We were taught some nutty things in Veterinary School that eventually applied to humans.  I was a sexual underachiever at nineteen who burned the pages of large animal anatomy texts while others on campus wasted time on ‘Playboys’.  There was so much to learn and so little time – six years.

Cows are charmed by first-year vet students to urinate for specimens by rubbing their clitorises.  ‘It works every time,’ an instructor informed, and it was correct.  Horses kicked but yielded too.  In second year we started using what a giggling student called ‘vet condoms’.  I remember crawling out of bed on snowy week mornings to drive out on call to far-flung farms to stick one arm within the thin plastic sleeve three-feet deep to the armpit into a cow’s rectum.   ‘Palpate through the rectal wall for the ovaries,’ we were coached.  By feel one knows the state of the reproductive cycle, and an ‘X’ was spray-painted on the rumps of the ripe ones.  The procedure was similar for horses, only vaginally.  It really didn’t matter after an hour, animal-after-animal, with a minus-20 degree wind chill blowing across the barnyard.  I became quite ambidextrous to avoid frostbite, but hadn’t really known girls.

In the junior year of undergrad, I started wrestling dates in the hay after work.  A blonde’s locks came off in my fist and – no animals had falls – I was mortified.  If I lost to a lady wrestler there was a routine on the second dates of taking a vet condom out to the university cow barns.  They swooned over the cow with the glass stomach, but normally balked at slipping the sleeve to palpate.  There were few third dates.

I asked one who passed to a Spartan football game.  Hence I held hands for the first time with that petite gal during the mile-walk to the stadium.   I only knew the paddleball grip and didn’t shift from a sweaty backhand.  After the game, we went on a hayride where my first kiss predictably fell short as there had been no pictures in the vet books.  She wore braces and I turned my neck this way and that before connecting, and then it was hard to break free.  I was still learning sex as a first year grad.

Farmhouse Fraternity is nationally renowned for overall nerds and, at Michigan State, it was a century-old fixture of scholarship since the inception in 1865.  For decades among the frats, this house annually achieved the highest sum-mean grade point average.  I joined to boost my grade own point and because a dozen other frats gave me the bum’s rush for having short hair and stuttering.  Also, the Farmhouse brothers sweet-talked me of the ‘Little Sisters’ loose association of farm girls.

I lived with these scholastic shit-kickers for two great years, and hope my below-mean grades recompensed when I led Farmhouse out of the sports cellar for the first time in the twentieth century and up to #1 athletically campus-wide.  The Little Sisters cheered these events and enabled me some dates between exams.   Once a dark-headed beauty put her head on my bib-overall lap as I read aloud equine tetanus.  She stirred, so I inquired what farm she hailed from. ‘Dairy,’ she murmured.  ‘What breed are the milk cows,’ I tested knowing they were Holsteins.  ‘Black and white,’ she replied, and I dropped her.

I didn’t get laid until far after the norm in college. The vet texts dealt with copulation at length.  The first class porn was watching a 6-foot bull erection electro-ejaculation to collect the semen in a tube.  The object was to carry that from the prize bull to artificially inseminate the south ends of myriad cows.

At twenty-one, I flew to Wisconsin for the national paddleball tournament where good vet hands earned the crown.  On the return red-eye, just before landing, the stewardess sidled aside me reading a tome ‘Bovine Pathology’. ‘Ooh, I like that, she clucked.’  I brightly asked her home.

I was a pitiable student living in the basement of the house of the Woolies, a rock-and-blues band that backed, and still does, Chuck Berry.  The basement flooded springs and my single mattress became an island waded to for study.  When the Woolies practiced daily upstairs, I turned on the basement drier for focus.  Here I took my first love, the stewardess, and lay her between basement support-jacks splashed in day-glow and a transistor radio playing ‘I can’t get no Satisfaction!’  The act others cherish forever labeled me the ’60-Second Man’ and she yelled out the door, ‘Is that all there is?’

A year later, a small animal professor lectured our class, ‘Authorities believe cat ovulation is induced by copulation.’  Fascinated, I read books and postulated orgasm-induced ovulation in humans.   That theory picked up near graduation when a date muttered before we bed, ‘I can’t get pregnant.’   Abortion was everyday then, and there went my hard-earned money from monitoring the Intramural Building steam room for gay parties.  A few months later, I earned the sheepskin.

These exploits led to an anticlimactic life.  I eventually slept with the hottest cheerleader who had cheated off me in high school, gave Miss World runner-up her first orgasm, and traveled around the world a dozen times.

Still, everyone has a best friend and mine is the little guy I grew up with.