The True Story of Solo and Princess Laya: A Waterfowl Romance
Long, long ago, in a farm-kingdom far, far away, there lived a duck prince. He was an amazing, perfect specimen of a bird. A muscovy. Muscovies are big, masculine, horny brutes. Even the females. He had gnarley red growths around his eyes, like the mysterious scars hidden by the hood on a medieval executioner’s face. But in his case, these were normal, healthy caruncles, not a sign of injury or illness.
Muscovies are survivors. They are less domesticated than the pansy-ass, mallard-derived ducks. They can hunt for their own food, nest in trees, hatch and raise their own broods. Other domestic ducks, likely as not, will lay their egg in the fucking pond, dropping the unhatched fetus into the depths like a ghetto crackwhore’s miscarried mistake in a dumpster. But a muscovy female will lay, hatch and raise seventeen offspring in one clutch.
Towering above these strong, hearty farmwives, are the males. The massive, virile drakes require six to ten females in a harem to avoid excessive fighting. That is the recommended ratio to keep them sexually satisfied but also ensure that all females are properly fertilized each day. Smaller breeds are happy with just two to three ducks per drake. Not muscovies.
This particular fellow had beautiful chocolate-brown blending to iridescent-purple plumage. He bathed and preened so he was at all times pristine. He walked with grace and confidence, like a dinosaur stalking his prey. His muscular black webbed feet clicked with long sharp claws on the paved porch. One could imagine him tapping one claw thoughtfully like the velociraptors in that scene in Jurassic Park, hunting the cowering protagonists.
I had a flock of nine. The rest were all wiped out in a series of brutal predator attacks. Foxes, raccoons. Something like that. One of his brothers came back dragging his own digestive tract behind him, but still too vigorous to be caught. We had to shoot him. It took three shots to the head to put him down. That is how tough muscovies are. But this guy alone survived. He escaped the last attack by learning to fly. Males are generally too heavy to fly. But he did it anyway.
As the last remaining survivor of the flock, we named him Solo.
Through the cold winter months, Solo was alone. He was young and, deprived of his brethren, he began to imprint on us, but on me especially. He would follow me around, wagging his tail like a puppy. Sometimes he would sit outside the back door, quacking mutely and pecking on the glass. He was prepubescent and we didn’t yet know his gender. Such endearing friendliness had us all treating him like a beloved family pet. Until his adolescence came to a head, spewing out like pus from a tightly squeezed pimple, leaving me with a torn skirt and a new respect for the claws of a horny teenage drake.
Solo needed a girlfriend. Fast. I posted a personals ad on Craigslist in the Farm & Garden section. “Tall, Dark and Handsome Seeking Female Companionship,” or something like that. No response. I guess livestock don’t fare any better in the online dating scene than humans do. Eventually, I found a guy with a Pekin for sale. On the phone, he admitted to me that she had a bad leg, but I was desperate. I had taken to carrying a rake around the yard with me to fend off unwanted advances. I needed this mail-order bride thing to work.
The guy I bought her from had dirty, stumpy fingers, kinda like his duck. He talked like he was from the city and his farm was too run down and cluttered for any legitimate rural folk. The Pekin apparently had had the gimpy leg since birth. There would be no dainty glass slipper for this webbed atrocity. Her brother had one so bad that he made it to the dinner table. But the guy sold me this one for $15. I couldn’t believe that I was so desperate for a fuck-duck that I drove over an hour each way and paid the duck-pimp fifteen fucking dollars for a dirty, ragged, gimpy Pekin-whore. She was dirty because she couldn’t get into the water on her own with her deformed foot. She was ragged from her long, hard career as the concubine to the guy’s randy Rouen drake who would stand on her back (as drakes will do) while trying to impregnate her. I’d never seen such a sorry looking bird.
When I got her home, I took the cage out of the car but left her in it for a while to see how they got along. I needn’t have bothered. It was love at first sight. Solo danced around her, wooing her, wagging his tail excitedly. He hissed sweet nothings in her ear with his muted quack. Even still in the cage, she began the tell-tale head-bob characteristic of a receptive female, clearly star-struck by the magnificent paragon of princely drake-hood before her. And Solo did not hesitate to respond in kind.
I let their flirtation and banter of sweet dirty-talk go on for a few hours until the early evening. When I finally got her out to allow their first date to progress to the next level, they danced together for a surprisingly chaste amount of time. Hers was a stumbling, halting, awkward hobble, his a graceful, predatory, yet respectful ritualistic courting.
Eye-lashes fluttered coyly. Innuendoes were whispered suggestively. You could have cut the sexual tension in the air with a knife. Their head-bobbing dance increased in tempo and synchronicity. She seductively waddled herself around to present him with the gift of her soft feathery tail. As he firmly took hold of her in his strong clawed feet, her knees weakened in sweet anticipation and she collapsed helplessly to the ground. Nibbling amorously at the delicate feathers of her neck, he steadied himself above her and roughly filled her sacred opening with his fully erect cork-screw-shaped phallus.
Her sharp quacks of ecstasy echoed through the surrounding forest until they were both spent.
So began the fairy-tale love story of Solo and his bride. At first I thought to call her Sex Slave. Sexy for short. Crude, I know, but that’s what she was. It was also meant to be humorously ironic because she was so damn ugly. Then we realized that Princess Laya would be infinitely more appropriate. Both because of the pairing with Solo and because she would eventually be laying eggs. Duh.
The two birds were inseparable. Before Laya arrived, Solo would roam far and wide, foraging and preening, swimming in the kiddie pool and even stretching his wings occasionally to fly a bit. But Laya was such a frail, wilting flower that she couldn’t get in or out of the palace (AKA the duck house) on her own, nor into the pool to bathe. She could only waddle short distances before tiring. She was like a rumpled, dishevelled Victorian maiden, always swooning at the slightest exertion.
Fortunately, Solo was not a shallow drake. He saw right through the thinning, grayish plumage to the sweet beauty underneath. He was not distracted by the cinders and work-worn harlot’s back of his beloved princess bride. He only had eyes for her docile nature. Her gentle movements. Her smokey, come-hither glances. And her slutty ever-ready welcoming of his bottomless well of princely lust.
Those ducks fucked like rabbits.
I would like to say that this is where the happily ever after part comes in. But, alas, it is not.
One dark and stormy night in the farm-kingdom, it was decreed that we would have to move. The ducks could not come with us. Being practical folk, we never intended them to be pets. They were farm birds, for meat and eggs. We had, in fact, eaten one of the original flock for Thanksgiving dinner (before the Great Predation Purge). Our seven-year-old aspiring doctor-princess (soon-to-be aspiring astronaut-midwife) had studied Dinner’s innards to learn more about anatomy in order to satisfy her macabre biological curiosity, before sating her holiday hunger with the rest of the juicy, well-roasted carcass. That is the reality of royal farm life.
But the farmer-king made an official proclamation that he would not execute any animal with a name. So the queen (that would be me) began her royal search for a new home for the newlyweds.
The Prince and Princess were loved by all. The queen searched far and wide for a suitable home for them. But she knew that no self-respecting farmer would keep around a mismatched pair of ducks for the sake of someone else’s sentimental attachment — particularly when one had a grotesquely, genetically malformed clubbed foot. Fairy-tale rags-to-riches Cinderella story or no.
Another Craigslist ad offering two free ducks quickly yielded an enthusiastic response. When the man came to pick them up in his gargantuan red pick-up truck, my morbid curiosity drove me to ask what he intended to do with them, even though I was quite sure I knew the tragic answer.
He seemed a very pleasant fellow with a red beard, a jolly belly, and a gentle demeanor. It was hard not to believe him when he said he planned to just add them into his own small mixed flock, to mingle with the goats and children and swim in the pond. It sounded idyllic. Like the pearly gates of duck heaven. And too good to be true. But as he rumbled off in his big red sleigh-truck, like a down-home Midwestern Santa Clause, I couldn’t help but hope there might be a little bit of fairy-tale magic at work here after all.