The Bull Fluffer

Fluffer- (noun) a person in the adult entertainment industry whose job it is to give male porno stars blowjobs in order to get them ready to perform.  Urban Dictionary

When I was thirteen, I found out I was 17% gay, which, at the time, was twice the legal limit. I made the discovery while helping my Dad test bulls for a ranch outside Saratoga, Wyoming.

The bull testing process is fascinating, the purpose being to confirm the vitality of each bull to ensure the highest rates of conception possible. The testicles are measured. The penis and sheath are checked for injury. Hair rings on the shaft are removed. And, of course, the semen is tested for sperm count and motility. But that semen has to be collected, which requires the arousal and climax of each bull. That’s where I come in.  I’m Oscar Lilley, and I’m a bull fluffer.

Working hard and doing a job well is a cherished element of growing up in the ranching community. Many things can be forgiven: alcoholism, assholery, using farm diesel on the highway, but laziness was not one of them. Laziness and voting Democrat are among the seven deadly sins in Wyoming.

For that reason, I always did my best when we were on site. As an unlicensed vet technician, I was tasked with assisting my father with expensive and sensitive equipment and prepping supplies at the squeeze chute. My goal and duty were to have everything clean and ready for his use. He would never wait on me; all would be prepared. Dr. Lilley was the star, but I held the spotlight and I was proud to do so.

As we arrived at the corrals, the bulls were already in a holding pen waiting to be pushed up the alley to the squeeze chute. My father began prepping his mobile microscope station in the front seat of our Chevy Suburban. Two ranch hands leaning against the alley walked over. One older, scruffy beard, tattered coveralls, more at ease and friendly. The other younger, cleaner, greener, and less apt to talk. I busied myself with my tasks.

A five-gallon bucket was filled with a mixture of lube and water and mixed vigorously. In the bucket went the Ejaculator 2000, a large metallic phallus with tapered insertion point and a stainless-steel U-shaped handle. The handle was plugged into a control box that vibrated the shaft with variable intensity.   

After all the preliminary bullshitting, the hydraulic chute was powered on. The young hand went to bring up the bulls. As the first bull bellowed and stamped his way into the chute, I readied the ejaculator. With lube dripping, I plunged the twenty-inch-long metal rod into the rectum. The bull nudged a little but otherwise seemed unconcerned. Then the electricity. The vibrating hum could be heard pulsating through the hindquarters. The bull started to moan, and I swear, his hooves curled.

At this point, the penis extended beyond the foreskin and a microscope slide was held below the tip. I expected a massive explosion and was disappointed, but also relieved, when a relatively small amount dribbled out. After handing my father the slide, I checked the penis for hair rings. If a ring existed, it would be pulled off, thereby preventing future injury or infection. Someone else measured the scrotum while I removed the ejaculator. Dr. Lilley would call out, “sperm count good…motility good,” the bull was let out, satisfied and terribly confused.

After the third or fourth bull, I was really hitting my stride. Transitions were smooth, the first drop caught, hair rings off and the ejaculator back out. The old hand began to take notice and cheered me on. Pride ran through me. I stifled a grin as I continued my quality work. His cheers for my work became more enthusiastic.

“You got a good handle on that, buddy.”

A smile from me; a snicker from my dad.

“Boy, what a sweet touch, not too hard, not too soft. Gen’le but firm.”

My smile began to erode. I knew where this was going, but I continued at a precise and diligent pace. The work still needed to be done.

It continued. “My, you are thorough; not a ring gets past you!”

And, “You’re mighty good on that penis,” because subtlety didn’t confirm I knew I was being laughed at.

I was in a hopeless conundrum. No answers for the chicken and egg or the Kobayashi Maru. None still for balancing the accusation of being naturally attracted to peni and recti (or penises and rectumses?) with being lazy, which would be a justified sling if I slowed and reduced my efficiency to mimic squeamishness with the task.

The old hand knew how to tease, which might have explained why the other hand was quiet and as distant as possible. I could either be a lazy heterosexual or an industrious queer. I was boxed in and had to reflect on what the universe meant and how I and the Ejaculator 2000 fit into that universe.  Did I like pulling hair rings off bull penises? Yes, I did. But it was because picking out ear wax, belly button junk, eye and nose boogers and the like gave me a euphoric sense of relief. Having a tightly-coiled hair ring on one’s penis would be cause for constant discomfort and fear. My empathy was an underlying factor for enthusiasm for the task. I don’t have an easy answer for the anal stimulation.

Seventeen percent. That was the number I arrived at. Somewhere between one fifth and one sixth of me is gay. I could work with that. I heard a science guy said we are all a little gay. It’s true of all cattle, to be sure.