So long as I can remember, and much as I might try to prove otherwise, “dogfuck” has never existed in public parlance as a colloquialism, technical term, or otherwise extant turn of phrase.
And yet. And yet I don’t believe that there was a more popular or pregnant epithet among my generation of young men and women and sundry nonconforming persons for the town of Ocala, Florida: unknown crossroads and landing pad of I-75, Horse Capital of the World (one of several, relax), home to four Walmarts, the region-famous Six Gun Territory1, Wild Waters water park2, Silver Springs Nature Theme Park3, and superb star of screen and stage (and Scien-tology) John Travolta4. For us, however—for the vertical slice of “us” that I knew in any passing or familiar capacity, anyway— Ocala was home to a few other things: to a bizarrely Tudoresque apartment complex where you could buy high-quality MDMA, to a stretch of local highway where it was inadvisable to go after nine PM thanks to a plucky group of youths who’d taken it upon themselves to reestablish Latin Kinghood and the paramilitaristic SWAT cops who were their bosom friends, and—just between you and me—to a three-field pasture where, in among the cow patties, grew an excellent crop of Psilocybe cubensis. This was the Ocala we knew: the Ocala that was and must still be a dogfuck because of its small-city-large-town population gerrymandered at 340k so that you could never get to know everyone.
1 Defunct. 2 Defunct. 3 Defunct. 4 Defunct?