When people think of hardcore sex, usually two things come to mind. The first being humans and donkeys going at it. The second is James K. Polk. Many people know him as the 11th President of the United States of America, but as a child growing up with Polk in Mecklenburg, North Carolina, I got to see a boy transform into the Zeus-like sex god he became as our country's leader.

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Life was much simpler back in the early 1800s in North Carolina. The corn harvest was strong, the economy was firm and the women were loose. This is how I first met ole' "Jimmy Kunnilingus". That's what we all called him back then, cuz he was the first kid on the block to "wash the curtains" of ole' man Boe's daughter Ms. Stacey Nairs. But that's another story for another day. Well anyways, I first met the old Poke-ster back when i was in Ms. Jessup's school house in fourth grade. By the way, we called him the Poke-ster, cuz at the ripe ole' age of six, him and Jonathan Deere became the last men to plow Ms. Susan B. Anthony's field, and I ain't talking bout no tobacco farm! Years later John started himself a tractor makin' bidness that enjoyed some moderate success. But that's another story for another day.

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Anyways, one day, I was bout' fifty-nine sheets to the wind. My father had taken me out to ole' Doc Hogslammer's bar, to drink a bottle of moonshine and celebrate my seventh birthday. Times were tough this year, and he could only afford a bottle, last year I got a whole barrel of whiskey with a side order of two Welsh hookers. But that's another story for another day. Anyways, I'm riding on the last horse to Concord from all this alcohol, when the old Polk-plower comes strollin' on in with a keg 'a whiskey strapped to his back and enough hookers to feed Thomas Jefferson. He came shuffl'n on in wearin' a navy wool coat. And it looked like he'd been reading them ladies some Dickens cuz his knickers were hanging down around his ankles, and that's all he was wearin'.

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Now the tale I'm about ta tell ya next, you ain't gonna believe but I swear on the grave of the late great Richard Stroganoff that its true.

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"May I have your attention please gentleman and mentally handicapped" slurred Polk. He never called women ladies, he always referred to them as "mentally handicapped, cuz every feller from Charleston to the Missipp knew dey' brains was the size of a coon scrotum'. "What man here would like to earn himself a keg of James R Vander Beek's finest whiskey and a night with any one of my beautiful hoes?"

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Nearly every coon trapper, cattle herder and sheep impregnator in the bar hooted and hollered for the chance at James K. Polk's offer.

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After much deleburration, the Polkemon chose me.

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"Mr.Stroker , please come up to the bar and bring your wife Gooch" blurred a pantless Polk.

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Well, when I got up to the bar he proceeded to tell me all bout' a new magic trick he would perform on my wife, with my permission.

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"Roderick, all you have to do is allow me to give your wife a jelly donut" stated Polk.

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I didn't much care for jelly donuts and my wife was damn near allergic. Last fall Reverend Humperdickle's wife Rose made us a dozen, and my wife's bottom swelled up and bled worse then when I mangled my pecker in a fight with a cotton gin. In spite a' all this, I really liked James R. Vander Beek's whiskey and Polk's hoe Lucille was a piece of 5 cent bullion. So I decided to let the ole' bastard give her a jelly donut, hell, what could it hurt?

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Boy, was I wrong. The second I gave the OK, Polk revealed himself and sent a stream of ejaculatory fluids in the dierection of my misses. Well she never knew what hit her as that ole' pig slammer's juice hit her smack in the nose.

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"POLK! YA OLE' TALLYWHACKER! THAT'S NOT A JELLY DONUT, APOLOGIZE TO MY WIFE!" I yelled.

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The bar got real stills and silent like then. You coulda heard an Indian break wind in Des Moines. Polk turned to me and said "Your right old friend, I'm sorry".

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Just as sorry left his lips he reared back his right fist and punched Gooch right in her old sniffer. An explosion of blood, like a polar bear's menstrual cycle erupted from her nose. The blood mixed with the Polk juice and right then and there I realized James K. Polk was not a bastard, but a revolutionary. Like George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and Moses before him, this man was an outside the box kinda feller, he was a modern day Eli Whitney; the inventor of the Jelly Donut.

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A great friendship developed between us from that day on, and we never wavered. We'd go out to saloons and meet fine ladyfolk. Polk would bang em, while I sometimes drew pictures or just sat quietly and watched from behind a closet door. We shared everything, Gooch eventually left me for James, I gave him most of my savings and in return he let me wash his mule Bulls Eye and his buckskin thong. Eventually ole' Jimmy Kunnilinglus Polk caught himself a terrible case of genital warts and died when he was 25. But he didn't die cold and alone, he was warm and naked surrounded by fifteen er' so Arabian belly dancers, whom he had just slayed with his love trident. As for me, I went on to Illinois, built myself a log cabin and no longer went by the name Roderick Stroker. You may have heard of me, my name is Abraham Lincoln.