Carl Isley - Dog show girl

Afterwards he hacked the body apart and chopped it into a great many small pieces, which he stuffed into two burlap sacks and carried to the old well. There he dumped Deanna's dismembered remains down into the wellshaft among the bones of the thirty-seven chickens.

But not before performing one last act of outrage upon her bloody parts. He held two raw chunks of her flesh in his hands, pressed them around his penis and masturbated one more time.

Then at last his raging fury had run its course and all his energy had drained away with it. He dragged himself back up the hill toward the hen house, but halfway across the pasture he collapsed, and there his uncle discovered him later that afternoon, lying on his back in a glassy-eyed trance, his body drenched with blood.

A jury found him innocent of murder by reason of insanity, and Bryan probably will spend the rest of his life in the mental institution where he is now.

Bryan was not the first case in history of a tormented soul turning on his tormentor and committing a brutal, vengeful murder. And although he and Deanna might not have realized it, he was not the first person who had ever raped barnyard birds and added to the pleasure by killing the bird deliberately just before orgasm and taking extra delight in its death-thrashings.

Intercourse with dying geese was once a favorite sex-sport in China and India among the depraved nobility. The Marquis de Sade reported this same game to be popular in French whorehouses, where turkeys were used for the purpose. A naked prostitute would hold the bird for the customer's convenience and slice its throat at the decisive moment.

So young Bryan — "the freak" — "the chicken-murderer" — actually was playing an ancient game. In bestiality as in everything else, there is nothing new under the sun.

A young friend of mine, when he heard I was surveying the subject of bestiality, suggested that I check out a freaky chick of his acquaintance who had been known to perform wild stunts with a small dog at parties and other social gatherings. I looked into the matter and came across Julia, a beautiful twentyish fugitive from the love-generation. She had dropped out of high school and split from home at seventeen and in the two or three years since then had set some kind of world's record for number and variety of sexual couplings on her whirlwind wanderings — making the grand tour of hippy colonies and crash-pads from coast to coast. She was presently reported to be living as a "voluntary white slave" with a pair of unemployed black poets.

CASE 5 — Julia C.

I was introduced to Julia in a luncheonette booth where she was surrounded by a motley collection of her friends and fans of all ages, sexes and colors.

"I hear you wanted to interview me," she said.

"What's it for?" somebody asked, "Indoor Sports Illustrated?"

They all seemed to think that was pretty funny. I didn't know just how to approach the subject I had in mind to her. Even without the crowd in attendance and in spite of her wild reputation, I couldn't very well ask a strange girl bluntly, "Is it true that you fuck dogs at parties?"

I tried to arrange a private interview session with her for a later time but the best I could get from her in her dreamy high condition was an invitation to "see me at the bash tonight." I figured I'd have to settle for that for the time being. At the "bash" maybe I'd be able to corner her and get her talking, or maybe I'd even get to see her do her famous dog act in person if I was lucky.

It turned out to be no ordinary party but a staged affair, specially set up to be filmed for an underground movie. I felt a bit freaky myself when I walked in, being the only one present in a business suit. The costumes generally were pretty far over the line on the nude side — with most of the girls covered more by body paint, spangles and pasted-on flowers than by clothes. The music was pounding — lights flashing — and everyone dutifully writhing about in primitive dance movements while a couple of hairy cameramen roamed the floor, shooting orgiastic close-ups of them all, mostly at tit and crotch-level.

I found Julia stretched out flat in a corner, under a cloud of blue pot-smoke of her own making.

"Why aren't you in the movie?" I said, inhaling a cautious noseful of her heady exhaust fumes.

She laughed dreamily. Her big beautiful eyes didn't seem to be quite focusing on me. "My big scene comes later," she said. "Stick around."

She had on an oversized T-shirt like a minidress, with a man's necktie around the waist as a sash. I got the impression that she was wearing nothing at all underneath it, but I couldn't be sure in the dim light. Then something stirred behind her and I noticed for the first time a little dirty-gray mop of a poodle lying there. He was staring up at me with one wide blurry eye and I would have sworn that the dog was as stoned as she was.

"You brought your dog along I see," I said.

"That's what you came for, isn't it?" she said, "to see the dog act?"

I laughed nervously. "Did they tell you the subject of my book?"

"Bestial practices, isn't it? That's my thing, baby. Me and Sir Clarence."

"Er — what do you — you and Clarence — how do you…?" I didn't know quite how to phrase the question.

"Just hold your water — you'll see for yourself how," she said.

"Are they actually going to film you and the dog — er — in action?" I asked.

"Shit yeah. Why not? It's the grand technicolor climax of the whole motherfucking movie."

"Aren't you afraid of getting in trouble by putting yourself on record that way? Making it with a dog is sort of illegal you know."

She laughed and patted Clarence's belly. "Everything I do is illegal. It's the only way to live." She punctuated her point by blowing a cloud of highly-illegal smoke up into my face.

Just then a very large Afro-American bruiser appeared from nowhere and gave me what I took to be an unfriendly size-up. I figured he must be one of the poet slave-masters I'd heard about, although he looked more like a middle line-backer than a bard. He snapped his fingers at Julia. "Come on — up. Let's go. They're ready for you and you ain't ready."

She sprang up and the dog popped up with her. The black man took hold of her T-shirt and peeled it up over her head, which left her naked as a jaybird just as I expected. Both her breasts — round and firm and beautiful — had been painted blue, and there were arrows running down from them across her ribs and belly, pointing towards her pussy, which was shaved bald. Otherwise there was just acres and acres of beautiful golden naked skin, as far as the eye could see.

Her black master clapped a possessive hand onto her ass and said harshly, "You better not fuck up the deal, baby, or you know what you get!"

She picked up the poodle and hugged it to her breasts. "He'll be all right tonight," she said. "He's too stoned to be scared. We'll give them a complete show, don't worry."

"Oh, I ain't worrying, baby," he said, giving her ass cheek a hard grab and a twist. "I leave that to you."

The music had quit now and the lights all of a sudden came up brighter. "We're ready for the dog-act," somebody yelled out.

The black man slapped Julia's ass and she gave me a wink and went skipping off into the bright light, clutching her woolly lover tight to her with his head perched up between her bobbing boobs.

I moved off to find myself a seat where I could be out of the way of the bustling technicians but still get a good ring-side view of whatever act of shameless bestiality was about to unfold.

A character with a handlebar mustache and a purple scarf who I took to be the director was at center-stage under a cloud of cigar smoke.