch.

Seeing his pain, I asked if he had ever seen a woman in all her glory. “No.” So I whipped out my phone and pulled up a picture of Marilyn Monroe’s Infamous Playboy spread. (I didn’t want to go full hardcore as I thought he might explode). He looked in bewilderment at the pic and said, “That’s it? That’s what all the fuss is?”

I thought for a moment and then realized I missed something all along. The nipples of the cow weren’t nipples at all in his eyes, but rather long pieces of meat he could stroke. “Oh fock.” I thought, J-dog is a gay-dog! Up until now I thought the story couldn’t get worse for him, but it did. This would be the death of him if his family ever found out. I told him to keep his head up, that things would get better. That he would figure it out. And we parted ways.

And that was the first run in I’ve ever had with a gay Amish kid.

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