In the 1985 documentary God’s Country, which is about a rural Minnesota farming town in 1979 and in 1985, we meet a bachelor who inseminates cows for a living.
The bachelor inseminator gives his name as Steve; we don’t know his last name. He participates in the community theater, where he plays a king of corn.
We see him as the King of Corn, bantering with a Queen of Corn. Wearing a crown. And then we see him at work, inseminating a cow. He explains what he is doing as he does it. He puts one plastic-covered hand into the cow’s anus and uses that hand to help guide a wand that he inserts just below, into the cow’s vagina. He guides the wand with the arm that is in the anus up toward the uterus, and then into each horn of the uterus, where he deposits a bull’s semen.
When we meet him again in 1985, he says that he has done this to about 65,000 cows. The filmmaker asks him if he remembers the cows, if he relates to them, and he says that he remembers the owners.
Steve is in his early 30s and single, one of the town’s most eligible bachelors, says the filmmaker. I assume maybe gay. Camping it up as the King of Corn in the community theater, then displacing his virility into the insemination of cows using a wand.
I doubt that there is a way to look up on the internet where Steve is now. He was 35 in 1985; I was 3 in 1985. Him being 32 years older than me, he’s now got to be 68 or so. He’s just a bit older than my parents; while he was inseminating cows, my dad was quitting his job landscaping and getting a job at the post office—more stable—so they could have me—and my mother was a quitting her job as a secretary at an upscale moving company so that she could stay home with me. I was fixing to enter the scene, preparing to break a crayon in half, to cry about it, to fix it with Scotch tape, to cry about the tape being on the crayon. I was steeling myself for the world’s treatment, preparing to sit in a sandbox shaped like a turtle and imagine things.
Perhaps we don’t live first as we exit our mothers’ wombs but instead in the horns of the uteruses of cows, our spirits nesting alongside cow embryos, the spirits of the calves resting elsewhere alongside a different set of human embryos. The spirit predates the embryo and the embryo takes this spirit on when it flees the host’s body. Or perhaps we return to the theory of the homunculi. Steve, the most eligible bachelor in Glencoe, uses the wand to deposit thousands of little cattle into the horns of the cow’s uteruses.
Another resident in the town confirms that it would be hard to be gay there: “you’d have to have your private life in Minneapolis or somewhere else.” In 1985, the filmmaker asks Steve if he has gotten married, like he said he might, and Steve says the plan had been pushed from 35 to 40 and he would make a decision by then. But also that the right person just hadn’t come along yet. It occurs to me now that all the most eligible bachelors through most of history must have been queer. In 1985, my brother was about to be born; I was taught how to stand on a small stool to reach the phone and dial 911 if there were an emergency while my mother was pregnant; the prospect empowered me.
If Steve is 68 and I am 36 I wonder where he is. If he stayed in Glencoe; if he is still inseminating cows; what form my body would need to take for him to feel attraction to me and how I might create a situation in which I could fuck him. If I could make myself older, perhaps more masculine or perhaps just as I am, or perhaps younger, perhaps less cellulite, perhaps more cellulite—perhaps whatever is in his porn but really perhaps whatever would make him most comfortable—I could take this form and let him lube up his fingers, I could remove my harness—constructed out of the skin of a dead cow—and he could let the harness rest on his hands as he plied me with the silicone dick, me on my knees and running my fingers inside my body, him behind handling the dildo, my fingers not at all like wands; I pull my fingers out after I cum and shove them into his mouth; I suck his cock for a bit, but when he cums it’s onto the bedding; we don’t wipe it up but let it sit there and hope it soaks through to the mattress; it’s so much cum and I fuck his face while he watches it dry up. We leave the room. We walk out. Reagan is president; I’m seventy years old; I can’t feel my face.