Going Down on the Farm

Extracts from a pornmanteau assembling materials from organic cookery books, eco magazines and websites, and amateur online erotica to produce a radical theory-fictional critique of eco-aesthetics and invocation of apocalyptic jouissance. Originally produced for FIELDCLUB, the eco-diary never made it into its projected glossy coffee-table book format.


The organic pasture glistening moistly in the winter sun seemed to herald the beginning of a new era full of hope. Picture the scene: I was standing in a field halfway up a Welsh hillside knee-deep in slug-infested cabbages. “It’s so cold,” she said, wrapping her arms around my waist, “Can you help me get warm?” Her perfectly created succulent body, soft like a lump of molten butter, was ripe with a wonderful combination of grace, poise and latex harvested from living rubber trees, with a delicious and generous helping of milk-based paints. Harnessing heat from under the earth’s surface, her every movement, so natural and easy, displayed a deep sensual appreciation of the root of the soapwort plant. But his brown eyes, clear and bright and drinking in her Brazilian bio-ethanol, lacked the light and bacterial activity needed to help them degrade. She gave off an aura of peace and harmony with Man and Nature. She was the soil, who becomes trees, who becomes seeds, who becomes squirrels, who become owls who become slugs, who become shrews, who become soil, gentle and loving at first, but soon becoming more urgent.

My mind was totally gone at that point and all I wanted to do was to minimize the risk of blight spreading. I smiled knowingly as, with a base of rammed rubble to restrict the downward roots, her joy-bud burst into life. Caught in passionate seizures far superior to any supermarket-bought product, she combined beautifully with parmesan cheese.

We lay coupled for a long time, listening to the rain on the roof and now hearing thunder as well.


Becoming nauseous, with watery eyes and even asthma symptoms, he soon penetrated the sensitive cleft of my east- and west- facing orientations. I could already feel him growing, in small batches in gleaming copper pans, before being sent off to delis, farm shops and National Trust tearooms in East Anglia. Our growing awareness of food and the sweet musky smell of him, the brown and green staining my knees – these were the greatest pleasures life had to offer.

The night air was pleasant, cool and slightly moist. The sky was very blue and the clouds were white and fluffy. The moonlight fairly illuminated our naked bodies. Avoiding the spawning season in order to give the stocks time to recover, we grew our own and foraged with his giant tool, back and forth, keeping time with the motions of the changing seasons, always making sure not to lose our precious connection, one part white vinegar to two parts hot water. My skin tingled where the moonlight touched, greatly reducing the environmental impact of buying many different items of partyware.

We gasped at the meeting of wet and dry, the union of liquid and solid, where solids dissolve and liquids solidify, as I unzipped my shorts, dropped them and removed my halter, standing only in my pink lacy boy panties. It was just me and Gavin, both of us thrilled to have the world to ourselves, surrounded by the towering trees of the forest, the joining of substantial and insubstantial, the union of under and over, weight and not weight. He sat down in the grass and pulled me back onto his lap. In my newfound lust for soya, I wanted everything: The bumble bees who sleep on flowers, waiting for the morning to warm you, toothbrushes made from local beechwood and natural hygienically treated pig hair, equal measures of comfrey leaves, thyme, hyssop, chamomile and skullcap, dildos and vibrators, chains, ropes, canes, whips and a variety of different materials including hemp, bamboo, organic cotton and fleece, and recycled plastics.

Pulped newspapers had been pumped through holes in the walls, producing a thick, syrupy load. The sight of mulberry trees spreading over the wall of a large private house became a long passionate fulfillment of months and months of frustration. I knew that he could think of nothing but their sexy curves, their soft skin and their erogenous zones, the canyons you nestle into, each year deeper than the year before, the tides pushing and pulling against your mouth, the waves mixing fresh and salt.

He ran his finger up and down the small, petal-like opening, rubbing a small cotton bud in the flower. Watching him and softly swaying my hips, I tried to make sense of the new unfamiliar delicious sensations that were coursing through my body: The tickling of the sturgeon and the thrusting of the salmon, the girth of that thick heartwood from sustainably managed pine forests. Overcome with pleasure, I murmured: “You are the rain who falls in sheets, explodes onto the ground to leave pocks and puddles. You are the ground who receives this water, soaking it up, taking it in, carrying it deep inside. You are the cracks and fissures where the waters accumulate, flow, fall to join more water and more.” Suddenly, the thick and hot seed burst from his under-ripe, polytunnel-grown Spanish tomato, swollen and larger than some I’ve seen. Massage a beaten egg into your hair. Enjoy the spicy, floral fragrance. Enjoy a nice creampie. I can’t get enough of it.

The next morning we breakfasted while still nude.


Once I had donned my armoured gauntlets, I cut back the new growth so he’d have to dig for it with his tongue.

If you are satisfied that your bender is as sturdy as you can make it, shiny with his saliva, then it’s time to put up polytunnels.


Freshly ground against her, I bucked in ecstasy as if vine weevil larvae were pupating deep, so deep inside of me. We were celebrating spring with rich indulgences whipped up from butter, sugar, fruits, nuts, spices, and a sprinkle of sulphur chips sliding in and out of my gaping cunt. These were nothing but the plumpest bulbs, heirloom, non-hybrid varieties, selected for reliability and taste. Even though I’d never tongued a woman before, I felt my responsibility toward future generations demanded immediate action – sweet, pink, juicy meat flaking pliantly off the bone. With one fluid motion, the market for soy derivatives peaked, and at last I felt sweet release shooting through me.

Tom was in the bushes filming the whole thing. But we didn’t know it.


“How full our baskets will be come harvest”, I mused. We are the king and queen of our own universe, and today we are feasting on each other. We are just as concerned about the products we put onto our bodies as we are about what we put into them. Her legs had gotten especially dirty in the field. I mashed the roasted carrots roughly with a fork to reveal the large purple head, so thick that my fingers barely closed around it, and some wild garlic flowers if the fancy takes you. The holistic visions overcame me again: A more balanced life in his powerful hands, the tight fit of his swollen stem base of a cabbage swallowing every last drop, just as the Italians do. The flavour was incredible so we persisted. It was warm and tasted salty, but easily damaged by late frosts, smooth and lightly golden from the sun.

Without a word, I released his wrists from the cuffs just as his ‘zero carbon’ goal was nicely browned and irresistible, then squatted over him and guided it home. The bright colours came from natural vegetable dyes all over the tractor seat. Like a fire hose gushing out its white payload into those free-draining sandy soils, the running juices of the fruit provided a deliciously sticky mortar.

I headed out to the field to take a solar shower.


There is something unique and wonderful about the smell of a young light brown bush, particularly when in flower – added to the fact that they come early in the summer, when the shutters of our bedroom are slightly open, allowing a gentle breeze to flow through. We sell our carrots unwashed and with sultry brown eyes. On a cool vegetable rack, they will keep until spring, when they are liable to sprout. They will stand out firm and proud, nipples erect, beautifully furnished with a huge king sized bed and expanses of dark polished wood that impart a feeling of warmth, her soft voice almost drowned out by the distant roar of the surf. The point is to understand nature and to find ways of working with it while her lover’s tongue drives her towards organic status. When grown without pesticides, on mineral soils, they will positively thrive, even if they unzipped each other’s dresses, which fell silently onto the wooden floor. Around this time of the year, just as the cream spurted, we look for a decent crop with minimum detriment to the soil. She moved her hips gently back and forth on our planet with raw, unprocessed ingredients.

An absolutely stunning tart fuelled by local tree thinnings, her fingers probed between the glistening petals with technology appropriate to a small urban footprint. The output of our photovoltaic roof worked the really satisfying feeling deeper and deeper until I felt my hot creamy Demeter-certified biodynamic skin and hair care products spurt deep inside Amanda’s sweet, juicy unrefined shea butter. Improvising with greens such as the slippery cabbage, she pressed my rapidly growing erection urgently until a skewer inserted in the centre comes out clean.

A drizzle of truffle oil would make a fabulous addition, but I am also very partial to the feel of a nice, thick mild climate. He lay back in the hay and stroked my ethical audit one last time, took a short, sharp breath and held it, kept in the dark to delay sprouting. I have a belief that we must find a more harmonious and holistic way of living within the limits of her deliciously, firm peachy buttocks – a compost toilet is one of the many nutrient sources. Scoop out the seeds with a small knife, or just with your thumb above her neatly trimmed dark blonde mound moist with the morning dew. Drizzled with good olive oil like a lollipop, tasting, licking, sucking. Then she brought it out from the kitchen to the communal, refectory-style tables in bountiful quantities in her mouth. With her lips closed around the fibrous root and clinging soil, I stepped out into the cool night air through a very fine sieve.



It was a sweltering afternoon, and the picnic basket swelled with exotic, sensual fruit without the use of irrigation. Her legs were wide open and the actress was going all out on her sustainable construction. Thinking no-one could see me, I started to exclude light to prevent greening, sourcing locally as the emissions gradually became more and more engorged. I am a pure bred country girl in good condition, but I couldn’t hold back the bulging bags and punnets of wild berries. He knew how to be successful at water harvesting; I wanted integrated pest management now. Needless to say, my wider implications were fertile and I pulled my thin-skinned butternut squash aside, exposing my aching hot haybox cooker and sending up spears of sweet star-shaped flowers.

He worked rhythmically, grass-roofed, an ideal accompaniment to pruning styles that suit you and your trees. With fantastic and plentiful lunches, a pollen grain on each tassle, the most wonderful sensations about the greenest shower curtain liners started to flood my chill mornings.

And, with that, I walked out of the barn. I have not seen him around since.


As I began to enter her forbidden treasure, the sight of wild garlic emerging on a woodland floor made the breeze warm and silky against my skin, brushing over me like a lover’s hand. It made for a lazy Saturday afternoon, the kind that makes you want to lay naked against crisp cool sheets while ants ‘farm’ blackfly for the sticky honeydew they secrete. They had really grown since I had last seen her, impressive yields of fruit in a relatively small space – I knew I would only be able to swallow half of it.

She spent the rest of the day amusing herself by making me do and say whatever she felt like, playing with wooden-handled tools with a downy white growth killing off all the leaves and numerous leather attachments coming from the handle. She also has a strap-on and I love it when she takes me to task over the failure of carbon-emission legislation.

The entire party, bare-foot, moved out to the sitting room and settled on a sofa.


Because of the convenience and accessibility of bamboo poles, hazel has sadly become neglected, but her downy triangle was soft, a haven for pollinating insects. As she neared our modern society, where convenience is such a priority, tiny beads of sweat formed on urine, nettles, comfrey leaves or chicken manure.

A bird twittered nearby, gripped by a moist velvet vice, and she felt completely happy, like a wild woman, uninhibited and abandoned to pleasure.

That was until she caught him ramming it up the poop chute of a sleazy bleached-blonde honey with fake titties, which has been linked to increased cancer risk. Drawing deep on the cropland, pasture, forests and fisheries of other countries, it seemed he was bent on consuming more and more, as our ecosytems became more stressed. Things were getting out of control, but there was no way out. I knew I didn’t have a choice but to open my mouth.

This was not going to be a simple game of doctor. My angel had become completely nasty.

* * *


Then it all happened too quickly. The pleasure came crashing down like an avalanche, and she was moaning and writhing. Changing to a green lifestyle needn’t be a huge upheaval or mean hours and hours of harder and deeper thrusting, vast monocultures of sunflowers, corn (maize), palms and rape, but she just couldn’t help enjoying it. Ethylene, which is emitted by ripe fruit, squirted out uncontrollably like I was a garden hose being turned on. I slammed her roughly against the wall, providing there is some kind of guide wire, trellis or netting. Best of all, a cloche made of rigid bamboo poles, the tightest she’d ever felt. It’s probably worth chitting them if you’ve got time, earthing up your crop and fastening it into a padded ankle spreader. The myriad possibilities offered up by our native orchard fruits of autumn had finally allowed me to release that pent up passion. Its juice dribbled from the corner of her mouth, and I licked it clean. My own breathing was becoming more and more ragged as, heedless of the environmental costs, I started to pound away like there was no tomorrow. Reducing a healthy crop to a field of black stumps, straining against the organic cotton, the perennial and self-seeding juices flooded into her anal cavity, which results in pointless waste. With huge rolling waves of ecstasy that left her shuddering uncontrollably, the sticky sweet carbon imprint swept over Helena and I also started to shoot my flush using rainwater. There were bright red and welts beginning to appear. I tried to fix her with scotch tape, but it didn’t work for very long. There is no such thing as good packaging.

Looking on, Robbie said, “Now that’s what I call great landscaping!” and high-fived Mikey. That was the last thing I saw before Carol stepped behind me and covered my eyes with a blindfold.


An nearly inaudible cry rang out, one of anguish, possibly pain, maybe one of passion. Chipboard leeched formaldehyde as I dug my nails deep into his arms, polluting the ground water. It was secluded, but not that secluded. It was near woods.

He was mature and skillful, working my forbidden standby button with over-wet, sticky soil. But there was no way he was complying with the Energy Star criteria. Rough and forceful with his uncaring thrusts, he was out of his mind with blind urges, and flung down his EC directives on Waste Electrical and Electronic equipment before they’d had the chance to germinate. The extremely detrimental effect promised to be of enormous proportions. Violent seizures, explosions of pleasure, blasted upwards through my body as his genetically-altered and sterile seed cleared vast areas of forest, smearing optical brightening agents over every single part of my quivering body. Tritium and strontium-90 (both highly toxic substances) began to pump out in painful spasms, destroying ancient woodland and threatening indigeneous communities. The offshore drilling continued mercilessly until he had emptied his redundant landfill-fodder into the throbbing crave-hole of our stark reality.

We were both on the verge of an anthropocene extinction event. I was a spent rag, my face a landscape of mascara, green detergent, dried cum, organic mulch and tears. My temperature rise was accelerating into a devastating climate lurch. The pinioning effect of the monstrous steel rod was deadly, its polyisocyanurate foam had the burn of some alien ambrosia, contaminating the soil beyond recovery, reducing, chopping, hacking, sawing, bulldozing, and burning me up with his violent passion. “It’s vital that we cut back on this usage,” I rasped helplessly. But something about seeing me in pain turned him on.


Whatever they were shoving up my twat, it was cold and uncomfortable. Still anchored wide apart by the metal chains, I had been teased to the brink, using up precious limited oil reserves. Shipped halfway across the world, I stood there unable to move. I didn’t want to be punished. Feeling trapped, but succumbing to unethical work practices, my large quantities of pesticide residues gradually became more profuse. It was heavy and it hurt. It also made me incredibly wet.

As the rays of the morning sun flooded the dungeon, he laid me down on the raised bed again and started drilling or mining raw materials at the expense of the environment. I had realized that he loved nothing better than to degrade and destroy fresh young coir, jute, seagrass, wool, reclaimed wood, natural stone, cork and even bamboo and paper. He literally began cramming it in as if he wanted to irrevocably destroy the habitat. Impaled deep within me, its obscene throb had pushed both the Chinese paddlefish and the Siberian crane to the brink of extinction. Continuing unabated at the current pace, he expelled load after load, each taking hundreds of years to biodegrade. Another second of thrusting and I would’ve exploded, and this way of life simply isn’t sustainable. Intensifying the hunger with volatile organic compounds forever lying just out of reach, he carried on stoking the burning inferno within me, with unneccessary waste and burning of fossil fuels. Sauron’s power was spreading like a cloak of darkness over Middle Earth, with a knock-on effect for wildlife. I felt warm liquid slowly filling my rectum.

Meanwhile, transported miles and miles by road, Mindy was now in the middle of one long earth-shaking imbalance in the carbon cycle. Increasingly energy-hungry, her natural capital started decreasing until it disappeared entirely into the bleak future. Unable to help myself, as if possessed by some demonic force, I repeatedly and viciously deforested her large exotic areas of wetland, forcing growers to use more fertilizers and herbicides. Workers in Darjeeling were reported to be committing suicide. I spasmed in the darkness of sheer ecstasy. The number of fish and other aquatic life able to survive in the salty water plummeted. The sounds of pleasure filled the air, as pollutants such as low-level ozone, benzene, carbon monoxide, xylene and formaldehyde flooded me. No way was he about to decarbonize my electricity mix: Jammed in to the hilt, taking it balls deep, pounding like a jackhammer, on the way to complete and irreversible climate change, we were both totally consumed by blind compulsive urges, overwhelmed by our criminal nature.

She was so pretty and peaceful I forgot for a minute she was dead. Then I realised I really didn’t care. I really wanted some of that.